Holt Family Holiday Letter 2025

 

Holt Family Holiday Letter

2025: Fully Depreciated, Still In Use

 

 

So imagine for a second, this letter was written, printed and mailed in time to accompany the above holiday card, as in years past – a package deal.  Well this year we’re just cranking it out right under the wire, the last 18 or so hours left in 2025.  On time, but just so. 

We ended 2024 with a trip to Washinton, D.C., to visit family, see the sights and take in some national treasurers.  The photo on the right was the best photo I could get of two kids who don’t understand why their mom drags them to museums.  I reminded them ‘it’ is not a museum, but The Library of Congress and I found it to be truly amazing, not to mention beautifully decorated for the holidays.  Kids found it to be ‘mid’.  We also visited the National Museum of African American History (technically a museum but way more interesting), The International Spy Museum (big hit) and visited other monuments which could never be confused for being museums because they are not even inside of buildings (MLK, FDR).  We rode the DC Metro, and the kids noted that it smelled remarkably better than the NYC subway (fair point).  Other important locations received only a mere drive-by as kids were too Washingtoned-out after four days, it was a speedy jaunt to cover The Pentagon, The Capitol, The White House and The Supreme Court.  Just major institutions of Americana my kids (and perhaps many adults) find ‘lacking Sigma Rizz’. 

If you’re unfamiliar with the Middle School vernacular, it’s ok.  I made those Skibidis listen to my ‘80s-‘90s-‘00s radio station the whole ride back home and then again on our second road trip of the year – Ocean City, Maryland.  The photo on the left shows two happy kids on summer vacation, who swam, played minigolf, inhaled ice cream and hit up surf shops.  Everyone enjoyed this trip and our hotel even had an ice-skating rink in the lobby.  I thought that would make for a good back up in case of rain, but we lucked out with a week of gorgeous weather. I can’t believe it took us so long to find this fabulous stretch of beach; it was like the PG-rated version of the Jersey Shore with way more crabmeat.

Two more family trips of note this year – Rob and Nick flew out to Las Vegas to visit Aunt Carol and Uncle Alan in April, crossing the Hoover Dam and riding the rollercoasters at Circus Circus (basically the only casino that would let Nick in).  In May, Katelyn and I slept in the Quad with 100+ other classmates at my Smith College class of 2000 25^th reunion.  I had the opportunity to reconnect with old friends and appreciate what an amazing experience I was afforded with a Smith education.  It was also quickly apparent that communal bathrooms are not for people over 40 years old.  I was able to re-experience college without all the homework and papers due and with things I was lacking 25 years ago – disposable income, a car, a child(!)!

When he’s not busy with school, playing soccer or video games with friends, Nick’s into flag-football, chess and this spring he played CYO volleyball for the first time.   He just celebrated his 4^th Christmas as an altar server.  KK sings in our church’s Children’s Choir and is getting involved with the costuming and makeup side of this year’s school play.  Both kids partake in the school Service Club and both kids attended travel camp this summer.  All Holt children are in the throes of full-metal-jacket orthodontia. 

In the spring, Rob celebrated his 25^th anniversary at the Bank of New York.  He’s entitled to mad vacation time that he’ll never get to use.  My job – well let’s just put a pin in that one.  I did get to some interesting conferences this year, which were all in Midtown Manhattan, so no big work-travel going on over here.  In October, we celebrated our 15^th wedding anniversary with a family trip and dinner at Bear Mountain.  The weather didn’t cooperate and the food was pretty bad, but hey, we gave it a shot.

So that’s the good news.

We returned home from Washington to find our refrigerator entirely warm.  Our oven had been heating up to whatever temperature it felt like and if it cooks meat thoroughly, well good luck.  2025 would be the year most of our major appliances quiet quit on us.  The washing machine bowed out the week before Thanksgiving.  The car lease was up in April.  Fortunately, the coffeemaker is still with us. 

Even our beloved cats, Rita and Pepper didn’t make it through the year.  Despite bright spots throughout the year, 2025 just had this theme of being entirely tapped out, overwhelmed, running on empty, fully depreciated but still in use.   

 But sometimes you’ve just got to clear out the old to make way for the new.  Appliances are replaceable.  We got a new car.  Not to sound cold-hearted, but we also got new cats for Catmas, an entirely Holt-fabricated holiday, whereby in the month of December the shelter responds to your application and lets you leave with two feisty, rescued tabby bois, Derreck and Dylan (the dog is not a fan of Catmas).  Nick’s elementary school career is fully depreciated and, in a month or so, we’ll hear back on his high school applications.   

