In which I do not violate James McAvoy, no matter what they say

It has happened in the course of my job that I have been subject to some teasing, some good natured ribbing, if you will. Since I work with all men, I viewed getting teased as my mark of being accepted as one of the boys--which is a big deal--and anyone who knows me knows I can trade the lewdest of remarks with the best of them.

One particular line of ribbing involves a certain Mr. James McAvoy. Perhaps you might have heard of him? Scottish hottie taking Holllywood by storm, first in The Last King of Scotland, then in Atonement and most recently in Wanted.

It just so happens that Mr. McAvoy is really, really nice. And cute. And smart. And funny. All things I noticed with shock the first time I met him at the junket for Starter for 10, this sweet, smart English little indie romantic comedy. The shock can be attributed mostly to the fact that I didn't realize he was Scottish (you'd think having been in The Last King of Scotland would have given that away, but I hadn't yet seen it at that point). But you show me someone who isn't sucked in by a Scottish accent and I'll show you a person with no heart. Or ears.

So, let's just say that when he sat down and started talking at the Starter for 10 roundtable he got my attention. And perhaps, just perhaps, now, I went back to the office and told the boys with whom I worked about how cute he was. And, you know, maybe I then made matters worse for myself by propogating the myth that I lusted for him by periodically inserting James McAvoy jokes into articles, when really we all know that I have eyes for no one but my very sweet, very smart, very handsome, very doting husband. And no matter how cute anyone else is, I think for two seconds about what they would really be like and I know that no one could ever be as good to me as my husband is. Literally, no one else measures up. But I digress.

Anyhow, a few months went by and we got the invite to the Atonement junket. I was on the Oscar beat last fall, which meant that I basically got to see every Oscar movie out there, and this is a hard core frontrunner. My boss suggested that I request a 1:1 with James McAvoy since I loved him so much. Ha ha ha. So, I do (let's be real -- they're not giving me Keira Knightley), and it comes through.

I go to the 1:1. James is nice as pie, as I expected from meeting him before. Absolutely lovely guy, is very bothered that I won't let him make me a cup of tea, completely humble (really either no idea that everyone who meets him lusts for him or just doesn't buy it), gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek when I leave. His head is really screwed on straight. He feels really fortunate, is very passionate about the part in Atonement, etc.

So, I get back to the office and go to transcribe the tape of the interview, which would be fine except I discover that there IS no tape of the interview. I click forward, I click back. Nada. It appears as though when I attempted to press 'Record,' I somehow failed and instead interviewed him for 15 minutes without recording it. Awesome. I now realize not only have I lost an irretrievable interview, but I am going to have to admit this to my boss, who, although he won't care, will promptly enjoy giving me the mountain of shit I deserve about it. Which he does.

Let's just say that he enjoys claiming that it's not that I didn't press record, so much as that there was nothing to record due to the various, sordid and increasingly outlandish sexual acts I must obviously have been performing upon Mr. McAvoy during our 'interview.' Of course, we know this isn't true, as I'm nowhere near stupid enough to do anything to jeopardize the amazing husband I've succeeded in landing. But the boys do have a point -- it would make me quite the popular interviewer if it were true.