Shameless...William H. Macy, Me, and Addiction Flashbacks! (REPLAY)

Soul Parole: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself (AMAZON-KINDLE-soulparole.com FEBRUARY,2012- Preview)

(original unedited version)

Shameless...William H. Macy, Me, and Addiction Flashbacks!

I was blessed to have the opportunity to work on an episode of the new Showtime series "Shameless," starring William H. Macy. I was cast as his neighbor and when the episode airs you will definitely see me. The show revolves around a father with alcohol issues trying to raise a brood of kids in the working neighborhoods of Chicago. It is well written and sure to be a hit.

It was an unseasonably warm November day for Chicago and the scene was taking place in the dead of winter. Temperatures got up into the 60's that day and we were dressed as if it were January. Snow trucks were brought in to create the winter scene, complete with a guy who had a spray can to dirty the snow on the street. I can not say what the episode was about specifically in respect and confidence to the Showtime Network and professional acting courtesy.

In both "Shameless" and "The Chicago Code," great pains are taken to make details and authenticity as accurate as possible. From regional dialect and slang, to the casting of locals in the neighborhood providing background, no detail is too small to overlook. When a shoot is in progress, lights, semis, cameras, wardrobe, trolley rails, productionassistants, actors and extras litter the street. Curious neighbors sit on their porch or on the sidelines taking in the magic and technical wizardry that makes Hollywood so cool.

If a civilian is brought into the production they must sign a waiver and are often paid for their appearance in it. On this particular day we were on the west side in one of the more blue collar, urban neighborhoods for the shoot. As we rehearsed our scenes and repeatedly returned to our marks for another take or camera angle change, a woman kept walking onto the set. After a few interruptions, one of the best production assistants I have ever worked with took her to the side and signed her up to be an official player for the shoot for that day.

The woman was haggard and seemed a bit nervous. She was in clothing that seemed worn for a few days in a row and was skittish and tweaky. She was obviously withdrawing and jonesing for whatever candy kept her going. An addict can pick out another in a stadium full of strangers. It is just a skill we pick up in case we need to commiserate or score. We are always scanning and defining the people around us. That one is uppity. That one is a push over. That one is full of themself. That one is weak. That one will buy my story and give me a few bucks. We move from character to character and are usually dead on in our predeterminations of our fellow man's weak spots.

I was lucky enough to play an integral part in a scene with William H. Macy. He is a consummate character actor and professional. I was in the middle of asking the director how she wanted me to play the scene and she walked away to put out a more important fire. Mr. Macy stopped over and answered my question as to how he felt my demeanor should be in reacting to his actions. He is not an ego guy. He is just a guy. He presented no pretension or condescension, only a desire in doing the scene as perfectly as possible. I thanked him and played my part as he suggested. I was surprised when he later joined the extras in the holding area for chit chat and a picture or two.
In the scene some money is thrown up in the air in celebration of a joyous event. Prop money was used for the rehearsal and actual cash when we were ready to print. Each of us were given a set denomination of moola and responsible for returning it at the wrap of the scene. I was drawn to the woman as after each scene was "cut" we would retrieve the amount we were given and prepare for the next "take." When the call came to "check the gate and print", the scene was over and we returned our money to the PA handling the bankroll. The amount of money distributed was less than what returned.

I returned my portion and looked around for the skittish woman but she was gone. I scanned the streets of the restricted area and saw her smiling ear to ear and shouting into her cell phone. She was a block away and through all the confusion and chaos that is business as usual on set, I could hear her pleas drifting to me from so far away. She waited by the corner and was picked up by a car that stopped just long enough for her to jump in as it lurched away.

My first urge was to tell the PA about the lady and be a hero and doer of good deeds. I didn't say a word though. As I returned my share, the old street code of not ratting out a fellow user came back to me as clear as the days when I was using. It was not my business and I was probably doing her a favor. There were a few more scenes that required my participation as camera angles were switched and slight changes to the scene printed, just in case they wanted to alter something later.