And there were other crazy, wacky, stressful moments this year that left us saying, how are we still functioning, operating after all this?  Feeling fully depreciated – but still in use.  Sometimes you just have to ask Jesus to take the wheel.  This year, I’ve had to ask Jesus to take the wheel so often that the Son of God is now on my auto insurance.

And as for Jesus, He’s enjoying the new car!

Merry Christmas!  Happy Holidays (all of them)!  Happy New Year!

~ Epilogue ~

 

2025: Fully Depreciated and Removed From Service

Because you can’t take it with you…

 

Metrocard

1994-2025

New York’s trusty Ride or Die

Jorge Mario Bergoglio,

Better Known as Pope Francis

Requiescat In Pace

1936-2025

Minting the U.S. Penny

1793-2025

If Abe Lincoln’s rolling over in his grave this year, it’s not for lack of pennies

 

 

The East Wing of The Peoples’ House

1902/1942-2025

Just because you have bulldozers doesn’t mean you have class

 

 

Terry Gene Bollea,

Better Known as Hulk Hogan

My 80’s namesake and the only Hogan I know who can tan well

1953-2025

 

 

~Fin~

 

Code Brown

 

Two New Yorkers shared a park bench one November morning, taking respite from the hustle of the early rush hour.  One sipped her homemade coffee from a travel mug.  The other picked at the remnants of a bagel.  They each sat silently as to not disturb the other as the city filled in all the space around them.  There’s a parade of busses jockeying in and out of the bus lane – a narrow river of blue and yellow.  Trucks parked illegally hustled out their deliveries.  One busboy pushing two carts piled high with an assortment of breakfast pastries and coffee urns.  He keeps them both moving at an even clip to avert slippage.  It’ s an underappreciated skill.  My companion eyes the mountain of pastries, pyramid-like and shellacked in glistening layers of saran wrap.  “Impenetrable”, I say.  “Too much plastic wrap and that guy’s pretty quick”.  My bench mate lowers his eyes in defeat.  Behind us, the swooshing of plastic coveralls catches our ear.  Two men in white protective gear walk past us and then approach, mount, and begin to power wash a nearby fountain.  They work systematically, each taking a side of the fountain and working towards the middle.  The noise of the pressure washer is noticeable above the din of rush hour and pedestrian chatter; it’s kind of annoying.

I look at my bench mate, and he re-perches himself along the back railing, as if the noise will lessen if he moves 4 inches in my direction.  I give him a look as if to say, should we get out of here?  He bobs his head towards my notebook and then stares directly at it.  “This?” I ask.  We barely know each other and he’s questioning how I start my day.  “Well, Mr. Nosy, this is my planner and I’m trying to list out all the things I need to do before I start doing them, sans distractions.  Trying to take a minute and put some order into the day before I head into the office and who-knows-what is waiting for me in my inbox once I log on.  My buddy seems disinterested in my need for structure.  He’s left his bagel on the seat of the bench, unfinished, discarded, just as (I suspect) he found it. 

It’s early November, and everything feels brown.  Crinkly leaves strewn all over the pavement.  Brown leather footballs on at least half of the train ads remind us that it’s not baseball season.  Golden brown turkeys on digital bus house ads remind us of what bad chefs we are.  Everything about November seems brown.  Staid.  Of the Earth.  Overtoasted bagels.  Discarded paper bags blowing in the wind.  The color of coffee.

“November used to be such a depressing month”, I say to my bench mate.  He looks at me as though he is unsure as to why I could possibly find November depressing.  I continue, “It gets darker, earlier, colder...”, he continues to look puzzled.  “I really used to hate it”, I elaborate, “but then you get these amazing early sunsets of absolute fire!”.  My bench mate nods to me in acknowledgement that he also appreciates November sunsets. 

“You have to rage against the dying of the light!” I proclaim. 

Blank stare.  Oh wait, the guy on the next bench left some crumbs of what might be the remnants of a buttery corn muffin.

“You have to rage against the dying of the light!” I proclaim again.

My bench mate seems more interested in these muffin remnants than the Northern Hemisphere’s dearth of sunlight.

We hear the power washer power down and the absence of that noise is welcomed. Our hearing adjusts back to the usual traffic sounds and one man in a red windbreaker shout for bus tour riders while waving a sign with a big red bus on it.   The power wash men dismount the fountain, which visibly is no cleaner than when they started, at least from this distance. 

“Well, I’m going to work.  Have a good day.”  I get up from the bench and head south on Fifth Avenue.

