It's Thanksgiving. While you're enjoying your holiday, I'm going to enjoy mine--so here's a rerun from 2011. Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving was relatively calm for our family this year. Nothing caught on fire; nobody stuck the pilgrim candles full of sword-style appetizer skewers; nobody stabbed a mouse with a fork (these are all true stories in the annals of our family holiday memories. And no, I didn’t do any of them. But I did find the pilgrim with the plastic swords sticking out of his ears hilarious.) All in all, everything went well, and I gained seventeen pounds in one sitting, which I kind of regret, but not much. Thank goodness for Spanx!

The day after Thanksgiving, my mother, sister, and I loaded up in the car to elbow our way through the Black Friday crowds, another family tradition. We were all dressed in appropriate gear—soccer cleats, elbow pads, and giant purses with cross-swinging action—and armed with the sales ads. We were three women on a mission, and we weren't messing around.

We were able to hit the trifecta of doorbuster sales before they ended at 1 PM: Macy’s, Penney’s, and Sears. My sister was able to clear the Isotoner display by swinging her lead-lined purse like Thor’s hammer while Mom snatched up the remaining fleece-lined blue women’s gloves. I was on a fast jog to Penney’s, where Barbies and Fisher Price toys were flying off the shelves. It took some maneuvering—including sending a woman in a wheelchair flying on a fast roll down the escalator—but I was able to grab the last two Fisher Price Doodle Bears, which is really what the spirit of the holiday is all about, right? (Not the spirit of Christmas, you sap—the spirit of Black Friday, the holiest of holiest days for bargain hunters.) I used a billy club that I like to keep tucked in my waistband to take out three elderly ladies who were in line in front of me and were insisting on paying with exact change, which took forever, and voila! I was at the register before the sales ended.

One of the hardest things about Black Friday is keeping well hydrated. You don’t want to drink too much water, because you could lose out on the last iPod due to excessive potty breaks. We like to wait until one of us is ready to pass out, and then pop out a portable IV of Gatorade when one of us is showing signs of dehydration. Mom almost went down when we were in line at the Christmas Tree Shop, but Kim spotted Mom’s eyes rolling up into the back of her head, and popped open a bottle of Riptide Rush with moments to spare. Honestly, it warms my heart to see the three of us working so well together in tandem. Forget that Hoosiers crap—this is the kind of teamwork they should be making a movie about!

At the end of the day, I’d made three babies cry, given twelve shoppers black eyes with my elbow pads, and yelled at one woman who I’m hoping was just wearing the scarf on her bald head as a fashion statement. That’s right, I’m probably going to Hell—but at least my friends and family are going to receive fabulous gifts at unbelievable prices before I go!

There's nothing that chaps my nether regions quite like a sexist film that everybody loves. Let's take a look at a few box office hits over the years, and examine the truly terrible messages they send.

1. PRETTY WOMAN (1990)

Sure, it's a happy little love story, but it's also a pile of crap. When Vivian (Julia Roberts) tells Edward (Richard Gere) "I want the fairytale," I want to slap her. Reality check, princess: the fairytale isn't a realistic goal, so stop telling women that it is. There is no rich, gorgeous john out there waiting to rescue the impossibly attractive hookers of the world. The only person you can count on to take care of you is you. Put on your big girl pants and start taking charge of your own life.

2. THE LITTLE MERMAID (1989)

Ah, the Disney movie that taught little girls everywhere that it's not your creative talents or your personality that makes you special, but how pretty you are. Think about it: Ariel gives up her voice (and her beautiful singing talent) so she can meet Eric, because he's cute. How can she possibly win him over? Easy—with her sexy eyes, stunning red hair, and kissable lips. What a fabulous message to send to your daughters.

3.  BLACK SWAN (2010)

One of my college roommates was a professional ballet dancer, so it's safe to assume I'm an expert on this. I get that the ballet world is cutthroat and bulimic and awful. But this movie sends a terrible message: In order to be perfect, you have to be thin. (What? What message did you get from the movie?) Mila Kunis dropped 20 pounds, weighing in at 95 lbs. (at 5' 4"), for this part. Yet Mila still has boobs, which any Weight Watchers success story (or ballerina, for that matter) will tell you is impossible without implants. This movie sends an unrealistic and horrible message to women about body types and perfectionism. Plus, the whole darn movie was confusing. I hated it.

4. THE TWILIGHT SERIES (2008 – 2012)

If you think I'm going to attack Kristin Stewart (Bella) in this series, think again. We all know she's insipid and lifeless and can't act, so I don't need to reiterate that. No, my bigger problem with this movie is poor Taylor Lautner (Jacob).
Sexism works both ways, folks, and why Taylor wasn't allowed to wear a shirt while filming this terrible series is beyond me. (Whom am I kidding? It was to distract us from his lack of acting abilities and the laughably awful script.) While I would argue that his abs are the best thing about this steaming mountain of turds, I recognize that that's a shamefully sexist thing to say. Yet I will somehow find the strength to go on despite this character flaw.

5. THE 40 YEAR-OLD VIRGIN (2005)

Do I have a problem with the implications that it is ridiculous and something to be ashamed of in today's society for a 40-year-old man to be a virgin? No. I simply don't care about that part. Here's my problem: there's a hyphen missing in the title. Honestly, would it kill you filmmakers to run your movie titles by a proofreader? An intern that happens to be an English major? Someone? Please? Because right now, this implies that it's a movie about forty tiny,  year-old virgins. Call the authorities!


There you have it. I could've filled this list with at least ten more Disney films, at least, but I think you all know where I stand on that (why yes, killing Snow White because she's prettier than you is perfectly reasonable, you old hag). Sexism: alive and thriving in the movie industry.

