(Note: This entry comes to us from 2006/2007 but is apropos today).

As I see it, the problem with writing is obvious: all the good lines are taken. If there was any justice in the world I would open this column about 2006 with “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” But no, some upstart 19^th century novelist, Charles Dickens, had to steal it for a little thing he called “A Tale of Two Cities.” Selfish bastard.

 Obviously, this is the column where I write all about my new year’s resolutions. I’m supposed to reflect on the past and must on the future. Then I’m supposed to put a lot of crazy proclamations down in writing.

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Well, I should probably file this under “Bitch Sessions”, because it involves my bitch. In heat.
Yes, Merry Christmas Allison, your puppy is now a woman.

So to start off, yes, my dog is in heat. Her first one ever. And mine, too. I’ve never had an un-spayed dog. So I’m sure she can see my disgust as I sneer at her as she ruins my carpet. Yeah, I know they make doggy diapers for such a thing, but she won’t keep it on. She’s been banished to her pillow, and by golly, she’ll stay there!

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The Obamas are packing up their boxes and getting ready for the big move. I’m sure Sasha and Malia have already picked out their rooms and Mom and Dad have made it clear that their daughters will earn their allowances.

I feel for them. Having to move kids mid-year is going to be tough. Moving from the campaign trail to the White House has to be surreal. What’s worse is that every parenting decision they will make for the rest of their lives will be scrutinized, analyzed, commented on, and blogged about in some way, shape or form. We thought Amy Carter and Chelsea Clinton had issues. They’ve fortunately come our relatively well-adjusted and articulate. I hope Malia and Sasha fare the scrutiny of the spotlight as well.

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 Every twenty seconds in America a child suffers an almost unimaginable fate. They discover the inalieanble truth the Rolling Stones have known for forty years. You can’t always get what you want.

 Done. By now the children have nestled, the sugarplums have danced, and the wrapping paper should have long been flung in a flurry of tearing into presents on Christmas day. You have likely already gone through the time-honored rituals of losing at least one small part and having to dig back through all the day’s trash to locate it.

 More importantly, if you are like most normal families, your children may not have received every single thing on their holiday lists.

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So Jennifer Aniston’s movie beat ex-hubby Brad Pitt’s in their Christmas day showdown, and while I’m sure it made great headlines for all the gossip mags and gave us something to read about besides the tanking economy, I find it hard to imagine Brad Pitt sitting at home nervously biting his nails on the morning of December 26 while he waited for the receipts to be counted.  He’s pacing or drumming his fingers and when Angelina tries to give him some hot cocoa he snaps “Just leave me alone!”  Then one of the kids asks him to help assemble a new toy and he says “If my movie doesn’t come in first there may not be any new toys next year!” and stomps into the den.   

And across town (or across the country, depending on where that Pitt-Jolie clan spent the holidays) we find Jen relaxing on her balcony.  John Mayer hands her Variety and she scans the headline then casually tosses it aside like it doesn’t even matter to her.  “You’ve got to say something,” John says and Jen replies breathlessly “Well, I really owe it all to Owen.”  Then she gets up and starts dancing like she’s in the end zone after scoring a touchdown and John gets into it and starts singing “Wonderland” and Jen snaps “Wrong Jennifer!” and the moment is ruined.

Merry Christmas.