My bench mate flits over to the muffin remnants.  Gives zero F*cks about my departure.  Such is the morning when you hang out with a pigeon. 

The 2023 State of the Borough

 

 

At some point during 2021 I took a little Post-it-note and wrote down a two-word phrase that would become my mantra for the next 12 or so months.  “NOT THIS” in fading red ink on an also sun-faded pink Post-it-note watched me from its perch on the bookshelf next to my home desk/work from home desk/ rectangle space where I spent most of my waking hours and reminded me that what I truly wanted was indeed, not this.  And by ‘this’ I mean a sort of house-arrest I was trapped in by means of working from home, but all the time, while also trying to ‘be a person’ in my own house.  I kept saying that to myself, “I just want to be a person”, as that was the end goal.  And I’m surely glad I never said this out loud, as I am actually a person, but by ‘being a person’ I wanted to be someone that was either working, or not working, instead of the shell-human I had become, who would think about working all the time, even when not logged in.  Telling myself, oh, I forgot something, or maybe I need to re-read that document, or maybe I should be vetting someone else’s data.  I could not shut it off, and it was driving me mad.  Add this to a work environment where you are doing the job of three people and the interpersonal relationships mirror that of your worst days of middle school, and it’s a toxicity you don’t bring home because you already are home and there’s no physical escape, you must chant, “Not This”. 

One day at school pickup, after I had resigned from that job, I was chatting with our parish’s Monsignor.  I asked him if he’d come and bless our house, more specifically, if he’d exorcize the bad juju floating around my work rectangle in our home office.  I didn’t say that exactly, but at the closing for our house, we did learn that the previous owner’s husband had his ashes sprinkled around the property.  I used that as the reason for divine intercession upon my living space.  Monsignor agreed to come, but not before going off on a tangent about cremation.  Not so much from a religious point of view, but I had mentioned that our home’s previous owner was the chief of the Eastchester Fire Department.  Monsignor said, “How could a man who fights fire for a living, for a career, choose to have his body burned in the end?”  I didn’t have an answer for him.  I took a moment to consider something I had never needed to consider before, but I imagine when it came to being in a cold box six feet under, the Chief said, “Not This!”

Not This has become a mantra not only for the burnt-out, post(-ish) pandemic working moms, but for many populations around the world in this last year.  Humanity, writ large, has had enough.  Scores of workers said, “Not This!” as part of the Great Resignation and for the first time in 40-some odd years, wage pressure favored labor.  And, more recently, big Tech and others said, “Not This!” to that shift in power (no they did not like it one tiny bit!) and said, “Not This!” with thousands of layoffs.  Netflix cracked down and said, “Not This!” to account sharing.  In the fall of 2022, the New York Mets said, “Not This!” to their comfy 10 game lead and their post-season berth to sink to wild-card contenders and then lose miserably.  The incredibly brave women of Iran said, “Not This!” to the Morality Police, hijab mandates and the all-encompassing oppressive regime under which they live.  Americans (again) say,
“Not This!” as we watched the horrific violence delt upon Tyre Nichols just a few days ago.  The people of Ukraine said, “Not This!” to the unprovoked invasion by Russia.   Many Russian conscripts said, “Not This!” to an unwanted draft.  Even Mikhail Gorbachev, the only foreign head of state I recall from my childhood, save Margaret Thatcher, said, “Not This!” to Russian hegemony when he kicked the bucket last August.  The state of Florida continuously says, “Not This!” to reality and the 118^th Congress said, “Not This!” not once, not twice but fourteen times when they didn’t advance Kevin McCant’t-read-the-room to the Speaker of the House seat he so desperately desired.

As empowering and efficient as “Not This!” can be, it’s only a first step.  You can’t build a path forward by only negating the status quo.  You can’t build policy by just denouncing the other guy’s plan.  You can’t galvanize lasting support by just talking shit about the opposition (though it’s fun for a short while).  We all need a “Not This!” moment to clear the air and evict the demons.  We need plans in the affirmative, coming from a place of clear eyes and calm heads. 

As for the State of the Union, which will air as this is published, look for the people with a plan forward, and not just empty-calorie malcontents. 

As for the State of the Borough, 8 months after leaving a very stressful work situation, I feel like I can finally think about the future and I’ve stopped living in a constant state of panic.  There is once again free real estate in my mind, and I can use it to daydream and write.   I get to ‘be a person’ again, and it’s fabulous!

