incredibly silly fangirlishness

I'm such a ridiculous fangirl.  My co-worker just stopped by my desk to tell me that she just walked right past Eric Ripert on M Street.  Well, she's about 99% sure.  I mean, he's him.  And she heard him speak in his sexy as hell voice in French on his mobile.  And it makes sense, sort of, because Westend Bistro is just a handful of blocks east of us.  Enough evidence for me.  I totally just squealed like a teenager and clapped my hands...and then berated her for not: a) screaming for the man to stop so she could snap his picture and b) calling me so I could run up the street and glimpse him for myself.

At the same time, my co-worker mentioned that Owen Wilson had been at Poste this past weekend...and of course I didn't care.  Paul Rudd was in Adams Morgan last week, and as much as my Clueless (and, okay, a bunch of other awesome turns in movies since) love runneth over, it compares not to my love of hottie cheflebrities of a certain sort.  I mean, look at him:

Eric Ripert a' smoldering