TODAY IN BROOKLYN:
I headed to my corner bodega this evening to grab a Sierra Nevada for me and my boyfriend. I selected 24 ouncers and took them up to the counter to the 35 year old clerk of South American decent, who is super saucy and nice. Here is what happened:

ME: How much are these?
HE: $3.50 each.
(He takes my $10, yawning)
HE: Sorry, I'm beat.
ME: Oh my god it's so hot in here, I don't know how you do it!
HE: Oh my god, I know.

* Please note: He talks with a puerto ricanesque accent, I with a massachusetts valley girl...but we sort of phrase things the same.

HE: You got ID, right?
ME: You bet.
(I flip my wallet open)
HE: How old are you?
ME: Too old. 27.
HE: Oh my god, that's not too old, you're a baby!

*At this point we are both having a really fun time in the conversation. We are pleased to be talking to each other, for whatever reason. He turns to the thin, well dressed, and young blond white girl to my left, trying to include her in the fun.

HE: When were you born? 1989?
SHE: (terrified) Do you take credit cards?

Then he learned a very important lesson. You can joke around with the neighborhood girl with a greasy head band and no bra on, but the terrified upper-west side girl who just came down to Brooklyn to visit her friend and is hopelessly confused won't play along. Her loss.