eye qandy

“Even when I’m a mess, still put on a vest with an “S” on my chest. Oh yes, I’m a superwoman.” – Alicia Keys

Yesterday was the worst Monday I’ve had in a while my darlings. A lot of incompetence. A lot of confusion. A lot of unnecessary work that could have been avoided if things were done correctly in the first place. Freelance projects to tie up, PR reps to call, pieces to write etc, etc. I had to get water. I needed water. For some reason water soothes me. Makes me feel as if I’m cleansing myself. Washing away the evil of the day that has contaminated me.

The toxicity level was so high that I almost forgot I was leaving for Paris this weekend ( !!) As I walked from the watercooler in the kitchen of my office, asking Allah to shed some happiness on this scab of a day something happened that I wouldn’t believe if it hadn’t happened to me.

Glass doors separate the offices from the elevator corridor in my office building and I almost had my face smashed against them. My mouth hung open as if my bottom lip were numb and it took me about two whole minutes to snap out of the “Nuh-unh, that can’t be” daze I was in. There in a light-hearted discussion with two other men in suits stood Mr. Underwood. Blair Underwood to be exact. Blair “has never aged a day in his damn life and must have preserved his sexy in some type of formaldehyde” Underwood to be more descriptive. He stutter glanced at me (a move I’ve seen him do in almost all his movies and was all-too-GIDDY to find was actually a natural motion for him). Then he threw me that classic side smile and my knees almost gave out. LOLOLOL. I opened the glass door slowly and he continued to glance at me throughout his conversation, until finally… “Hi.” I couldn’t reply. His baritone was AMAZING. He waved–more so to bring me back to Earth than to reiterate his hello.

“Oh! Hi!,” I half-laughed/half yelled. I was borderline down-syndrome at this point. He chuckled that chuckle that gives away when someone is used to being flattered. I manage, “If I run and get my camera may I have a picture with you?” If you’ve ever seen the movie Anchorman, I sounded like Will Ferrell the first time he invited his lady-love to lunch (YOU CAN USE MY OFFICE AND THEN MAYBE WE CAN GO TO LUNCH!). “But of course,” he replied smoothly. I was back in two seconds flat, camera in hand, Full-Retard. As I gave the camera to his associate, Mr. Underwood leaned in close for the picture and half-whispered, “What’s your name love?” I don’t remember if I answered him. Actually, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I managed a sound close to the kind you make when you choke on a small piece of food. The first picture was taken. Mr. Underwood wasn’t satisfied. “C’mon man you can do better than that. Give her a nice picture.” Lord, he smelled good. I was saying all types of prayers for forgiveness at this point. C’mon Allah, you KNOW you ain’t right! Why make them like this and then NOT want me to notice! Dang! The second picture was taken. “Thank You!,” I gushed. “Any time sweetie. Thank YOU.”

I almost walked into the glass door. I panicked. I hadn’t brought my card key to get back in. He stood there watching me struggle with the door. I laughed nervously and turned away, heart pounding and utterly confused at the power God had given this man to drive women crazy… Well, specifically me. lololol. I’ve never been that starstruck. But hey, every superwoman has her Kryptonite.

cyu