Today was nice. The roach guy came, finally, and we had to get out of the house for a while. Em and I went to the dog park and then out to lunch at Fred 62 with Tiki in tow. The waiter brought her a bowl filled with ice water and I handfed her little nibbles of bacon and hamburger patty and people walked by and gave her compliments. She's so well behaved about it and I love taking her to cafes and coffeehouses that cater to dogs.
So the exciting thing was that Noah Wylie (ER, hotness! melty! librarian movie!) was sitting inside. So naturally I was all blase about it and didn't eyeball him too hard when I walked by or smile or even acknowledge that I recognized him. Inside, it sounded a little like this:
I might have even jumped up and down in the bathroom a little and hugged myself. But I'll never tell and you never would have known it from my cool, calm, collected exterior.
I didn't stop or anything because you just don't poke at people having lunch. It's rude. A guy orders a cheese sandwich and you know, he wants to enjoy his sandwich in peace and quiet. Or at least as much peace and quiet as one can get in a bumpin' LA scenester cafe. No no. In LA, one must chill out, employ strategy and not act like a babbling fangirl in restaurants. My strategy was that I was seriously hoping that he would walk past our table on the way out, because there is NO WAY that anyone walking by could resist the power of cute that is Tiki.
And then, I'd have had a REASON to talk to him. About my dog. Which is better than nothing. However, so sad, he walked down the other street and therefore there was no cute ray employed and he did not stop and I did not get to talk to him and btw, Noah, I love you.
My only solace lies in that I did not act like a drooling freak. No, I just came home and wrote about it on the internet. Because, you know, nothing freaky about that.