The woman returned shortly after she left on the 14 hour long shoot. She was a different person. Her speech was slower and clearer. She didn't twitch or itch and looked like she had found the medicine she needed to feel normal again. I felt for her. As I looked at her she smiled back, eyes glazed over and content. I knew how she felt. I had been there. I knew what it was like to go to any means necessary to get the chemical cure to what was ailing me. I said a prayer for her. I don't know if she took the money but I know what addicts are capable of. I thanked God for his grace that it wasn't me. I looked back once more at her euphoric grin and was grateful for another day of sobriety. But for the Grace of God there go I.

Soul Parole...I was... and I AM....

I never sat down to write a book. It's strange to me as I look at all of the separate chapters cobbled together that they have become one. Each is a glimpse into a lifetime of addiction, and only a snapshot of my sobriety. I am no guru or doctor. The only sure fire advice I can give you in recovery is don't pick-up the first and you won't have to worry about the next thousand. A recovering alcoholic/addict passed that message on to me. I hope you pass it on to someone who thinks they are "one of a kind," like I once did. I was right and wrong. I am not alone in how I look at the world. I am part of a special kind of people called alcoholics and addicts.

The book began as part of a blog I started called "Every Day is a Gift." I believe each day is. In recovery I was taught to live day to day, sometimes moment to moment because my mind is where my addictions are anchored. The pain of my past, FEAR and uncertainty of the future and the futility of trying to manage all of my baggage made living comfortably, with me, impossible. I USED to escape me, not you. In the 12 months I wrote Soul Parole the blog was read by over 13,000 people in 55 countries on 6 continents(see Appendix). It blows my mind. Addiction is universal. Suffering is a choice. I could not stay sober on my own. I share my journey. I pray that I never think I have reached my destination.

Each of the chapters were done in one sitting in one flow of consciousness. I wanted to keep my thoughts honest and unedited. By the time of publishing Editors have gone back and fixed punctuation, grammar and sentence structure. Not Content. I can see evolution in the pages. When I ask my mentor if I'm getting better he says, "your getting different." I'll settle for that. The point is that I am moving forward sober.

Some have said that my stories always have a sugary ending. That may be so. Make no mistake, sobriety is not easy. Sometimes it really stinks! My problems and pressures build and I want to run to the corner, grab a bottle and take a liquid vacation! That would leave me with a hangover, the problems, and a huge pile of some new ones.

I choose to seek solutions now. Addiction and depression is about being trapped in darkness and feeling there is no hope to see light. I don't suddenly have rainbows and fairy dust falling in my path. I FEEL now. I FACE now. These things were once inconceivable to me. Squeaky and I fight, I fail as a father, son and friend. Sobriety has shown me my character flaws. I can go back and try to right what I have wronged, where once I just fled.

I have been blessed to work on comedy stages and in films and on TV. I have come far in a short time according to the calendar. I love acting and making people laugh. My acting is a passion. Making people laugh is a gift. We all have them. Share them. I may never make it to HBO or HOLLYWOOD. That's fine. If I help a few people along their journey to sobriety then my 28 years of addiction was not in vain. There were people who held their hand out freely and showed me a new way to live. I will do the same.

Living in the moment is a gift. GOD has no beginning or end. No man can define GOD. The moment we are in RIGHT NOW has no beginning and no end. That means that right now is as close to GOD on earth as we're gonna get. Why would we take NOW for granted? Why would we take GOD for granted? I am grateful that I live for the day. Time goes faster, but I suck the marrow out of each moment....But for the grace of GOD there go I....

My Wife and "THE CHANGE" A Husband's Survival Guide! (REVIEW)

 

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My, Mind, GOD and Myself Preview. Available January 2012.

Monday, February 14, 2011

My Wife and "The Change!" A Husband's Survival Guide!

I have grown up around women my whole life. When I was young it was my mom, sister and me. I have 3 sisters from my dad's second marriage for a total of four. I am the only son in the family. As a father I have 3 daughters and 1 son. So as I delve into the mysteries of the female "monthly curse" I feel I have a pretty good grip on the subject.

