I am spending unhealthy stretches of time glued to the Australian Financial Review, obsessively reading about the horseman of the apocalyse seeking conquest, war, famine, death and stock market destruction.
Each day brings disturbing new sentences like “MAGA vigilantes are intimidating American judges by having pizzas delivered to their homes – a mob tactic to say ‘we know where you live’.”
And …
“These countries are calling us up, kissing my a**” to negotiate deals on tariffs. They are dying to make a deal. Please, please, sir, make a deal. I’ll do anything.”
And …
“It is official White House policy to IGNORE reporters’ emails with pronouns in the signature as it shows they ignore scientific realities and therefore ignore facts.”
I want to wake up from this bad dream.
Instead I rise to the news that tariffs above 10% have been suspended because “people were getting yippy”.
It’s hard to keep up with the constant turmoil.
And I selfishly worry about what it means for my future.
While the horseman thinks “tariff” is a beautiful word, I prefer “retirement”.
This year marks the 40th anniversary of me working full time. Far out!
Being a March baby meant I finished high school before my 18th birthday and I’ve been slogging away ever since.
I got a job sorting deposit slips at a bank straight out of high school, then a cadetship at the Newcastle Herald, then a feature writer gig at a fashion magazine, then a sub-editor role at House Design and another at Cosmopolitan.
The next decade was spent slowly working my way up to Deputy Editor before I jumped ship for a few years to work in Singapore at CLEO and Harper’s Bazaar.
Two years later I was editing Woman’s Day and worrying that I was running out of time to have babies.
I ditched the birth control and was shocked to fall instantly pregnant. Juggling morning sickness and weekly magazine deadlines were not a good combination.
I took two months off with my first baby and a little longer with my second, but taking care of babies is not a “break”.
Then I worked from a tiny apartment in New York and juggled caring for two small kids while my husband went to Columbia University.
I returned to Sydney and weekly magazines, started having heart palpitations and HR issues, took an ugly redundancy and started HouseGoesHome.
Then a job came up and I was back to work briefly before being sacked for standing up for my friend Kathleen.
A few months and a lot of mental anguish later I got another job.
Less than a year later I realised I was burning out and going through the motions of life.
I decided to quit and become a stay-at-home mum. Our mortgage was low and the time felt right to step back.
Two weeks later my husband walked out on our marriage and I was back to job hunting.
I still feel sad that I didn’t get that chance to be with the kids. But there was no choice with two households and double the bills.
A few very toxic bosses – and one wonderful one – followed until I finally found my current niche, where my colleagues are kinder and my efforts are more valued.
I get lots of dopamine hits from working in digital media, but I am tired after four decades of slog.
I had been fantasising about winding down.
But living in Sydney and having two kids who’ve moved away for university is bloody expensive.
And the Wall Street bloodbath is smashing my super.
What’s next for me? I don’t know.
What’s next for the world? I hate to think.
Song of the day: Pete Murray “Better days”
housegoeshome 
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