My Fantasy Night With 'Mad Men's' Joan

This story first appeared in the June 15 issue of The Hollywood Reporter magazine.

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JENNY BICKS: Joannie and Me

Joannie asks me what I am doing after work one day, and my fantasy is that we are going to bond over men and martinis at the Monkey Bar. The reality is that she takes me shopping for foundation garments at Bonwit Teller. She doesn't understand why I dress like a 12-year-old boy. I explain to her that in Hollywood, there are no rules. I tell her stories of producers dining at the Ivy in long johns. She is suitably unimpressed. She twists the pen around her neck and says she thinks that sounds sad. Nothing is sexier than a man in a good suit. Speaking of good suits, I am dying to ask her about Roger and the baby, but there is a geriatric saleswoman shoving me into some kind of brassiere-cum-torture device in the dressing room and honestly, I can't breathe in it. When I emerge from the room tightened and heightened in all the right places, Joanie is pleased. "Now that is better," she smiles. I look in the mirror at myself in a very fitted silk sleeve dress, and I pull a face. "I don't know. … I'm worried that people will make assumptions about me. Like, I'm slutty or I shop exclusively at thrift stores or I'm an actress auditioning for Mad Men." She looks at me, confused. "Mad Men?" I wave it away. "It's a great TV show, you'll see it someday." Joanie takes me in. "It doesn't matter what people think -- it matters how you feel." She hands me a lipstick from her pocketbook. "I have to get back to work. Put this on. You look like you just woke up." And as Joanie saunters out of the intimate apparel department, I realize I do feel different. I feel taller. More confident. Ready to take on the world. And when the construction worker on Lexington catcalls at me, I own it, turning and waving at him. Which is precisely when I trip on the subway grate, fully exposing my $2.75 girdle.

Bicks is executive producer of Showtime's The Big C

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