I'm not referring to me adoring my mother. (Although she is a fabulous woman and certainly worthy of adoration. It's just not her turn at this moment.)
We were sitting in the audience awaiting the start of one of the shows at the Bigfork Summer Playhouse. The night's offering was Chicago. Before each performance, one of the actors gave the spiel on turning off cell phones, no photography, blah blah blah. The announcer also welcomed any "special guests" in the audience for the show.
That night he said, "Let me tell you about one of our actors. He cooks. He spends his spare time in the gym. He plays guitar. He speaks fluent French. On top of all that, he looks like Jude Law. He is the Perfect Man!"
As the audience laughed, the announcer shook his head and said, "No, no, it's not me. It is *insert The Boy's name here* and his family is here with us in the audience tonight!"
Folks, you heard it here first: we've raised the Perfect Man. For some reason, his reputation for keeping his room so messy that merely opening the door causes clothes to spill into the hallway doesn't disqualify him from holding that title. Go figure.