New York is making me weirder. Seriously. All joking aside. (And I think we're all aware that I am a weird-ass person to begin with.) (But really, it's just because I'm interesting. Not weird. Just interesting.) I think this new and unimproved level of weirdo is because I am surrounded by legitimately crazy people here, and this lulls me into a false sense of security. That is, I feel secure that my recently developed oddities aren't anything to worry about, since I'm not dancing suggestively--without the aid of musical accompaniment--to my own reflection in the subway car or applying Shade Of Whore lipstick WELL above my natural lipline--we're talking a full half-inch here--just to pick up some shampoo from the Duane Reade. (Both of those are real, actual instances that I have witnessed. Oh, yes. The crazies are out and about on the Upper East Side, my friends.) (My bloggers? My bloggees? My peeps-who-have-mistakenly-stumbled-upon-this-blog-and-have-now-decided-to-immediately-navigate-away-from-this-page?)
But yeah. New York City + Being A Waitress = Crazy Rachel. Today, at work, this very pretty girl and highly handsome man walked into the restaurant and requested one of our small booths in the back corner. Two seconds after I'd sat them, Fio leaned across the bar and whispered into my ear, "That is one VERY attractive couple. I'll...take their babies."
Now, this in itself is a creepy statement. Very creepy. Instead of being appalled, however, like any other normal person, I immediately and heartily concurred. Fio and I then proceeded to refer to this couple (out of earshot, of course) as Beautiful Couple and alert all people sitting at the bar of their hotness, even going so far as to persuade them to take an unnecessary trip to the bathroom to check out Beautiful Couple for themselves. Make believers out of them, you see. Encourage them to imagine their nonexistent Beautiful Children. Tell them to go back and take a second look when they returned even the least bit skeptical.
Do you see this? This is weird. Way weirder than I've ever been. And I didn't even stop to consider how weird this is until I got home today and reviewed the weirdo stuff I'd said and done in the grocery on the way home from work.
This is where the shit really gets weird. For real. Tonight, in the grocery, I happened to pass the aisle of chocolate bars. Naturally, this warranted immediate perusal. Chocolate is not a purchase to be taken lightly. My eyes alighted upon a large Toblerone bar and stopped there. I wasn't hungry enough for an entire Toblerone, but I grabbed it anyway, sure that I could find some way to force it all down. After tossing it into my grocery basket, I saw that there were also smaller, cuter versions of the Toblerone--maybe a third of the large-sized one. This was the perfectly-sized chocolatey snack I was searching for! Aloud, and without forethought, I squealed loudly and said in that ridiculous voice people use only when talking to babies and dogs: "Ooooooooh! BABY Toblerone!"
Really, Rachel? You're using the baby voice to talk to chocolate bars? Aloud? In a grocery store? In full view of other people? What's happening to you?
I then saw a chocolate bar wrapper that promised peanut butter nougat. Of course, this was something that required my full attention, so I eagerly plucked it from the display. Unfortunately, I almost immediately saw that this was actually a peanut-butter-and-jelly chocolate bar. (Now, for those of you who know me well, you will remember that I am not a fan of the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Sandwiches of peanut butter and jelly are easily the most delicious thing in the world, but when these two heavenly substances are adulterated and disgustingly smushed together between two slices of bread, I vomit involuntarily a little bit inside my mouth. I like to eat my slice of bread with peanut butter thickly spread upon it, and then I like to follow this up with a jelly-encumbered slice of bread. Delish. Smacking my lips as I type this, I am.) The idea of this chocolate bar, then, was utterly revolting to me. I threw down the chocolate bar and began actually backing away from the chocolate bar display, muttering "Nhh-mm. Nhh-mm." over and over again. Aloud. In full hearing of the other grocery store patrons.
Now, come on. Was the candy bar going to jump out of my hand, unwrap itself, and cram its little disgusting chocolatey-peanut-buttery-and-jellied body into my mouth? Did I really need to alert the entire grocery of my hatred for the combination of the tastes of peanut butter and jelly? Did I actually have to toss the candy bar away from my person and quickly back away, shaking my head back and forth and mumbling like a lunatic?
I. Am. Going. Crazy. And I blame you, New York. I blame you entirely.
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