---

 

ADAM MILOSZ WILL NOT BE BLACKMAILED!

I started this blog for the same reason most people start their own blogs—as a way to keep in touch with my, how do you say, “friends and loved ones.”

My life is so busy, I rarely have time to talk to anyone.

If my mother calls from Warsaw to ask what we’re up to, how the kids are doing, I say to her, “Dear sweet woman, read my damn blog. What do you think it’s there for?”

But then something I write, how do you say, “strikes a chord” with a brother or second uncle; someone forwards one of my posts; etc., etc., you know the story—and pretty soon it’s this “going viral” thing everyone talks about (ja, ja, ja).

Next day I have ten billion readers, how do you say, “hits.”

And I think, where did the extra three billion come from? Are they even human? Because I thought the Earth only had like around seven billion. 

And the thing is, they’re not all human. Some of them are actually monsters in disguise—hideous, slimy creatures PRETENDING TO BE HUMAN, and all they want is to tear you down.

Dragging my, how do you say, “skeletons from the closet” for the whole damn world to see.

What I’m trying to say is, yes, if you read it somewhere else on the World Wide Internet, it is all true. I was young, beautiful, very flexible, and I needed the work.  What I’m trying to say is, I did some modeling for Playgirl.

All right? I admit it.

So now, all you, how do you say, “bloodsucking leeches,” have fun with your rumors. BECAUSE THEY ARE NO LONGER RUMORS AND NOBODY CARES.

Thank you in advance to all of my true fans who are standing by me during this, how do you say, “witch hunt.” A big thanks, too, to Speedo and Nordstrom for not pulling my ads. They, like me, WILL NOT BE INTIMIDATED by loser underwear models jealous of my blogging success.

Thank you again to everyone supporting me, and to my wife and children, to my grandmother in Krakow, to Andrzej and Antoniusz in Bochnia.  

Here is a photo from my most recent Speedo project:

I’m the swimmer in the far right lane. Gasping for air, okay, I admit it. Get your own asses in the pool if you think you can do better (JA JA JA; don’t worry, I love you guys)!

This was a very challenging shoot for me (but extremely rewarding, financially as well as psychologically), because Speedo had never asked me to model while doing the breaststroke before. But I said, how do you say, let’s do this thing, and we did.

Even Michael Jordan Had to Retire . . .

Every morning I wake up, look in the mirror, and ask myself, “Am I or am I not Earth’s Hottest Man? Because the public is counting on me to be honest.” 

To tell you the truth, I’m not so sure anymore. Because regardless of how good looking I am in the underwear modeling I do for Nordstrom, and regardless of how even more good looking I am in person—in the flesh, right before your very eyes—it’s basically impossible to have kids and continue being so damn hot.

Because every five minutes I got to change somebody’s diaper or wipe some kid’s butt, and stuff like that really detracts.

I swear every time I try for a little alone time with my wife (unless it’s like three o’clock in the morning, and even then there’s no guarantee), someone is yelling at me from the bathroom, “Dad, I’m done!”


Hottest Man in the World, Unbelievably Successful Nordstrom Underwear Model, Father of Small Children—I may be spreading myself too thin. 

And that could mean the end of this blog. Because I refuse to mislead my 1.4 readers a month, a portion of which lives in Russia, according to Google, however that works (a leg maybe, or a hand).

What I’m trying to say is, I refuse to misrepresent the truth, which has always been my commitment to mankind, even in front of the canvas when the photographers are oiling me down and trying to slip raw chicken breasts down my briefs to make my cheeks look more voluptuous than they actually are (an old underwear model’s trick I refuse to employ).

So I feel that I’m at a crossroads: what’s best for my children and what’s best, again, for my 1.4 reader each month, who must be totally weird looking, if he’s not  scattered across the globe—with his extra leg or a couple of extra arms sticking out of his back.

All 1.4 of him, who probably reads this blog as a sort of escape from his own tragic hideousness.

Listen 1.4: don’t fantasize about being me till you’ve posed for a photo-shoot in my speedo. I don’t have four arms, but sometimes when I’m changing one of my kid’s blowouts I wish that I did. 

 Honey, can you bring me the wipes!?

Is This an Apology?--You Tell Me

So I got a, how do you say, “barrage” of emails yesterday claiming that my most recent post was bitter and sarcastic, that I’m simply jealous of people who wake up early, train for marathons, drive nice cars, participate in community fundraisers, and sign their kids up for lots of different sports and fancy art classes. And that I’m just putting everybody on when I talk about being able to afford and do all those really neat things myself.

Or that if everything I say is true, then I’m some kind of insensitive jerk for rubbing it in everyone’s face.   

And that either way I should issue some sort of apology because if I’m not being mean to rich people, then I must be being mean to, how do you say, “downtrodden” people. 

