There are approximately three things I would say I have above-average life skills in.
The first is getting annoyed at people for mixing bed sheets with clothes in the washer and dryer (and by ‘people’, I mean ‘my husband’).
The second is making friends with almost every dog I see, even if the pup’s owner is clearly uncomfortable with me slyly attempting to steal their beloved pet from right under their nose.
The third is having a unique bond with the people who
give me life make me coffee each and every day.
I don’t have to know my barista’s name, and they don’t have to know mine, but I’ve always had an uncanny knack for getting on their good side and sharing inside jokes and even scoring myself a free cup (or three) each week.
Until I moved to New York and everything changed.
To be fair, not every barista I've met here has been difficult to win over. I claim responsibility for single-handedly teaching the coffee shop near my office that a cappuccino is not a real cappuccino unless it is covered in powdered chocolate.
(Six months in and it's still a hilarious novelty to them, so much so I have earned myself the nickname of 'chocolate girl'.)
But the woman who owns the cafe near my apartment, the woman who makes me my first coffee of every day and gives me caffeine all throughout the weekend, clearly has something against me.