What You Make Of It

 

In May of 2022, I left Big Banking (after 17 years!) and went to work as a financial controller for a smaller, but diverse, investment bank.  On the first Friday of my tenure, I was supposed to present two ‘fun facts’ about myself at the all-hands staff meeting.   So I brought up Lakeview Quarantine Travel Site, because it’s not like my professional reputation was on the spot or anything (!!!!) right?  What I didn’t bring up, was the true knock-on effect of our little travel site video sessions as they manifested: 

During the fourth week of March, 2020, in a desperate attempt to process the emerging Corona virus situation and our newfound work-from-home-school-from-home-24-7 lifestyle we found thrust upon ourselves (like many others), my household launched ‘Lakeview Quarantine Travel Site’.  Lakeview Quarantine Travel Site, and its spinoff, Lakeview Quarantine Craft Site, were daily videos we published via Facebook Live with a few objectives in mind.  Namely, an evening stopping point in what could have easily become a work-from-home-and-keep-going-into-the-wee-morning-hours type of situation.  (and which had become a work through the night into the next day situation on a few occasions thanks to a new professional specialty I endearingly called ‘Crisis Accounting’ – see also The Financial Crisis of 2008.  I’m too young to have made it through two financial data crisis events and not be within a stone’s throw of retirement, ok?)

A second objective of Lakeview Quarantine videos was to be a ‘proof of life’ or daily touchstone with immediate family members.  Thirdly, it was supposed to provide some actual educational benefit to my kids.  Once the older kid caught on to this objective, he was truly reluctant to participate, yet still curious as to what would unfold in each video.  As was I, I mean, it was Facebook Live, we didn’t have a network-sponsored 5-second time delay.  We weren’t scripted.  We were pandemic-wingin’ it like the other 7 billion souls on this planet.  God have mercy.

Nevertheless, we persisted.  And by some metrics, we even succeeded.  My kids, like many of their 2010’s decade-born counterparts, and really all of us who have succumbed to the immediate gratification social media promises, would watch each video for live comments or likes.  They told our audiences to ‘like and subscribe’ or ‘buy our merch’ (which didn’t exist) like all the other (alleged) YouTube millionaires out there.  Full disclosure – at the onset of 2023 we continue to NOT be online millionaires, as your crisis accountant, please trust me.

Some of the comments came in during live videos.  Some came in after. And some came in like way after taping.   Some came in a vast myriad of forms of feedback.  Like at Christmas, people wrote in their holiday cards that they ‘loved our videos’, or at a funeral of a dear in-law, I was approach by Lakeview Quarantine groupies expressing their affinity for videos during the pandemic.  In the days since March of 2020, when in-person events began to resume, people would approach me and tell me how much they looked forward to our videos.  Or how much enjoyment they got from our zero-budget, seat-of-the-pants videos. 

I was truly floored.  As the kids would look for real-time feedback, I guess, so did I, even with all my analog upbringing, I was not immune to the appeal of instantaneous gratification (instantaneous data).  I was in the midst of providing as-real-time-as-possible data on the credit exposure my firm had with airlines, cruise lines and movie theater chains as the pandemic wreaked palpable economic damage on certain business sectors, I was living in the moment and never considered the longer-term impact we were putting into place.

But aren’t we supposed to be living in the moment?  Sure.  But what I later wanted to impart onto my kids, is that, that cheesy video stuff we did in 2020 and a bit onwards, it had a lasting effect, and sometimes things get bigger than we ever expected them to be.  And that’s ok.  And not everything can be measured in instantaneous ‘likes’.  And maybe our ‘fanbase’ is broader than we think.  And maybe, when you try to be a light in your own dark time, you are a light for someone else as well.  And in addition to teaching your kids the capital of Papua New Guinea, the state flower of Oregon or the population of Mississippi, you’ve taught them kindness and empathy as well.

Kindness and empathy come in handy, when your vaccinated self comes down with Covid as well in December 2021 and you can’t muster the energy to do anything, not even stopping your kids from watching Squid Games and Encanto on continuous replay. 

You win some.  You lose some. 

We didn’t start the fire.  It was always burning since the world’s been turning

We didn’t start the fire.  No, we didn’t light it, but we tried to fight it.

 

And as for that second ‘fun fact’, I told the office I got to play softball on Citifield while working for Citibank.  Even the Yankee fans were impressed. 

You win some.   You win some. 

 

 Happy 2023 to the Seventh Borough Family.  Happy 10^th anniversary.  We love you.  Thank you for your support!