Between my wife's few days of pre-menstrual hormonal mood shifting, the actual cycle, and the post cycle mood swings, I have approximately 2 days a month that her mood is not affected by these evil hormones. I have learned to live with it to some degree. In fact we are so connected she says I have a "man period" along with her. I do not disagree.

One day last week I was eating everything in the house. I had 2 sweet-n-salty granola bars, 2 bowls of cereal, ice cream and leftover cold fettuccine. I was so ravenous that I called my wife. She assured me that there was nothing to worry about. We were due in 2 days. I have learned to roll with it and not overreact when she is acting like Sybil on a coffee drinking binge. Her instant emotional shifts, that change like someone is switching them on or off, I can handle. When she makes it to the happy personality, that is when I talk to her about the important stuff.

The worst is when my daughters and wife are all together for any length of time. It becomes the "Sistahood of the travelling menstrual pants." Any man worth his salt knows that a woman has regular clothes and "period clothes". These special garments are usually more comfortable, have more ventilation and are just a bit bigger than the regular sized clothing to account for the wretched bloating. Men: feel free to take notes on this chapter. It may save your marriage or your life.

When the three of them have merged their cycles into one evil menstrual demon, I get out the holy water and fill my schedule with a lot of "out of the house business." I have made it through the years with the help of God and up until the last few years booze. They are now split up around the world so the powers they held as a menstrual trinity has been broken. It amazes me how much power a tiny little egg, working it's way to evacuation, can hold so much control over the egg keeper.

All of these incidents and cycles have made me a stronger man, husband and father. I have learned to read the signs like a Cherokee scout examining hoof tracks in the great forest. I know when to approach the Squaws' and respect the spirits that bind them. However, nothing could prepare me for the chaos and emotional confusion that my wife has introduced to me by way of "THE CHANGE." The doctor who coined this term was obviously sharing a home with a woman in the midst of this phenomena when he came up with it. He made it sound so innocuous for fear of losing his life or worse, facing his wife's wrath.

Squeaky has a thyroid malfunction and her family has a history of entering this dark phase of existence early in the mid-40's. She is 44 and we are smack dab in the middle of an emotional tempest! The wild card is how long and how severe "The Change" will last. This is true for the long and the short term. I felt it my duty to enlighten men who may be experiencing this with a loved one now or in the near future. Please be comforted in knowing your wife is not Satan's spawn. There will be brief periods of calm and brief periods of storms. When your wife is going through it, the man must have a bronc riding mentality. Just hold on to the reigns and hope the ride only lasts a few seconds and pray you don't get permanently injured when thrown.

The two most important rules for men dealing with the afflicted woman is that whatever she says, do it. The second thing is whatever she says do it! You must be comfortable with wearing sweatshirts in the summer and having a high electric bill in the summer time. The "Hot Flash" is a mighty foe and will present itself at any time, in any place. If you are driving in the dead of winter and she turns to you with madness in her eyes claiming it is 8,000 degrees in the car. It is! Roll down a window or turn on the air. "The Change" comes complete with it's own weather patterns that usually conflict with physical reality. If you wish to survive, follow every instruction to the letter. Up is down, cold is hot, yes means no and so on.

When you have fallen into a deep, restful sleep be wary. "The Change" loves to come out in the dead of night and with a fury. If you feel the sheet is slightly wet, not to worry. It is not incontinence. It is the sweat dripping off your precious wife. During these late night flare ups do not be surprised if your wife turns to you and says "I love you, I need you and screw you!" in the span of about 20 seconds. Accept all three responses as being of equal weight. She means all three. If you find yourself dealing with her in a particularly foul mood, hang in there, she will be morphing into a different person in just a few moments.

The other two important keys to survival are responses to food and fashion. During this transition of life there are times when you will think your wife is pregnant or has a binging disorder. Strange combinations of sweet and salty, burgers to beef jerky, ice cream to ice cubes are not to be questioned. Let them feed. Any comment you make in regards to what or how much she is eating will be met with rabid lashings. Just shut up and get her what she wants.

