I've complained about my milkman before. My usual milkman, that is. He's a hulking whiny bitch in short pants. He has the stench of frustrated failure about him; his figure suggests he played football or wrestled or something sometime in the past and wallows in the memories of glories long past.

He's supposed to pick up the empties, put the new order in the cooler and leave. But he always has some complaint. I put out too many bottles...I didn't put out any bottles...I forgot to put the cooler in the usual place... on and on. It's not that he just happens to mention things, or reminds me to rinse out the bottles or whatever, it's that he takes this wounded tone of personal affront that makes me want to slap the shit out of him. If he REALLY wants something to complain about, I'll give it to him!

Needless to say, I cringe when the doorbell rings on Milk Delivery Day.

So, when I saw the milk truck pull up to my house today, my lip curled into an automatic sneer. My eyes narrowed and I prepared to tell His Highness exactly where he could shove his milk bottle.

But... lo and behold, a different milk man stepped down out of the truck.

A young milk man.

A handsome milk man.

In a crisp, white uniform.

And a pleasant disposition.

I can't wait until next Wednesday.