This is a bar. You want conversation, go to a Starbucks.

I feel better.

Dom took me to get some New York style pizza last night for dinner and it helped me unwind a little. I found the ziplock full of my makeup in the back pouch of the diaper bag and managed to salvage my hairstyle with a knitted headband, so I didn't feel so trashy going out.

We laughed about the lousy day we both had and it was nice. Though Dom didn't have to save a toddler from a gigantic ant hill, he did have 4 shots of espresso for breakfast and was still reeling from it in the car after dinner. Being the java junkie that I am, just talking about it made me ask him stop at Starbucks to let me go in and get a latte.

And here's the part of my night when a barista confused me with his social ineptitude.

I think he must have interpreted my need for coffee and knitted headband-metallic purse look as someone who throws "The Hills" watch parties because he kept making assumptions about how I'm not appreciating my day enough.

First off he was one of those bubbly, service industry guys that feels particularly safe fortified behind the counter. I say this, because he wasn't even the one taking my order but still felt obligated to say,

"So one of everything on the menu right?"
"No. Not quite."
"Oh, just half then."

I smiled at his attempt, because friendliness is a rare and precious thing to me. Strangers are often stiff and uncomfortable, and it's unfortunate to not be yourself around the majority of society. My smiling demeanor usually goes unnoticed in public. If I try to coax a pleasant interaction out of someone behind a counter, 99% of the time it ends with them looking up and away while telling me a total.

The one time I go somewhere with an I had a bad day countenance, and Super Barista thinks it is his personal quest to figure me out.

"You look tired." I immediately shot back an "I am," with an implied you dumbass attached. Good thing I don't have that condition where you can't filter your thoughts from what you actually say because I was thinking, You work at a coffee shop, shouldn't the people coming in either look like zombies or completely wired?

He then proceeded to spill his guts about how it's a nice day and I should go for a walk in the park to make up for him being stuck inside, only to retract it quickly with a "What am I saying, you're probably on your way to work."

I corrected him. Kid, husband, car...coffee? I also really wanted to tell him that this afternoon's romp out in the backyard got me a handfull of antbites while rescuing my 16 month-old, so my appreciation for the outdoors may need some time to recover. I didn't.

Once discovering I was a stay-at-home mom and not fashionista locked in a cubicle all day, he seemed to quit trying to make me have a bigger love for life. Or maybe he was just trying to hit on me the whole time.

So, was he insulting me or hitting on me?

Today's subject line quote is Patrick Hanchin, "The Dead Zone" (2002) {Playing God (#2.11)}.