When it comes to fashion men have one set. Women have multiple lines of clothing for whatever stage of the month they are in and choices should never be questioned. If your wife comes down the stairs in a mumu and a cowboy hat compliment her on how beautiful she looks. If you question her outfit selection you are in for a sobbing breakdown or verbal undressing. Remember this too shall pass. If your wife feels the need to go shopping for different clothes, let her. You may think she has plenty of sweaters and pants. She needs different ensembles to make her transition as comfortable as possible.

Above all, always keep your cool. Over the centuries countless men have tried to figure out "The Change" and alter its course in their loved one. Few have made it. This rite of passage is not meant to be interpreted by man, only accepted and adhered to. Period! By my estimations I have approximately 10 more years of enduring the fury of my wife's midlife change. I pray a lot. I drive to the store at strange hours returning with exotic foods. I bite my tongue a lot and have decided to live with the beast instead of trying to tame it. To my fellow man I wish you good luck on this journey.

Loud Tears... Quiet Laughter (Christmas 2010 and Lil' Debby Snack Cake)

Souls Parole:Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself (PREVIEW)

Lil' Debby was a friend of mine in recovery. She would make a hobbit look like a giant and had a heart bigger than Paul Bunyan. She was rich in friends and devoted to those in need. She loved animals and helped out at the shelter. She didn't let her diabetes slow her down. She loved Jim Morrison. She wore pajamas like sweats. I loved her for her individuality. Her smile could guide Santa's sleigh through a tsunami. I saw her the morning of Christmas eve. On Christmas morning she was gone.

I hope you can see that learning to live life in the moment is not just a way for addicts to live. It's a great philosophy on life....

 

 Loud Tears... Quiet Laughter

It's 1:08 AM, a popular time in my blog history. I am tired, emotionally spent, amped up and cashed out. I felt the full spectrum of the human emotional meter today, starting with taking photos at sunrise, then going to the memorial service for Lil Deb Snack Cake and finishing up with a comedy performance at Cigars and Stripes in Berwyn. The picture taking was cold but inspiring, the memorial service surreal and the comedy gig liberating but difficult.

I like to take pictures of sunsets or sunrises, on days of a funeral or deaths, because it helps me to remember the person lost and burns a permanent picture in my mind's eye. I see creation and eternity. You can see my photos on my Facebook page. I have done it for several people. I like the pictures of the sun because it is fantastic, warm and hard to put into words. These few will have to do.

I sat alone in the dark of my family room thinking about Lil Deb for a long time today. I actually dreamed of her as the darkness and quiet lulled me to sleep. I was set to go to the visitation at 3pm and was even going to wear a suit. I woke up about 2:15pm realizing I needed to hop in the shower and get ready. But instead I sat on the couch trying to talk myself out of going. I remember Deb in my heart and in the songs of the Doors. The thought of the service just made me sadder.

I have been to 10 funerals in 2010, a personal record I wish not to repeat. Some of them were crushing like my father's, others just a courtesy and respect to the person passed beyond. I remember as a kid there were birthday parties several times a year. Now that I am older there are fewer birthday celebrations and a marked increase in funerals. That's reality I guess. It seems though that with every funeral, I am less and less afraid of the day when my ticket gets punched. I can not look at the wonder of the cosmos and think this is the only stop there is.

I was scheduled to perform comedy at a club in Berwyn and was seriously considering cancelling it. I wasn't feeling very funny today. I dressed and left for the chapel at 4:15. Being the instigator and the wannabe anarchist I am, I slapped a Doors concert poster on the wall when I entered the room where her service was being held. She would love that. There was a picture of her in a John Lennon shirt smiling ear to ear and I felt my tears fall loud and heavy on my shirt. Unlike the death of my father, Deb's was out of nowhere. Life is really only moment to moment whether we like it or not.

There were lots of people, as I knew there would be. She is loved by many. I paid my respects to her family and left feeling lost. We were not bosom buddies but tight in our relationship. We always took off where we left off and shared many difficult patches together. She was one of those people in your orbit who you think is gonna be there forever. Just like the sun, she made life on earth warmer and brighter.

