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.

LISTEN: Signs you are complete and utter 'basic bitch'.

While I wouldn't describe her as the overly friendly type in general, I have seen her build rapport with other customers.

She smiles, she says hello. She even changes her Spotify playlist so they can hear her newest favourite song.

But with me? I hardly get eye contact, let alone a hello.

It's not as if she has no idea who I am. I'm in there every day and as soon as I walk through the door she's already started on my order.

She even remembers that three weeks ago I went from wanting full cream milk in my coffee to drinking only soy.

One day I decided that perhaps her reluctance to be my 'barista bestie' was because I was an inconsistent tipper. So I upped my tipping game, adding an extra dollar to almost every order I made.

One time I even held my hand awkwardly over the tip jar for approximately 53 seconds until she turned around and could physically see my monetary appreciation for her skills.

But things did not improve. The only consequence of my actions was having less money in my wallet when I got to the end of my week.

So I started smiling more. I cheerfully said "Good morning!" and asked her how her day was going.

What did I get in response? Radio silence.

I figure at this point, I have very few options left.

I could find a new cafe, with a barista who showers love, praise and affection on me.

I could start to care less about what people think of me and focus on the world's real problems (because I'm totally aware that this is a hugely First-World problem).

I could realise that maybe she's already filled her quota of customers she is over-friendly with and I haven't made the cut.

Or I could just keep trying. I refuse to let this woman - who arguably makes the best coffee in my neighbourhood - defeat me and my near-perfect barista friend record.

I will win her over. I will up my coffee intake if I have to. Just you wait.

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