If you ask me, it’s time to panic. My work is frozen thanks to Trump cuts and so is Calvin’s work. We are stunned and horrified. I struggle to not take it personally, as though I unemployed myself and my husband handed back grant money to the DOGE dudes voluntarily: “Oh, hey, I thought this was earmarked for my project but I guess you need it to bail out Tesla.”

No! We didn’t choose this or make this happen or vote for this.

And horribly, sadly, shamefully, I am waiting for others to find themselves in this situation because the Trump damage is just beginning. Misery does love company, and it also loves recognition that this is a spreading, contagious situation that is not my, Wendy Ditmarston’s, fault. Argh. I hate this.

I always think things are my fault. I thought Donald Trump’s first election was my fault. It took years to break that belief even though I knew it was both stupid and crazy. It was just a feeling that dogged me.

If you’re unemployed, why are you talking about hoarding?

As a dutiful digital citizen, I am looking at the TikToks showing empty ports and wondering how the tariffs are going to affect things I love and/or need, like Maille mustard (which I have low-key hoarded) and toilet paper and the charging cord for my trusty vape (which eerily resembles a Star Trek communication device) and wine, and pharmaceutical products. I chatted with a woman who usually is too busy to deal with PTA events because she runs a Chinese import business and now, well, she’s coming to all the PTA events.

The desire to hoard while not earning an income is uncomfortable.

Neighbor update: short and sweet

Maggie’s mom lives! I think that is a good thing because grief can break your brain and this woman’s brain does not need more breakage. She is rarely outside so I rarely notice her, though I did check her Instagram. She had posted a loving montage of photos of her children, except for one photo of herself naked (shot from the back). Whoops, she said in the caption.

Over the weekend we were eating dinner and looked outside to see her yelling at our lawn and yes, that night she posted a photo of the camera we keep trained on her front door with an angry rant. There was another angry post about us, but that’s it. I can deal with that.

Wishful thinking did not pan out

I had thought—and announced rather grandly to the kids—that our years of living next door to a crazy, mean person who wanted to destroy us was good practice for living under Trump. I have not seen evidence that my prior experience with mean, crazy people who can affect one’s quality of life has helped me much lately.

Some tricks still work. In February of 2021 Maggie had a resurgence of crazy and blasted music through our bedroom wall for a few weeks. It came after months of quiet and I was not ready for it. Two days in I was losing my mind and hadn’t slept, but I had signed up for a petitioning shift in my neighborhood. I had to go, even though I was living in a state of dazed confusion punctuated by sobbing, so I spent a frigid Saturday afternoon standing on a corner trying to get people to talk to me and sign the petition for my candidate.

Is this what meditation is like for normal people? My mind emptied and I just lived on that street corner, luring people to stop and chat. I vividly remember thinking, “This is fun and I am happy.” And I don’t remember having the shakiness/sobbing state after that.

The lesson: I cannot obsess on the crazy person making my bedroom unlivable/unsleepable while engaging with strangers on the street. The same principle still applies. This bounce I’ve been hassling strangers about showing up to demonstrations against Trump. I do feel better after standing around hectoring people in a friendly way. Somehow, even as I engaged people about the disasterPOTUS (disastrUS, would that be a good portmanteau? I don’t think so), I still felt better about everything, including DisasTRUS (fuckit, I’m using it in this form).

Also I got a lot of stranger love, and that is a great form of love to get. A woman came out of the dental practice that I was standing in front of and said, “I’ve been listening to you for the past hour.” I said I was sorry but it was kind of the best place to stand in order to catch the subway exit crowd.

“Oh no, don’t apologize,” she said. “I love you.”

I will hoard the love and look for the jobs and we will all make it out of here scarred but alive.