I returned home and checked my messages to find one from Joellyn, a mutual friend of Deb's. She had seen my sunrise photos and commented to me, "You always know the best way to show God's handiwork through yourself, others, comedy and beauty." The words were deep and I felt grateful and humbled for the kind words. I knew I had to go and do my gig. There were people who wanted me to make them laugh and feel good, even though I felt like crawling under a rock. Deb would say, "GO TOM!"

I thought about Joellyn's words and understand that I, or we, are messengers on this big round ball of earth and sky. I have been blessed with the gift of making people smile and laugh. It is my duty while I am here to spread that message of laughter. What is your gift? We all have them. Most of us ignore them or dismiss them as frivolous. If we all made one person smile each day there would be no war, famine and oppression.

As I was being introduced to hit the stage at the club, I said one last I love you to Deb, grabbed the mic and the laughter came after my first few lines. First slowly and quietly, then hearty and rich. It felt good to be God's messenger for those few moments. I reflected on Deb's cheeky laugh and felt grace as the crowd returned their approval for a joke well done.

God might be the copilot but we have to drive through humanity. He speaks through us. He sends messages to others through all of us collectively. The burning bush trick has been done. It's up to us to be messengers of peace and good will. We don't need to join the brotherhood. Try opening a door for a stranger, calling an old friend, flashing a smile or letting someone into traffic. Spread the message! It might be the one thing that a person needs the most while at a critical point in their life.

On Christmas God sent a present to earth. On that same Christmas the earth sent God a gift and her name is Lil Deb Snack Cake.

ADDICTION = I Don't Like Myself Very Much...But I'm All I Ever Think About!

I Don't Like Me...But I'm All I Ever Think About!

SOUL PAROLE: Making Peace with My Mind, GOD and Myself will be released at the beginning of 2012 (Amazon). Legendary Comics Tom Dreesen and David Brenner wrote the Introduction and Epilogue. I filled in the middle…This is chapter 3 that was written a year ago….

My addictive mind baffles me. If you went to a Chinese restaurant and got sick you would stay away from the place for a while. If you went back and got sick again you’d stay away for good. When I was little I had a babysitter who made me eat tuna fish and mayonnaise every day after school. She subscribed to the 'eat what there is or eat nothing at all' approach. Fair enough. I cannot stand tuna or mayonnaise and would gag as I ate it! But I was starving and that was my only choice. When my mom found a new sitter, I never ate it again. To this day when my wife makes tuna salad I get a little oogey.

The strange paradox with booze and drugs is that when you get sick you go back for more. For the first few YEARS each time I drank I became violently ill. I figured I'd get used to it. I had always heard booze was an aquired taste. Coffee, for me, was an acquired taste. I love the stuff. When I first started drinking it I didn't hurl all over myself and everywhere around me. My body was telling me right from the first swig that the sauce was poison to me. That little voice inside me cried out from my stomach then spilled out on the floor.

There is much debate as to whether alcoholism is hereditary or socially imprinted on us. I believe both are true and how you get something isn't as important as how you respond to it once you know you have it. There were drinkers in my family, but no one ever poured a drink down my throat. I always did it myself. A boss never did it. A girlfriend or wife never held me down bottle in hand. No one ever put alcohol and drugs into me... except me.

I have also heard people say they were alcoholic long before they picked up the first drink. That statement confounded me for awhile, but I embrace it now. As far as I am concerned, I had alcoholic tendencies before that summer in ’79. I didn't like myself very much, but I was all I ever thought about! I thought the world revolved around me or it should. If I was happy, everyone should be happy. If I was sad, I wanted you in the dumps at my side.

I thought I was one of a kind. I was either above you or below you. I never met someone and thought to myself, he's just like me. If I walked into a room full of strangers, and they halted their conversation as I strolled past, I was certain they were talking about me. They definitely didn't like me! I tried to fit in with every group, but isolated whenever possible. The sad part was that I hated being alone, but found comfort in not being with the crowd. I was a simple person with complex thinking.

