Mike Jozwik is the Ben Affleck to my Matt Damon, the Pistachio to my Baboo, the Trevor to my...Trevor. Now, to be honest, there have been several times throughout our 25 years of friendship when Joz has said something so shocking, so outrageous, and so offensive to make me ask, “Is this man really my best friend?” That said, there have also been many times when Joz has said or done something so hilarious, so outrageous, and/or so thoughtful to make me appreciate that yes, this is really is my best friend. But that is the magic of Mike Jozwik.

Mike Jozwik is someone you will never forget once you meet him. And he and I have enjoyed so many memorable moments together since I walked into Suite 4E. It is rare to find a true friend, but it is rarer still to find someone with whom you can say you have watched a World Series walk-off, performed in front of Harold Ramis, and climbed Huayna Picchu, but so it has been with Mike Jozwik and me. 

Mike Jozwik has encouraged me to make some of the best decisions I have ever made in my life, whether it was to sign up for that Second City class, to move to Logan Square, or to break up with those “meaner” girlfriends. He is creative, hilarious, and undeniably his own person.  

Thank you, Mike, for making the last 25 years of my life an absolute joy. Since I met you, my life has been more ridiculous, more adventurous, and a whole hell of a lot funnier.

When I think about what my life would’ve been if I hadn’t met Joz, I shudder. I love Mike's sisters, I love his parents (all 4 of them), and I adore his kids. And I have been in quiet awe of his wife since the moment I walked into Suite 4E.

Mike and Jenny’s 25-year (!) relationship has been a big influence on this jaded child of divorce. It has taught me the magic that can result when you meet your “one,” and I strive to work as hard on my marriage as you two have. I hope Rachel and I can have an equally successful and fabulous partnership as you two have had, perhaps just a little less gassy.

I remain forever grateful to Amy because she made it so I never had to be alone. She was my first playmate and no matter if we were playing Barbie and Snoopy, or watching the WWF, she was by my side. Amy earned excellent grades at St. Benedict’s so that I could surprise our teachers by doing even better ;) Amy  helped me choose Marian over Marist and then she got her license so I only had to take the bus for one year. Yay Carpool!

Amy let me take the train downtown with her, introduced me to musical theater, and she invited me to hang out with her cool high school friends (even if we had to do that in Roy’s creepy attic). Amy showed me what good music was, she showed me the benefits of small liberal arts colleges, and she has shown me how to make a marriage work. As a disillusioned child of divorce, I will forever be grateful to Amy and Mark for demonstrating how to form a strong partnership and how to make it work. 

Another thing Amy and I share is a smile. Amy showed me how to stand up to bullies who made fun of that smile and then two decades later, she gave me the biggest sources of my smiles in my entire life: Gavin and Fiona. Amy is the best mother I know. Period. She raises children to be curious, thoughtful, and kind. She has also stepped up and taken care of our larger family in addition to her nuclear one. Amy is the ultimate party host and I have always marveled at the way she listens to people, remembers names, and makes sure everyone is taken care of. She is a true caretaker.

When I look back upon all the game nights, Oscar parties, election parties, New Year’s Day parties, March Madness parties, birthday parties and holiday dinners, I feel blessed to have walked into that apartment on Francisco or into that bungalow on Parkside and to have always seen that smile. Her smile. Our smile. I love and appreciate Amy so much and I don’t tell her enough. I am honored to have her standing by my side on my wedding day. I hope she’ll be smiling. (She’s the one with the longer hair).  

P.S. If this wedding actually happens, if we get to celebrate with at least some of the people with whom we wanted to celebrate on September 4th, then it is in big part thanks to the sage advice and COVID predictions that Amy gave us 18 months prior. The girl knows her sh*t!

Molly and I were roommates twice: first, from when she was brought home (nameless!) from the hospital until my head full of stitches and I left for college. In John years, I lived with Molly from ages 8 to 18. She was 0 to 10 years old. And then Molly and I were roommates again 12 years later. I remember being slightly nervous about how we might get along after all her time in Arizona and now that we were both adults and well beyond Maple Ave. I was now 30 and she could (legally...finally) drink.

Instead of it being awkward, living again with Molly was absolutely glorious. Best. Time. Ever. Some of the happiest times of my entire life went down in those five years while Molly and I shared that apartment on Oakley. Her meatballs, her cupcakes, my Nacho. We both dipped our toes into the murky waters of online dating, with mixed results. We both brought home dates and they had to “meet the family” way too early. We watched Glee, we dined on Noodles, and we minded a very special pigeon. For two siblings that are pretty far apart in age, we sure as heck are pretty close.

Molly is one of the bravest people I know and she has taught me courage, perseverance, and forgiveness. When I heard she was officially graduating from nursing school, I broke out in tears in the middle of campus at UIC and looked like an insane person.  I cried even more at her graduation. I am honored that she is helping me encourage the next generation of CCC-educated nurses. She makes me so proud to be her big brother, and although she didn’t think I would invite her to my wedding, I am, in fact,honored to have her in my wedding party. And thank you, Molly, for using your witch powers to have me meet Rachel on your birthday, December 19th.

