Good morning to the eight people reading my blog! Now that I’m a blog administrator, it’s sick how many statistics I have access to. I feel compelled to write if only to see charts & graphs go up and down. It’s wild.

Soooo, this is a real-life, only-in-New-York, possibly only-to-me kinda story. I didn’t even process it until the day after, it was so bizarre.

The details: Although I’ve given up caffeine in general, I get decaf occasionally, especially around the holidays. You show me someone who can resist pumpkin, gingerbread, cinnamon AND peppermint mocha? And I will call that person a liar on their Facebook page, logged in as you.

Back to Dunkin Donuts, the only chain where something like this could go down. I walked in to the 14th Street location, and there’s a Spanish family and a large black man standing around a table. I asked quickly if they were on line and no one responded, so I walked on to the register and was greeted almost immediately by the cashier. Just as immediately, the hulking man was almost on top of me, making huge hand motions, some around his face, where he attempted a growling noise. The cashier and female customer behind me were silent, watching this strange bit of theater play out. Just before he left he sent me an unmistakable “Eff you” with one fist in the crook of his other arm, and rushed out.

Me: “I guess I rubbed him the wrong way…” Customer: “I think he was saying you gave him a mean face?” Me: “Are you SERIOUS?”

We’re interrupted as Mr. Sensitive blusters back in, raging out on me some more. I don’t know ASL, so he’s just working himself up without a real audience as I pay for my coffee. I *am* a New Yorker, so while my actions are relaxed, I’ve got one eye on how close he is to my personal space. If he takes one more step toward me he’s getting a medium decaf pumpkin straight to the face. He marches out again, and the young cashier is freaking out, stammering out the price of my drink. “I think we’re fine,” I said. “We’ve seen the last of–”

DUDE! He comes BACK, this time shushing me with a finger to his mouth (note: I have not said a word since I first walked in), and then tries to find a rapport with the woman behind me. I have time to really assess him: he’s easily 6 feet or taller, and heavyset. His clothes are worn and creased with dirt; he might be transient. I’m done with my order, but can’t in good faith leave as I take in the woman behind me trying to soothe him with “Mhmm”s and “I see”s. He finally seems vindicated and storms out for the last time. The three of us share a moment of WTFs, then wish each other blessed days, etc. I make my way out. I look both ways, sipping my coffee slowly in case I have to use it as a weapon. But that’s it; deaf guy is gone, swallowed up in the city landscape.

I’m not sure what to take away from this. I’ve been catcalled on the streets to “smile, babygirl!” for years. As friends can attest, I have only one smile, and it’s megawatt. It’s a crazed kind of Julia Roberts smile that’s definitely inappropriate for everyday life. I’ve tried facial exercises, smiling before I walk out the door to make my face appear more “open” (I’ve done my research); the days I do this I get even more hollers of “Why you so mad, girl?” Guess what? I wasn’t mad till you said that, jerk.

So, as I dive into my 39th year, I’ve decided to come to terms with it: I have b*tchface. I’m not the only one. Jennifer Lopez has it bigtime. She looks like she’s always smelling something awful. But she’s probably pissed someone forgot to put lilies in her toilet. My facial expression, though, is usually tied to my ceaseless train of thought: how long can I get away with paying rent late, I really miss my grandmother, Fringe is on tonight, what carbs can I trim from my meals today, can I afford to hang with friends this weekend, why am I always missing my bus, am I 100% sure I don’t want children, ugh I need a pedicure, why can’t I get to church more often, am I getting another f*cking cold, I need to do laundry ASAP, what can I do for my mom this week, why are prescriptions so expensive, I need to lose 100 pounds, wow there’s a sale on those cookies I looove….

So check this out, all you huge, aggressive, possibly homeless deaf men. I’m not changing myself for you. I may learn ASL, but only because I think it would be cool to know. You can step to me as much as you’d like, but just remember: the winters are getting longer here, and I will probably be armed with hot liquids. Don’t say you weren’t warned.