I hung out with the jocks because I played baseball and basketball. I hung out with the stoners because they liked rock-n-roll and punk. I hung out with the geeks because I felt they were misunderstood. I hung out with all the cliques, but was never "in" any of them. It was easier to make a guest appearance in one and move into the next before they got too close. I was not about to share my true feelings to them and let them see the real me!

 I didn't know who or what the real me was, and I was going to figure it out on my own. That need to “figure things out on my own” kept me drinking and using longer. As soon as I discovered booze and drugs I was okay with me and that set me off for the next 28 years. My alcoholic mind had the strange notion that asking for help is a sign of weakness or stupidity. I was afraid if I asked, people for help they would think something was wrong with me. I didn't need any help beating me up. I did it all day, everyday, for 28 years, and sometimes I still do.

Lord! Please Don't Let Me Wake Up Tomorrow....Ghosts of XMAS PAST!

On that Christmas in 1998, I was three months from entering rehab at Hinsdale Hospital, with a guest appearance in the "Nutty Bin." I started drinking by about seven that morning. I had stocked up on Christmas Eve because the stores would be closed for the holiday. My Christmas meal consisted of Jim Beam, cheap beer, cheaper vodka, some chips and a pack of lunchmeat to keep all the medicine down. As a seasoned drunk I knew the right combination of booze and food to keep the numb going. It was enough not to kill the buzz and just enough to keep me on my feet.

I hadn't talked to my family in months. I imagined what they were doing as I sat alone in the darkness with curtains drawn. My mom was probably scurrying around the kitchen making a shrimp platter or some kind of cheese ball with nuts. My sister and brother-in-law were knee-high in shredded wrapping paper, the torn-up remains from the wonderful gifts my niece and nephew were giggling amongst and dancing between. My dad and second family were just rising preparing for a feast later in the day. They were only a few miles away in La Grange, but they were done with me.

I hated them for not calling. They had tried many times to get me sober, yet whenever I saw them, I only wanted money or help out of my latest jam. When family or friends did invite me over, I got drunk and funny, then wasted and wicked. The calls, then the relationships ended. I had no consideration for other peoples' lives or their problems. My addiction only had room for thoughts of me and my next high. I was nearly dead already. My body was beat. My emotions were spent.  My soul was on empty.

I drank more and ate less. My mind was slowing down. The rage was subsiding. Sadness and self-pity were now crying out. Why did life always deal me the bad hand? Gulp! Why did everyone hate me so much? Slurp! Where did all my dreams go? Swig! I wasn't afraid of dying at that point. A couple more beers, and I would pass out. A couple more hours, and my family would sit down to a delicious feast.

I came to, head pounding and stomach fighting back. I squinted through the slits of my eyes and made out that it was five o’clock. I didn't know if it was p.m. or a.m.! I stumbled out of bed and saw it was dark outside. Being December, the darkness lent no clue as to whether it was night or morning. My worst fears were realized when I turned on the TV. A Christmas show danced on the screen. I had not slept Christmas away.

By now, my family had finished up the food and treats and was enjoying a belly-stuffed nap or the drive back home with boxes and bags of Christmas cheer. I rang the front desk to see if anyone had left a message for me. But how could they? Nobody knew where I was. I still had seven hours until the blessed holiday would finally be over for another year. Enough!I took a slug from the freshly cracked bottle of vodka, dropped a cigarette into it, and tossed it in the tiny plastic trash can. I swore off drinking forever..again.

Seven hours to go until midnight. My stash was gone. My snacks were eaten, and my nerves were shot. I was like the cat in the cartoon where the mouse nails the furniture to the ceiling, and the cat wakes up thinking he's sleeping on the ceiling. Frantically, he jumps up and down to reach the floor. He runs to the medicine cabinet and promptly downs a bottle of nerve tonic. He jumps to the "floor" holding on with his nails and every bit of his strength only to fall again in futility.

I staggered to the dresser, grabbed a sock, then rinsed the empty bottle from the whiskey. I placed the sock over the lip of the bottle and carefully poured the tainted tonic into the fresh bottle mindful not to spill a drop. It caught the ash and butt. The tar and toxins had turned the once clear liquid a vile shade of brown. Cigarette vodka was the brand of choice for my holiday night cap.