I never wanted a brother. Never. When my mom was pregnant with Molly, people asked if I wanted a little brother or sister and I surprised everyone by answering, “sister.” I never wavered on this because I wanted to keep my own room. Because my room was neat. It was still the right call. Fast forward 13 years when my other sister brings home a man with an ancient car, a thick Kentucky accent, and a “Liar, Liar” button pinned to his jean jacket. Hawt! We bonded over baseball: Mark was somehow a Cubs fan despite growing up 300 miles south of Wrigley Field and despite the nearby Reds fielding teams with the likes of Hal Morris, Barry Larkin and the spectacled and spectacular Chris Sabo.

Mark and I argued about the Cubs and Sox, went to MLB games together, watched a ton more baseball in our apartments, and manned the outfield for the Slyders softball squad. After he knocked up my sister, Mark and I would argue about whether his son would become a Cubs fan like his father, or a Sox fan like his uncle, grandfather, mom, aunt and myriad intelligent family members on both sides of our family. Gavin definitely had the last laugh on that one.

Mark was held in very special regard by my dad, which was evident by my dad’s relentless teasing of Mark during every round of golf, at every family barbecue and later, in birthday parties for babies named “Gavin” and “Fiona.” My dad loved Mark and so do I. And pretty much every person who has the pleasure of meeting Mark Stiglitz likes him. Don’t get me wrong: Mark does not like meeting people, not at all, but everyone who meets Mark likes him immediately. How could you not?

I have always known that Mark would be my one call. If I were to be arrested and was given one call, I would call Stiglitz. If my car broke down on the highway at 3 AM, I would call Stiglitz. If I needed to fix something in my house, or escape a tight spot with unsavory individuals, or needed some cash, I would call Stiglitz. If I were on a trivia show and had to answer a question about Hitler and the Third Reich, I would call Mark Stiglitz. I am proud to own Louisville gear and to un-ironically cheer for the Cardinals because of him. I was proud to get him a World Series ticket to return the favor 11 years later. I am proud to be the uncle of his two lovely children. I am proud to call Mark my “brother.” Turns out I guess I kinda wanted one all along.  

I met Mark Wieland freshman year of college when I approached him in the cafeteria because...well, because he was tall. My friends and I  needed a tall student to play center on “Afterbirth,” our IM basketball team. Yes, the one that dressed in silk women’s blouses and matching short shorts. Mark agreed, Mark could dunk (kinda), and over time,  Mark became one of my closest friends. 

Our friendship has solidified over the past two decades fueled by a river of stiff drinks and cold beers. Some of my all-time favorite memories have been getting drunk with Mark in Boston, getting drunk with Mark at Rochester Honkers games, getting drunk with Mark in a Belizean jungle, getting drunk with Mark in Asturias, Spain.  Wait a minute...is Dr. Wieland actually a bad influence on me? 

 Doubtful. Dr. Wieland is the smartest man that I know, which is demonstrated by his choice of undergraduate university, his place of medical residency, and his decision to marry one of the kindest, loveliest, most brilliant women on the planet. Of course she is. Afterall, she’s a Nash. 

The largest greeting card I ever received had the biggest news written inside: “PIGLITZ IS COMING!” And those three words changed everything. We were all so excited about the idea of Gavin; we wanted a baby in the family, we so wanted Mark and Amy to become parents, and Gavin obliged. And then I met him, this adorable, chubby baby with blue eyes and a distrust of Dinkel’s smash cakes. And then he grew up and this baby became a child who became a teen, and guess what? He was even better than advertised; he was even better than the idea we had all conjured up in our heads before his arrival. 

Gavin has always been a sweet and smart kid. He loved to read, and he loved to swim. I used to laugh when I watched Gavin at swim meets, reading a too-advanced-for-his-age book while he waited to swim another event. Reading and swimming. Swimming and reading. With impressive linguistic skills and minimal body fat, I used to refer to my nephew as the healthiest human on Earth.

When Rachel and I first got engaged and I was drawing up my groomsmen list, I wondered if I could ask a seventh grade kid to be a groomsman. Would a child feel comfortable standing amongst men? Not just any men, but the titans of masculinity whom I chose as my groomsmen? But now that he is a nearly six-foot-tall high school sophomore who looks like the bully in a John Hughes movie, Gavin is more of a man than a boy.  But I know behind that beautiful, flowing blond hair is the same sweet baby I first held at Prentice.

Gavin is an excellent student, a top-notch son, and exemplary brother to Fiona. I have truly enjoyed getting to work with this new high school-version of Gavin, meeting him on Zoom to work on his español. I cannot wait to see where he journeys next. Oh, the places he will go…