First of all, read my damn bio. English isn’t my first language. Not even my second. It’s my third. So if you people out there (the truly bitter ones, in my opinion) think that I have the ability to be both sarcastic and bitter in my third language, well, you’re giving me waaaaaaa-aaaaaay more credit than I deserve.

Second, if you don’t want to get little glimpses of my life (the bit about the SUVs, for example, twin Escalades, if you’re wondering) then don’t read my damn blog in the first place! I mean, that’s why people read these kinds of things at, say, two in the morning WHEN THEY’RE BORED—how do you say—“STIFF” with their own lives!

Third, as an immigrant to the United States, I have an immigrant’s work ethic. As I made a point of sharing in my last post, I get up every morning at 2:00 AM. I’ve worked my ass off the last ten years as an underwear model for Nordstrom. If I want to sign my son or daughter up for forty-eight soccer leagues, I’ll do it, and I’ll sign her up for a forty-ninth league just because I can, and in honor of the forty-nine thousand, probably million, children in Poland WHO DON’T GET TO SIGN UP FOR EVEN A SINGLE SOCCER LEAGUE, not even if it cost like two dollars. 

And fourth, anyone who says that an underwear model for Nordstrom can’t afford an SUV (let alone two, as we have (plus a motorcycle)), or that an underwear model for Nordstrom can’t afford all of the talent developing activities that I and my wife sign our kids up for—whoever says that has never been an underwear model for Nordstrom! and has ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA how much money underwear models for Nordstrom make. AND THEY’VE PROBABLY NEVER HAD KIDS WITH ANY TALENTS EITHER!

Look, if I’m a little insensitive to people who are, how do you say, “down on their luck,” well, forgive me for that. But just so you know, models for Nordstrom are the most over-the-top, insensitive jerks out there. I’d say “bastards” if I wasn’t one myself. To be honest (SORRY IF BEING HONEST MAKES ME LOOK BETTER THAN OTHER PEOPLE) I’m some kind of philanthropist compared to the majority of them.

How do you say, “seriously.”

In conclusion—

Okay, my how do you say, "irate readers": you got me. Sorry for being a little insensitive, at times, to people driving around in their 1992 Ford Tauruses, or their parents’ 1986 Honda Accords. And sorry for being proud of my, how do you say, “damn kids” and for being eager to provide them with things my shoe-sole repairman father in Warsaw was never able to provide me with.

And sorry for being like a really fascinating and charitable guy in comparison to THE AVERAGE OR EVEN ABOVE AVERAGE HUMAN BEING.   

But I’m not going to issue an apology for living a more active lifestyle than everyone else, for getting up early and basically, how do you say, "seizing life by the-you-know-whats; with my barehands even."

 Or maybe I will—SORRY IF YOU CAN’T HANDLE IT!

Wake Up

Before I married my wife I’d say my schedule was pretty normal, compared with the rest of humanity. Like most people, I got up at 5:00 AM, ran seven or eight miles, cooled down with a little yoga and got ready for work. I wasn’t training for a triathlon, but I was doing a lot of photo shoots for Speedo, so staying fit was important to me.

But I wasn’t living what I’d call “an active lifestyle”; I wouldn’t say I “loved” the outdoors or fitness or being active. I hadn’t run a single marathon. Not one. 

Good grief, I didn’t even know what Pilates was! (Let alone how to pronounce it!)! 

Say it with me: L-O-S-E-R. I’ll be the first to admit it. 

But then my life changed. In the grocery store. I saw this woman (my future wife) reaching for something in the frozen foods (found out later it was a tofu burger). She had these cute little pants on (what I later learned were lululemon pants), and I said to myself—

Well, first I said to myself, “I want to start modeling those pants!” (The men’s version, I mean.) And then I thought, “No. She’s the one who needs to start modeling them.” 

So basically it was love at first sight. She in her lululemon pants, me in my spandex stationary bike pants—I’d just come from a spin class, still footing my special bike shoes that clicked on the floor as I walked towards her.

The rest is history, which gives me an opportunity to jump to the real reason for blogging today. I want to tell everyone what time I get up at every morning.

My wife and I get up at 2:00 AM. Does that sound early? Maybe for some lazy ass people it does. But my wife and I live a very active lifestyle—physically, intellectually, spiritually, sexua— 

First we read for an hour. I like fiction and poetry, she likes historical biographies—presidents of the United States, world leaders, famous philanthropists, ancient explorers, Jesuit missionaries. Then we run together for an hour—ten miles/six-minute pace (unless she’s feeling competitive, then a little faster) from three until four o’clock; but always with a purpose, this running, always with a triathlon to look forward to.

5:00-6:00: Pilates (Mon/Wed/Fri) and Yoga (Tues/Thur/Sat).