I knocked back the ashtray cocktail and chased it with a soda. I got drunk enough to sleep and numb enough to dismiss the realizations of the depths I had reached to keep the buzz going. I wept, as I collapsed onto the filthy bed. I wrapped myself in the sheet to ward off the roach parade that would march over me as soon as the TV went black. Then I prayed. It was a real prayer, one of desperation and sincerity. It was a prayer I felt to the pit that was my soul. Between the tears and self-loathing I mumbled to the heavens: “LORD!... Please don't let me wake up tomorrow.”....

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!...'I'm Gonna Have a Baby....'

There are rites of passage or marks in time that are indelibly etched in our mind. Our first day of school, that stolen kiss, our wedding day are just a few of life's mile markers that are forever carved into our melons. They are like home movies that can be played on demand whenever we wish to recall them. As a date passes by the play button is pushed automatically.

Our middle daughter Sunny turned nineteen on October 13th of this year. She called and asked if we could have dinner at home instead of going out. I was happy to oblige. The kids all know that when we go out for their birthday I am absolutely going to take them to a place where the servers will come to the table and perform a cheesy dance and sing an homage to their introduction into the universe. It's just the way I roll. They expect it and secretly enjoy it. It's tradition. I did it when they were small. I will do it until I die.

I decided to make shrimp with angel hair pasta for the occasion. Sunny and her beau Crisco love it. Cooking for the family is something I truly enjoy. It is a passion I picked up from watching my grandmother as a boy. I would watch  intently as she rolled out dough for noodles or fry chicken to perfection. My mind would snap pictures of her culinary wizardry not for any future wish to cook myself. It was to capture the sights, smells and feelings of complete comfort I had sitting at her table with my head plopped contentedly on folded hands.

I coordinated the special birthday feast precisely so it would be ready when Squeaky got home from work. The pasta was to be last. Al dente is a must. Squishy or starchy pasta is a no-no. I brushed the bread with butter and sprinkled it with garlic as the kids walked in. I kissed the birthday girl and hugged Crisco her man. It was hard to fathom Sunny was nineteen. I had met her when she was just a child. Now she was a young woman. I rushed back to add bread crumbs to the shrimp, butter, garlic and chives that were simmering on the stove. Everything was coming together perfectly as Squeaky came through the door.

She hugged her baby like only a mother could sweetly protesting that it was her last teen year as I began to toss the angel hair with the shrimp. The garlic bread would take just a few minutes in the broiler. The scene was idyllic. The meal came together as planned. We said a word of thanks and an extra for the birthday girl. Then the world shifted.

'I'm going to have a baby,' spilled from Sunny's blushing glowing face. Squeaky jumped from the table and hugged Sunny and both laughed and cried. 'My baby is going to have a baby,' she exalted rocking back and forth stroking Sunny's hair. I stood behind them waiting for my turn to hug the baby with the baby. My mind was snapping pictures faster than the paparazzi at a J-Lo sighting. My head was spinning. The smell of shrimp went from friend to foe as I felt gurgling in my belly.

I was elated, scared, confused and unsure of how I felt in those first few moments. First and foremost we asked if she was sure and okay. She said yes. I shook Crisco's hand and gave him a hug and "THE LOOK" as if to say, "When's the wedding date SON?" It seemed like only moments ago that Sunny was just a kid herself. She is just a kid! I was analyzing my feelings as they were happening and the barrage was so intense I wanted to hit the floor and cover my head! INCOMING! Squeaky, ever the cool one, took it all in stride like our girl had come home with a new car. How do women do this?! I wanted to kiss, laugh, fight, hug and cry with someone....

Hello...are you okay honey?
What about school?
Where will you guys live?
She should sit down.
Is shrimp okay for her to eat?
My God I'm only 46!
LORD! Please look after her and the baby.
If this kid doesn't do the right things... I'll eat his heart!
God...grant me the serenity....
Hey Bro I love ya like a SON already....
I can't wait to take the kid to a Sox and Bear game!

I think I better sit down....