Say it like you mean it

Call it a quirk. Call it a flaw. Call it a psychological anomaly positively crying out for professional attention. But I think it's hot when a girl busts my chops in a less-than-serious way.
For the women who just threw their arms in the air and took a victory lap of the living room (if, indeed, girls do take victory laps — I've never seen it happen, but I've heard the stories), telling a guy to take out the trash does not count as flirting. It's just mean. In fact, ladies, if you make a series of negative statements to most guys and the anger you're expressing is more than 30 percent genuine, you're no longer having a discussion. You're having an argument, and it either ends with you crying or us standing there quietly for 20 seconds looking like we've been slapped before saying, "whatever" and going to play some more X-box. Opinions differ about who's more mature at that point.
But that's not what I'm talking about. The other morning, I staggered into an unfamiliar coffee shop on my way to work, in spite of the fact that I was half-awake and running late. I had on my green shirt that makes me look like Leonardo DiCaprio (I wasn't the one who decided he was attractive, but I will totally ride his overrated coattails) and my hair was either cowlicked or artfully tousled, depending on your perspective. Amid a great gnashing of utensils and slamming of microwaves, the coffee girl emerged from the back room and said, "What can I get you?"
"Uhh..." I said, trying to discern the difference between a Northwest Sunrise and a Southwest Omelette. It seemed to have something to do with capers.
"We're all out of 'uhh,'" she said, smirking. "We have bagels, though."
It was early, so it took me a couple seconds to catch up. I usually don't have to be charming before 11 a.m. Slowly, my brain engaged.
"Too bad. I was looking for more of a scone," I pouted. "You'll make me one from scratch, right?"
"Absolutely," she said, fiddling with the neck of her second-hand t-shirt. "I'll tell the baker. Oh, wait, that's me. No, we won't. The baker says pick something from the menu, sweetie." She gave me a big smile and turned around and started refilling the pastry case.
It was on now. I was so money and I totally knew it. She looked back at me over her shoulder and the tension was palpable to at least one of us. I inhaled to speak again and a family of eight burst into the narrow shop, bickering about onion bagels and whether the middle daughter had actually enjoyed the lox she'd ordered last time they'd stopped by. The matriarch stomped up to the counter, her nose perhaps 18 inches from a bold-printed list of bagel varieties, and announced, "So, what kind of bagels do you have here?"
If looks could kill, it would have been the St. Valentine's Day Massacre all over again, with Matt Farley standing in for the gunman. T-shirt Girl's much more generously proportioned coworker helpfully arrived to take my order, which I took to go.
Later, on the way back from an interview, I stopped off at a cafe in an allegedly hip new district of Gardnerville for a snack. (Reporters need to stop for lots of snacks, you see, otherwise we might make it back to the office before closing and be forced to write something.) I walked up to the counter and one of the two college-age girls behind it said, "Oh my god, you guys are totally wearing the same shirt! That's so hot!"
I looked over at her associate, who was indeed wearing a handsome green shirt, although she didn't look much like Leo as far as I could tell. She made eye contact and said, "Yeah, but I think mine's cuter."
Three thoughts immediately sprang to mind:
1. Note to self: Wear this shirt more often.
2. Look away from the nice girl's enormous Hot Topic belt buckle, Farl. C'mon. You can do it. Act like you've been there before.
3. What were these college-age girls doing 35 miles from the nearest community college on a Wednesday afternoon? Maybe I wasn't playing the varsity squad here, so to speak.
What I said was, "That is a nice shirt. Did you get it new?"
Two things happened at once. The first girl started laughing and Green Shirt Girl looked terribly offended. The problem with ironic game is that people who are too stupid to understand irony take it seriously and feel bad. As I watched my chances for a color-coordinated relationship do a convincing impression of the Hindenburg, I asked the first girl, "That was pretty funny, right?"
"Yeah," she said. "I should probably be the one to help you now, though. What can I do for you?"
A thousand comebacks raced through my head. Maybe more. But all I said was, "Coffee and a brownie, please."
As the saying goes, you can't entertain all the people all the time, but you can entertain yourself all the time. Or something. I forget the exact phrasing. All I remember is that if you take yourself too seriously, someone is bound to see through you eventually.