From six until seven my wife bakes bread, which she drops off at a couple of different shelters later in the day. Me, I’m usually taking care of a little bit of self-grooming (if I’ve got a photo shoot, that is) waxing, moisturizing, those sorts of things—trying to get them done before the kids get up at seven, because then all hell breaks loose and there’s no chance for it then.

I could go on, but the rest of the day really isn’t that interesting, not when the activities aren’t all hinging on the fact that I got up at 2:00 AM to begin them. Don’t get me wrong, we’re both busy as hell, doing what we can and must to make time for swimming and weightlifting, our involvement at community events and fundraisers, not to mention the little league baseball, soccer, basketball, ballet, and music lessons that all four of our children are involved in. 

Like I say, busy-busy. Not long ago we decided we had no choice but to limit our children to one super-expensive talent developing activity per day per child. Not because we felt like the activities were beginning to cost too much (they weren’t; and besides, anything for our children’s development, anything—a commitment my wife and I made several years ago), but because it was just humanly impossible, with only two SUVs at our disposal, to transport our four kids to twelve different practices/games/matches within the same two or three hour block. 

Friends sometimes tell me that my wife and I do a lot. “You guys do a lot,” they say. And I admit, this compliment does make me feel good. But we don’t do a lot. We just love life—that’s what I tell my friends, and that as a consequence we live active lifestyles. 

If I can inspire one person to train for a marathon, then this blog will not have been in vain. Or to wake up before seven. Or to just plain love life!

This last photo (above) was taken during my last shoot. I'm the guy in the black shirt, third to the back. 

I forgot to talk about my wife’s rock-climbing. She got me into that too! (I love you, honey!)

Earth's Hottest Man, Brownies, Her Birthday . . .

I take pictures every now and then to put on my blog so that readers can feel like they were there. But this is one event that photographs, not even digitally enhanced photographs, will do justice to. My wife’s birthday.

I made her favorite dessert: hand-stirred chocolate brownies with hand-scooped vanilla ice cream, but not just plain vanilla ice cream, vanilla bean ice cream.

Right before putting the hand-stirred brownie batter into the oven, I took hand-broken chunks of a Hershey’s milk chocolate candy bar and sprinkled the chunks on top of the batter.

The result was an aesthetically pleasing presentation that I think should be rated PG-13 For Some Sensuality, because it was very sensuous.

But if we’re talking about how I served the brownies, then I should probably add PG-13 For Some Sensuality and Brief Nudity.

And you know how it is these days; those PG-13 films are often times more suggestive than the R’s. I like to think that’s how it was last night at dessert. 

What the Finns Call, "Sisu"

Sometimes eating regurgitated food, or food smeared across my child’s face, is the only way to get rid of it. Parents know what I’m talking about: baby on my knee, a glob of grape jelly drooling out the corner of her mouth—no napkins, nothing to wipe with.

Times like that I’ve got to make a choice: the kid’s shirt, my own shirt, or my finger. Which means eating it, because I’ve already established there’s nothing to wipe it up with (why I used my finger in the first place).

It's taken me four kids to develop that kind of bravery. But brave as the World’s Sexiest Man is—and bravery is one of the chief characteristics that makes me so damn sexy—there are still some things I may never be brave enough to do. 

I’m talking about bare-fingering a wet booger off my kid's face when there's no Kleenex.

Only a few days ago I was standing in the hallway at church when my friend Brian approaches me, looks at my daughter, says something wonky in that adult baby voice, “Yes you are, yes you are!” then takes his finger and does just that--wipes a giant wet one off her nose and lip that I hadn’t seen.

Giant, like that glob of grape jelly I was talking about—similar in substance, just not the same color.

Confession: the world’s Sexiest Man will never, ever have, what the Spanish call, cojones, big enough to pull off a stunt like that. Wipe a wet booger (or even dry one, for that matter) off the face of somebody else’s kid? With a bare, ungloved finger? Hell, I wouldn’t do it in a Hazmat suit.

And then the story gets better (or maybe worse)—instead of running for the bathroom and screaming at people to get out of the way, my friend walks to the drinking fountain and attempts to wash the booger off his finger, only it’s too sticky to wash off completely, so he ends up rubbing his finger back and forth against the drain of the drinking fountain in an effort to sort of scrape it off—that little drain people have been rinsing their mouths into, spitting their loogies into, all day, all week, for who knows how many months and years.

Now that I’m writing this, I’m beginning to think that the whole episode had more to do with some kind of neurosis my friend must be struggling with than the actual size of his, what the French call, couilles.

I’m so glad I found my way to this conclusion. Another threat to the World’s Sexiest Man identified, analyzed, and dismantled. I’d been worrying about it all week, that my friend has bigger, what the Italians call, coglioni, than me, what the Macedonians call, muda. The Russians, “стальные яйца.”