Ninety-Nine

I was extremely late on a work deliverable last month, so basically trying to keep a low profile from the individual requesting the data.  Said colleague emails me and asks for it again and before I can respond, my co-team-guy-person message-chats me to tell me she is looking for me.  My stomach begins to feel like its filling up with bricks, that sinking feeling where you *might* get in trouble but you also don’t want to let a good colleague down.  I still only have 24 hours in the day like everyone else, and I’m still way behind.  Liz, co-team-guy-person types in the messenger app, she called me because she was worried about you, she thought you had THE CORONA!!!  My stomach churns a bit and the sinking stops, and I let out a bit of a chuckle.  I type back in the messenger app: I’ve got 99 problems but Covid ain’t one of them!

So, Jay-Z, if you don’t mind, I’m borrowing your song title concept to describe the state of things on my forty-second birthday.   In no particular order, my personal situation for the first half of 2020:

99. As of today, I will be driving on an expired driver’s license.  The DMV says for now, it’s ok due to Covid, all expiration are extended.  All DMV offices are closed for now.  Then the DMV mails me renewal paperwork because my license is expiring.  

98.  My dog likes to sleep on my side of the bed.  While I’m in it.

97.  Nick was banned from Egg Wars for teaming up with other players.  I’m not entirely sure what this means.  File under ‘Minecraft or something’.

96.  My daughter has discovered Nutella.  She has become addicted.  Just eats it off the spoon.

95.  The Great Toilet Paper Shortage of 2020.  It has revealed our inner demons as a society.  

94. The Great Baking Products Shortage of 2020.  It has revealed our inner comfort food makers as a society.  

93.  Bleach.  It’s now a cocktail. 

92. And you know those clear drinks are typically low in calories so no one will be inventing ‘Skinny Girl Bleach’ or Clorox-lite

91. No one will be inventing those drinks because they will be dead.

90. Defund the Police?  I’m personally unsure.  Defund Poison Control?  Oh hell no.

89.  Dr.  Anthony Fauci.  I had never heard of you before, but once you opened your mouth on live broadcast, I knew we must be from the same neighborhood.

88.  We are from adjacent neighborhoods.  Me and my girls got our hair done for my wedding right next to where your parents had their pharmacy.

87.  Because Brooklyn.

86.  Once you opened your mouth on live broadcast, I knew we had at least one adult in the room.

85. “Lakeview Quarantine Travel Site.  It started out fun, and then I realized I was just wasting my time learning stuff” – Nicholas, age 8.

84.  Lakeview Quarantine Travel Site.  Nobody won the TP and vodka shot!

83.  To save on toilet paper, my husband bought a Bidet attachment for our toilet.  You must appreciate the thought process of engineers.  It’s literally called a Buttler.

82.  Bidets:  Calibrating water pressure is everything.

81.  Tiger King and Carole f**** Baskin.

80.  We don’t watch TV anymore.

79.  I mean we cannot turn the TV on any longer when the kids are in the room.

78.   Minneapolis.  I had no idea it was such a powder keg.

77.  Tulsa 1921.  I had no idea.

76.  George Floyd.

75.  Breonna Taylor.  It was just her birthday too.

74.  Rayshard Brooks.

73.  Ahmaud Arbery.

72. The amount of time between Ahmaud Arbery’s death and the arrest of his killers.

71. This is just the tip of the iceberg.

70.  Lafayette Square, Washington D.C.

69.  Hypocritical Bible-toters. 

68. I think you could have handed him a phonebook or the Encyclopedia Britannica (Vol W-Z) and he’d not notice.  Is he aware of books?  I mean the inside of books, like the parts with the words?

67. And some day the taxpayers of the United States will build him a presidential library?  Maybe a casino instead.  Maybe it will file for bankruptcy. 

66.  New Rochelle.

65.  Arbitrary building/fire code ordinances.

64.  Public Officials who use arbitrary building ordinances to appease nervous white people.

63.  America, WTF?

62.  Oh did you catch Mrs. America on Hulu.  WTF?

61.  I’ve started watching The Handmaid’s Tale.  

60.  I said, Liz, is this really the year to watch this series?

59.  Yes, yes it is.

58.  Did you ever notice how the dark vans driven by THE EYES in Handmaid’s Tale look remarkably like those dark blue Amazon delivery vans?

57.  Jeff Bezos already knows how the Handmaid's Tale  is going to end because he has ALL THE DATA.

56.  Margaret Atwood already knows who is going to win the Superbowl in 2022 and 2023 because she can obviously predict the future.

55.  Spoiler alert, it’s not the Jets.

54.  Nor the Browns.

53. “99 Problems” by Jay-Z.  The song is 17 years old, but if you look at the lyrics, they are relevant right now.  But I don’t think the song enumerates 99 problems.  This is going to be a long list.

