"Supermodel HAH! There is nothing Super about them." -Edna Mode

I want to make something very clear at the beginning of this post. I do have some self-awareness. Only some, but it is there. Having established that, I recognize that I have an issue with having an idea or thought that makes complete and total sense in my head. I think about it and let it stew and it just seems to make more and more sense the more I think about. However, when I start to put voice to these ideas or put them down on...a blog for instance, connections that seemed so clear in my brain are stunningly not that connected. I know what I am getting at, but the looks of utter confusion on the faces of my audience tell me that I am all alone in the understanding department. At this point, I will then start to fill in the holes for people which can lead to weird and somewhat even more bizarre statements that do nothing except make it worse. This is the kind of phenomenon that once led me to the following outcome in a job interview: "How important is it for you to get along with others?" This question caused my overanalytical mind to shift into overdrive. My first thought was he wants to know if I get a long with others. I then started to answer the question with that thought in mind. Halfway through my answer I thought, "Wait, he may be wondering if I am a pushover and will say or do anything just to get along." This thought caused me to shift mid sentence into a whole different answer. At that point I realized just how diametrically opposed my two sides of one answer were and so I started trying to bridge the gap between them. At this point, I looked at my interviewers (panel of 4) and realized they were all giving me the "We are trying to look like we are with you but what in the absolute hell are you talking about?" look. All of this put together caused my mind to say "ABORT, ABORT" and I finished my answer with the phrase, "Well I certainly wouldn't stick a fork in someone's eye if I didn't have to." I did, I really said it. It actually was in the interview for the job I currently have and so apparently it went well other than this portion I just described. In fact, that answer has become sort of a joke between me and the people who interviewed me. But it does illustrate my point. For that matter so does this paragraph. Look how long this post is and I haven't even started writing about what I intended to write about. Suffice it to say, read on at your own risk. I wash my hands of any responsibility for what might be said.

Shannon and I were having a conversation the other night and she asked me the ultimate loaded question. "Do men really find supermodels with stick thin bodies that look like little boys attractive or do they prefer curves?" What do you say to that? I wanted my answer to reflect that what I was saying truly is real and that I wasn't giving an answer designed to make her feel good but might not be the truth. So I started carefully down the path that I had selected. I said, "Sweetheart, have you ever noticed that men's magazines rarely have stick thin supermodels on the front?" As soon as I said it, my mind said immediately, "It's true, Fantasy Football must truly lower your IQ by at least 100 points. Why would you possibly walk into the minefield you just did by your own choice?" I had breached an untalked about area that is left untalked about by both sides for obvious reasons. Both Shannon and I are aware that men's magazines exist. However, I choose to pretend they don't exist. Shannon pretends to believe that I don't know they exist and we live very happy lives. So by making my comment, I had now blown a deep breath towards our fantasy house of cards where men's magazines all deal with the latest trout fishing debates and gardening tips for the florally challenged. I waited with baited breath to see what laser guided missle was now going to head my way. I can report that my wife is awesome, she handled it by saying, "....I guess you are right." End of discussion. I think I then mentioned something about what she wanted for her birthday or something like that and was ever so glad to be moving on to a topic non-men magazine related. (#1. I should flush this whole paragraph. I warned you.) (#2. On the off chance someone is reading this and believing it to be 100% gospel, some aspects have been enhanced er...exagerated for humorous effect. If you aren't laughing, the effect has clearly fallen flat.)

I have left the above paragraph in to give you the background as to why I would be thinking about supermodels, or rather the word supermodel. (I know as Shannon is reading this, she is shaking her head with her eyes closed. All I can say is that she was there when I shouted out the word Penis (accidently, maybe a different post at a different time) in front of everyone waiting in line to get into the Thatcher-Pima football game. She had to know moments like this were going to happen.) What I came away with is the word supermodel is totally misused. I would like to describe for you what a supermodel I know has done in just the last week. Here goes:

1. Cleaned poop out of a three year old's underwear not once, but twice.

2. Endured a dog bite that brought blood while playing with "the kid's" dog because he doesn't get enough play time from the kids.

3. Gets up every morning between 3 and 4 to nurse a baby that has decided she doesn't want the mantra of best baby ever and yet still gets two kids out the door by 7:30 every morning.

4. Took a sick three year old to the doctor with a screaming baby and then had to carry said three year old across the lobby of the doctor's office while he is throwing up and the baby continues to scream.

5. Sowed buttons on my shirts because I am too undomesticated to do it myself.

6. Learned how to use a sowing machine.

7. Interrupted her morning routine to take my mom to her chemotherapy appointment.

8. Exercises every morning.

9. Does everything short of placing tasers on the chests of our children to get them through homework, chores and baths everyday. (Those with children will recognize the absense of malice with the taser comment if you have ever had to try and get all of that done with a 9, 6 and 3 year old.)

Finally, she has done all of this and only asked once for me to pick up pizza for dinner.

As my supermodel turns 33 this Sunday. I want the world to know (the 5 or 6 people who read this blog will have to suffice) that I am the most blessed man on the face of the earth. My wife rocks and she has more super in her little finger than any other supermodel has in her entire body (at least the body portions that are real.) I love you Sweetheart. Happy Birthday!