JB’s workplace announced layoffs a few days ago, and while the axe did not fall on his position it whistled by all too closely. One of his coworkers who had been employed there for 16 years was let go, an employee who was by all accounts a high performer. His job seemed perfectly secure, much like we assume JB’s is.

Much local ado was made of this announcement, but it’s obviously not a unique situation. According to CNN.com, this month alone companies have announced more than 211,500 job cuts.

When I was looking back on my New Year’s blog entries for the last five years I saw a consistent theme of kvetching about my career. Five years of vague whining about not being fulfilled enough or feeling fully satisfied. Instead of getting off my ass and actually being proactive about making things better, I’ve been allowing myself to become more and more bored, unmotivated, and resentful.

What a ridiculous exercise in self-pity. Five years later, and what have I done to change my situation? Nothing.

I’ve become a stronger person in so many ways over the last few years. Why do I continue to let this one section of my life be something I’m not proud of? Why do I let inertia take over, when it comes to my job?

In the light of so many thousands of people being out of work, it’s a pointless, ugly luxury to wallow in the things that are missing from my work life. My job helps us pay our mortgage, buy groceries, save for our children’s college educations, and maybe even retire someday. If it doesn’t always seem like everything I once hoped it would be, well, it’s time to come to terms with that. It’s time for me to add meaning where I can, accept the state of things where I can’t, and take active steps instead of sitting still.

It’s only true that I don’t have other opportunities if I don’t seek them out; it’s only true that I’m mired in an unrewarding job if that’s the way I look at it. This is the year for me to end the cycle of discontent and start appreciating everything I have, across the board.

Also, I need to gather the fucking stones to admit that I want to write a book, and stop coming up with 45296905 reasons why I shouldn’t even try.

On the way down to Eugene we dosed Dylan with some children’s Benadryl — actually semi-called for, since he’s been passing a miserable cold back and forth with Riley and JB for two weeks straight — and he was gratifyingly mellow during the entire trip, leading me to assume the same trick would work its magic today. Not so, unfortunately, and after a long cranky drive home and an interminable afternoon topped off by a massive Gag-Reflex-Related-Crib-Barf, I am very much ready for this whole entire day to be over with and am crossing my fingers that everyone’s well enough to get shipped off to school tomorrow, because DANGER DANGER PARENTING RESERVES ON EMPTY PULL UP PULL UP.

It was a good weekend, if occasionally hectic as a result of being away from the comforts of home and dealing with two sick kids. JB’s brother’s wedding could not have been more perfect: a short, sweet ceremony followed by a spectacular party that raged into the night at the bride’s father’s restaurant. Thanks to our babysitters, we were able to enjoy all the wedding festivities, and even though JB’s voice disappeared almost completely hours before he had to give the toast, a microphone and a few Godfather jokes got him by. He was amazing, as I suspected he would be, and his ability to deliver a heartfelt, hilarious speech in front of a giant crowd of people should be formally added to his list of enviable talents (next to: “Can leap like a motherfucking gazelle”, “Is able to write names in snow with urine”, etc).

The wedding location:

JB and his brother before the ceremony:

Me, awkwardly trying to show you my outfit:


Joe’s unique best man gift to JB, whose name is not, you know, actually JB:

The hard thing about being one of the only non-drinkers at an open-bar wedding is that your inhibitions remain at their normal levels throughout the evening and thus you have to do some Positive Life Coaching exercises to stop worrying about what a jackass you will look like on the dance floor. The nice part, though, is that the story that gets passed around the next day about the person who got so shitfaced they couldn’t remember where their hotel was and loudly insisted on being driven to a gay bar in order to spend the night? Has nothing to do with YOU.

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