52.  I took it literally and wrote down 99 items.  It’s kind of my job.

51.  If you’re still reading, we must be really good friends.

50.  If we’re really good friends, then I can confess the following.

49.  Day Drinking.  On weekdays.  That are not holidays.

48.  Andrew Cuomo or Chris Cuomo, how do you choose?

47. The Governor Mario M. Cuomo bridge.  I used to make fun of how was unilaterally named.  I’ll leave it alone now. 

46.  All the graduations that didn’t happen.  Everyone deserves their moment.

45.  My kids ask me why people eat bats.

44.  Homeschooling.  It sucks.

43.  Homeschooling, no one was prepared for it.  3 months later, it still sucks.

42.  As much as kids complain about school, it’s their world and they need it.

41.  8-year olds.  5-year olds.  Big enough to know the world is different.  Small enough to be afraid.

40.  Small enough to think they somehow caused the virus.

39.  Small enough to not be able to articulate their anxiety.

38.  Small enough to manifest anxiety into epic meltdowns.

37.  And bedwetting.

36.  When snuggling doesn’t seem to be enough.

35.  And you feel like you can’t help your children feel better.

34.  And the first two weeks of April, when you learn of 3 Covid-Related deaths.

33.  One was older, one was my age.

32.  Two were dads.

31.  And two more non Covid-related deaths.

30.  One was older, one was a tragic accident that made the network news.

29.  I mean we cannot turn the TV on any longer when the kids are in the room.

28.  There aren’t any funerals, or proper good-byes.

28.  Can’t really grieve in front of the kids, or mention the words ‘Corona’, ‘hospital’, and ‘sick’, in front of the kids.  And you can’t spell the words out anymore because the 8-year-old is sharp.

27.   And amid all this, we’re working full time.  Overtime.  

26.  It’s quarter-end.  It’s tax time.  Oh wait, I also must teach second grade.

25.  I'm working on a second major economic catastrophe in a dozen years.  

24.  So us working parents commiserate.  I contemplate resigning on more than one occasion.

23.  Flexibility is great, but every day becomes a 24-hour day of housework, schoolwork and work-work.  

22.  We work together through Webex, email and Skype.  I do miss my co-workers.  But not all of them.

21.  Ambient noises from colleagues' homes work their way in – kids scream-laughing, dogs barking, sirens, car alarms, the guy working from his parent’s chicken farm.

20.  If I had a dollar for every time a colleague said, “My wife handles that”, I wouldn’t need to work.

19.  Oh did you catch Mrs. America on Hulu.  WTF?

18.  We’ve made it to the last week of (home) school.

17.  My dislike for writing poetry and plant science has been passed down to my second grader.  Sorry.  Not Sorry.

16.  Second grade social studies curriculum is beginning to resemble Lakeview Quarantine Travel Site.

15.  Facts about states and virtual field trips around the world, but no mini vodka bottles.  Fair.

14. Kindergarten: it’s a magical time.  First grade is all business. 

13. First grade does not care if you know what season it is.  First grade is all desks and no color-matching tables with rug-time spots.

13. Kindergarten assignment videos: Jack Hartman.  He sings about every letter.  Letter combinations.  The Silent 'E'.  Numbers.  Basic addition.  It is the songs that get in your head and never, ever get out.  

12.  The Second grader sasses the Kindergartener because he already knows all the answers to K homework.

11.  The big one picks on the little one.  The big one is clever and strong.  The little one is fierce and savage. The big one is a show-off.  The little one has already mastered the element of surprise.  I'm the referee.

10.  They both ask me for juice boxes.  And snacks.  Incessantly.

9.  While I am on a conference call.  And they are standing in the kitchen.  

7.  Like right now.

8.  If you made it this far, we must be really good friends.  

6.  Or you are delaying getting Monday started too.

5.  No judgement.

4. Forty-one was a bad year for me.  2019 was a bad year.

3.  2020 is in a league of its own.

2.  Here is to Forty-two.  I want to say it cannot get any worse, but…

One.  Here is to another trip around the Sun.  May the Universe be kind to us all.

The 2018 State of The Borough

Fourteen some-odd months ago, the Seventh Borough News was last published on this site, urging our fellow Americans to get out and vote, on the eve of a national election of epic scale and vitriol.  Little did I know at the time, that GOTV effort would galvanize over 3 million ‘illegal’ votes to be cast for one of the candidates.  I had no idea my readership was so impactful.

But then things went dark. 