Breakups are rarely easy. Feelings can get hurt, emotions get involved . . . it's a situation I try to avoid at all costs. But I'd had a lot of time to think about this, particularly on my morning and afternoon commutes, and I'd sadly come to realize that it was time: I needed to break up with my radio station.

When I first moved back to Connecticut, I got back together with my old radio station purely out of nostalgia. Maybe that sounds shallow, but I remembered how good it used to make me feel, listening to the current Top 40, cruising around Glastonbury with Nirvana and Alanis Morissette blasting from the speakers. I wanted to recapture that old feeling. At first, I think my radio station was happy to have me back. It flattered me and gave my family gifts—my sister won backstage passes, my nephew got some tickets to see the WWE. But soon, I was feeling a little left out. What about me? I thought. Every day, I had to listen to my radio station shower other listeners with fabulous prizes, and I couldn't even score two tickets to the movies for being the tenth caller. I was feeling neglected.

And to be honest, I didn't even like the music that much. They were still playing Top 40 hits, and half the time, I'd never even heard of the songs, much less cared about them. I was bored with their playlist. Nothing ever changed. I'm ashamed to admit it, but on the weekends, I started flirting with other stations. In particular, the station down the dial regularly broadcasted an Awesome 80s Weekend, and I started spending a lot of time with them. Maybe too much time. The warning signs were there; I just chose to ignore them.

Nobody likes to admit that they have a wandering ear. When had I become that girl? I ran back to my old radio station out of guilt. But after listening to "All About the Bass" for the third time in an hour, I came to a sad realization: I was not happy. I started thinking about my needs, what I wanted:  decent music, maybe a surprise Duran Duran song once in a while. I had to face a hard truth: I was begging for more out of this relationship . . . but my radio station wasn't even willing to meet me halfway. Not even an overplayed Pink Floyd song. Nothing.

Maybe my radio station wouldn't even notice if I quietly slipped out of the room.

I scanned the dial, desperate now for a station that would play music I actually liked. I'll admit it was selfish, but I was so unhappy, I didn't care. Something had to change. A smooth talker around the 106s caught my ear. He played Clapton. And U2. He even threw a little Nirvana my way. I felt a twinge of guilt when the opening notes of "Faithfully" by Journey started strumming through the speakers, but not for long: I liked that song. My old radio station would never have played it.

I found myself singing on the way to work. When was the last time I'd actually done that? And the deejays were funny in an intellectual, grown-up way. Not one of them made crude jokes about their co-deejay's breasts or inappropriate gas. These new deejays made me laugh. It felt so good to finally let go and just enjoy myself, to throw caution in the wind. No longer did I care what my friends might think if they found out I was listening to what might arguably be classified as an easy listening station. For once, I was doing something for me. And I liked it.

On the way home today, instead of hearing Taylor Swift or Bruno Mars being barfed out of the speakers, my new radio station played the Beatles. The Beatles! This station was awesome! I cranked up the volume and sang "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" at the top of my lungs. It felt good. And I'm sorry if it upsets my old radio station, but it made me happy.

Life goes on, indeed.

I hate dealing with writer's block. After you read this, you will too. Here was what I wrote this week when I had a clean white page in front of me:

Blank page. Blaaaaaaannnnnnkkkk page.

C'mon, now, you've had a million ideas for stories. Surely you can think of one now. What about that one with the guy . . . who orders a coffee . . . and they spell his name wrong on the side of the cup, so he . . . gets mad? Dumps his coffee on the barista? Drinks it anyway?

I need a writing prompt. Perhaps Google can help.

Ah, here's one: The last thing you remember hearing before your friend thrust you out of the plane was: “Don’t forget your parachute!” What happens next?  I can work with that. Here we go:

The last thing I remember hearing before Gigi pushed me out of the plane was "Don't forget your parachute!"
"AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIGGHHHHH!"
Thud.

I don't know. It's not quite working for me. Should that thud be a splat? And where did the name Gigi come from? I used to know a Gigi on the island. Jeez, she has to be, what, in her thirties now? When did she get so old? But that would mean . . . I'm getting—nah. Unthinkable.

Half-blank page. Haaaalf-blaaaaaaannnnnnkkkk page.

Why am I doing this to myself? At what point in my life did I say yes, I'll be a writer, that's a fine idea? Why didn't someone stop me? My mother. This is her fault, fostering my desire to write, encouraging me to keep a journal, buying me my first typewriter, and taking me to meet writers and illustrators at the local library. What a rotten, selfish thing to do. (I'm kidding, Mom. Mom. Please stop crying.)

Here's an interesting article. It says the three most common causes of writer's block are as follows:

Timing—it's simply not the right time to write.
(Oh, waah. It's called a deadline, people. I don't care if it's the "right time" to write or not. If your blog is due Friday, you'd better darn well have that blog done Friday, and don't give me that "it's simply not the right time to write" crap.) (Side note: Wow! I'm kind of a jerky boss. Good thing I'm my only employee.)

Fear—many writers struggle with being afraid of putting their writing (and themselves) out there for everyone to see.
(At various times, I've written about my weight, my love of Double Stuf ™ Oreos, PMS, weird chin hairs, my inability to shave my legs effectively due to a desperate need for bifocals, and cat diarrhea. I'm going to say this fear thing is not my problem.)

Perfectionism—You want everything to be just right.
(Ridiculous. Just because I double-checked with the Chicago Manual of Style and cross-referenced it with Grammar Girl to make sure that above sentence should read "common causes of writer's block" and not "common causes for writer's block" does NOT make me a perfectionist.)

Well, that was no help. I have no idea what my problem is.

I suppose I could start that book about the girl from my first novel, like I've been meaning to do for months. What was her name? Penny? Piggy?