Are all these people (really) working today?

To start this rather lengthy post, I plead guilty to first-rate blog neglect. Part of my defense is that I've not yet been able to gauge if Internet use is okay at my new job--and to keep myself sane (i.e., not let the writing lag), what I try to do when I get home at night is immediately write at least 2-3 pages that I'm hoping will eventually be bound in a novel. On that note: another part, lately all I've really felt like writing here is a bunch of negative crap about the so-called ethics of publishing, to include some "why her and not me" type comments about some other chick-lit writers out there (in particular, the ones of similar association, and maybe even the same association, who are treated to glorious parties, fabulous promotional events, and invitations to exclusive writing engagements when some of us can't even seem to get our hands on a royalty statement). Perhaps that last part is due to the kind of quiet jealousy that I believe exists inside of every writer, published or not--you love to read, naturally, and there is no other place in which you feel so at home--but still you feel the let-down of your own unrecognition, the yearning silence of your own unique voice, every time you enter a bookstore. Or perhaps it is just that even as adults, we never quite grow out of that playground self-consciousness that makes us wonder why some kids are, simply, so much more popular than others.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, the American holiday in which we gather to feast in celebration of all we should be thankful for. And while I do really love Thanksgiving--as may be evident by the Thanksgiving chapter in Love Like That--today I was thinking that it's actually kind of sad that most of us, really, only use this one day as a means of appreciating what bits of goodness we may forsake on all other days. Even sadder still, what about all the people who really don't have anything to be thankful for? Still they are expected to celebrate Thanksgiving--the same as the loveless are expected to welcome Valentine's Day and the socially-challenged are expected to party ("like it's 1999"...sorry, I had to do it) on New Year's Eve.

I still love Thanksgiving. And I do, indeed, have a lot to be thankful for, every day of the year--from knowing how to read (and write) to having clothes to wear (for as often as I longingly yearn for more, more, more!) to what will undoubtedly be my best 31st birthday present (and yes, I do realize my sister is not giving me her baby for my birthday), a new niece or my first nephew.

Some randomness:

Today I used the word "blockhead" to describe a jackass and found it to be very effective, therefore I think I will start referring to all "jackasses" as "blockheads".

I could easily live in peace and satisfaction without having to see these celebrity catch-phrases: Brangelina, TomKat and the even more LUDICROUS TomKitten (which is what the media is calling Katie Holmes's and Tom Cruise's alleged unborn, in case you didn't know) and Dashmi (at first I thought it was a new religion, not the coupling of Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher).

I'm about to start reading L'Affaire by Diane Johnson, the same scribe who penned Le Divorce.

I have to fly twice in the next several days and can't say I'm really looking forward to it.

I'm loving the return of Gaucho pants.

And that's about it.

Now I'm going to drink some Shiraz, pack a bag and watch last night's recorded episode of Nip/Tuck.

Happy Thanksgiving.