And there’s been no blogging for a year and change.  And it’s not for lack of interest or lack of desire.  I even considered starting a second blog, with a different theme – wait, I know what you’re thinking, this blog has a theme?? – but Rome wasn’t built in a day, and you can’t do everything all at once.  Or even any one thing at once, most days.  So I tell my half-dozen loyal readers to go vote and then I leave you in the lurch with no comment on the outcome. 

It went a little something like this:  Election day comes and I take the kids to the polls with me, and the hubs, because he’s off to the Amtrak right after we vote for a business trip. We’re at the polling place for six AM and I’m voter #13.  I took it as a lucky sign.  Drop the kids off, drop the hubs off, go to work, come home, pick up the kids, eat dinner, put them to bed and turn on the news. 

Turn off the news, go to bed, wake up in the middle of the night to use the restroom (welcome to life after two c-sections), check my phone and see who was declared the victor and 45^th president of the United States.  Oh, it was that guy who graced all the local NY papers throughout my childhood for being obnoxious and ostentatious.  Classy.  You know how the rest of this went down.

The next year was bumpy, contentious, border-line humane and full of so much anger.  There’s rioting in the streets, and crying in the streets, people being mowed down in the streets, gunned down at church, at concerts, there are wildfires, mudslides, multiple hurricanes, major confusion as to which Caribbean islands are American territory and tiki torches being used for non-tiki like purposes.  I read a full and recently published article on how to survive a nuclear bomb attack.  The good news is that my basement has thick concrete walls and is below ground level.  The bad news is that I work in a glass high-rise in Times Square.  It was a rough year to be a person.  And that’s just the first world.

This time doesn’t seem like a year, but a string of days fading in and out.  There’s always more to do, deadlines, responsibilities, a reason to get out of bed, a reason to stay in bed a little longer.  Lie in and listen to the scrape-scrape of metal shovels against icy flagstone front steps in the dead of winter.  Listen to the sweet birdsong of spring through open windows.  Listen to the tipsy banter of a neighbor’s gone-way-too-late summer backyard soiree.  Listen to rustle of dry fall leaves and the revving-up of leaf-blowers.  Listen to the soft whirring of the motors of those oversized blow-up Christmas lawn decor balloons, only a true outer-borougher could love/tolerate/encourage.  And here we are again, listening to the chained wheels of the snowplow barreling down the slushy street. 

Over the past fourteen months, we were all telling each other to get out and have your voices heard, scream louder than the next guy, shout it from the rooftops!  And beneath much of the noise was anger, and beneath the anger is fear, and beneath the fear is misunderstanding and mistrust, and beneath all that is our inability to be united and collective, and which leaves only the capacity for self-interest and single-mindedness. 

So for 2018, let’s try to stop out-talking each other, out sound-biting each other, out-raging each other and just listen.  Listen to your neighbors, Listen to the change of the seasons.  Listen to the world outside your own echo chamber.  Listen to the sound of someone else's voice, and the emotions buried within.  Listen to what’s being said, and especially to what’s not being said.  Let’s listen to each other, and therein, we can be heard.  

Bottom of the Ninth

Last Wednesday I did something I never typically do, and watched the World Series even though it had zero Mets representation.  I was even rooting for one side, Chicago, on the sole basis of their 108-year drought of Championship titles.  I couldn’t tell you one Cubs player, one Cubs coach and I kept second guessing myself as to which team was on the National League (Cubs) and which was on the American League (Indians).  But I felt in this match-up of World Series-starved teams, Chicago was in greater need of the win.  And in a series down 3-1, they were the underdogs of all underdogs. 

Game 7 was good baseball.  Chicago was first to score, but then it was tied, and Chicago pulled ahead, and Cleveland tied it up again.  The momentum moved from the Cubs to the Indians to the Cubs to the Indians and then back to the Cubs.  It pulled me in.  It put this die-hard second-generation Mets fan’s love of all things Blue and Orange allegiance to the side, and let me be enraptured by my love for the sport, my love of the game.

Honestly, for America ex-Chicago and ex-Cleveland, I don’t think it mattered who won this battle.  Only 37 seasons in the 112 years of modern World Series Championships have come down to such a close call with a game 7 winner-take-all scenarios.  Neither team was the incumbent champion.  The last time Cleveland won the World Series, Truman was president.  The last time the Cubs won the Fall Classic, Teddy Roosevelt was president, women didn’t have the right to vote and the Ford Model T was all the rage.  Both teams were due, but it would take seven games, and extra innings to name the winner.  It was a tight, close race. 

While watching game 7 on live television, I was abruptly shaken from my love-of-baseball euphoria by ads for Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump during the commercial breaks.  And not because of the content of the ads, this campaign has been going on long enough, but I was surprised there actually were ads at all.  Excuse my lack of media-buying knowledge, I’m not sure if those commercials were aired here in New York specifically or if everyone across the country were seeing the same ads at the same time.  Because here in (down-state) New York, and in the Seventh Borough, we have made it to November without any real mass political solicitation by the presidential candidates.  The local races are advertising like crazy, but Hillary and The Donald have sent me zero mail.  Typical for national elections, I’m paid no mind. I’m not a political donor, I sway no constituencies, I’m from an undeniably ‘Blue’ state, I’m ignored from Day 1. 

As this blog began in 2013, this is the Seventh Borough News’ first presidential election cycle, so here is where we get to be un-ignored.  The election of 2016 has proved to be a tight, close race, especially as we wind up the last 48 hours of this mudslinger. 

  Like many of you, I cannot wait for this race to be over, but unlike the World Series (+/- Cleveland and Chicago), it does matter who wins this battle.   And unlike the World Series, which brought fans and fans of other teams, like myself, together, hopeful for an elusive champion, this election has been divisive and full of anger.  And the anger has turned into rage.  And the rage has brought all our demons to the fore.  And all the world is watching us become a worse version of ourselves.  We’re basically a 240-year-old having a temper tantrum.

I may not be a political hack, but I am a mother of two young children, so I’m well versed in temper tantrums.  Notably, they can sometimes be avoidable.  If the child (or the country) has their needs met, sufficient food, rest, comfort and stimulation, you can typically avoid the meltdown.  This is not always in your control, sometimes you get behind schedule, or you forget the diaper bag in the car, or you leave a favorite stuffed animal behind in a hotel room in Pennsylvania, and the world comes to an end on the Jersey turnpike.  Nobody’s perfect, but we can anticipate the needs of our charges and act.

The United States of America is basically having a meltdown because the republic is angry.  Our basic needs are not being met.  Our wages are stagnant, yet healthcare costs and higher education costs are growing exponentially.  Last week was open enrollment for our 2017 benefits at work, and as I clicked the link to the medical insurance premium data, I read the computer screen through squinted eyes and held my breath to see how much the increases would be for a family of four.  I braced myself for bad news. I got through it.  People are working harder and longer for less benefit, if they can even get the work they are seeking.  Certain segments of the country have been left behind.  On the Homefront, our security is at risk, and our protectors are also under threat.  Our infrastructure is rusting.  Our systems are dated.  Our Veterans go without.  Our population is changing.  Certain segments of the population are growing more marginalized.  Certain segments of the citizenry are getting wealthier and healthier and have all the right connections, while many others see no progress.  We’re not “Young, scrappy and hungry”, but rather bloated, disengaged and litigious (and that doesn’t make for good lyrics).  For the first time in maybe forever, there is a sentiment across the country that our children will NOT be better off than we are.  The American Dream is dying.

That work-hard-make-progress contract between the governed and the governors, which has steadily fueled this country for more than two centuries, is at risk of being voided.  Yet somewhere along this journey, we misinterpreted the signals.  We’ve accepted that a deterioration of the social contract has granted us permission to be a republic behaving badly.  Perhaps it’s due to the painfully slow ‘jobless recovery’ and the increasing threat of terrorism, greased by the ease and anonymity of social media account and internet posts, we’ve unleashed our latent racist, misogynistic and xenophobic tendencies for all the world to see.  Let’s be honest, America, many of us have never worked through our demons, we just manage to keep them under wraps in front of the company.   

This is disheartening, but what’s worse, is that this is mostly avoidable, so let’s avoid it.  We can do better.  We need to be good citizens and not raging haters.  We need our leaders to get out of their cozy camps and anticipate the needs of their charges, and act.  We need our leaders to work for the greater good, and not just themselves.  We need the public sector to be about public service.  We need the private sector to be accountable and involved.  We need a balance, not a collusion, between the two sectors.  The social contract needs to be repaired, re-written.  Our tool for redrafting this contract is our vote.                                                                                            

This is the paragraph where I tell you it’s all going to be okay.  I can’t write this paragraph convincingly, because I can’t even convince myself that it’s true.   

But I can tell you this – despite the 108 years between Cubs’ championships, they had no shortage of support.  The faith of the fans was always there.  They showed up.  If you believe we can do better, if you believe we deserve better, if you believe our children deserve better, then show up. 

Vote. 

"Do Not Throw Away Your Shot!"  (A.Ham)