Angry Milkman

One of the first waking thoughts to skitter across my dreamscape is, “Gee, I wonder how account-bound achievements and mounts will affect how I feel about play and character development?” No kidding. That is on my mind. 

So, on I go, the daily routine, and it’s Thursday: milk delivery day! Part of my devilish-details of the week was to make sure I placed an order for folks at work (bringing juice and treats helps grease the bonds quite a bit). I had two smallish, old-fashioned square milk boxes on my porch. I used to have a big cooler, but the company took it away when we had an “issue.” Now, in this ordering process, the kindly woman at the company asked if I would like a bigger box – sure! Bring back the cooler! It will be a lot easier, and though not as aestically charming as a milk-box, it would be more convenient. (Isn’t that always the way it goes? Sacrifice cuteness for pragmatism?) 
When I went to lug in that nice big cooler, what do I find? A new box, the same size as the old one, the other box gone, and it’s jammed with juice, milk, and coffee, and this note:
Now, I do not appreciate “Your Milkman”‘s tone. No sir, no sir I do not. The power of technology is on my side, and though the devilish-detail list includes, all before 7AM, a list that is borne of procrastination, ennui, apathy, and emergency, I scan this note, and attach it to an email to the kindly woman at the milk company making her aware of the situation and misunderstanding.
What is vexing me is, did this milkman think I was stupid? He made an assumption about my intelligence. Of course, no one wants their orange juice CRAMET with their 1% 1/2 gallons! Think, man, think! This is not my first time at the rodeo, sir! Why he just did not leave both boxes and check in with his supervisor, this is an unsolved mystery. No one wants mysterious milkmen. No one. Hastily, I jotted off a note in pink Sharpie ink, but decided the scanning and email to the company would serve me better. This is one stressed-out milkman, who assumes his customers are idiots. (And I even gave him a good Christmas bonus/tip. Jerk.)
There is a point to this. Somewhere. Ouch! I just sat on it. It’s this: the reminder to check myself on assumptions, because they make an ass out of you and me. Get it? The other day a good friend in game told me his young son had seen me, and I asked, a little nervous, if I was nice; my friend said I always am. This is not true. And then Bear posted about his young son playing, and how he felt the dual-pull of parenting to protect and push. 
Just a reminder to myself: those players who make me upset may be someone’s cub. Or they may be an angry milkman. I pledge to do my utmost not to upset anyone, and if there are any assumptions made, err on the side of benefit of doubt. St. Benefictus Doubtus is a kindly Roman saint–pray to him when you’re cut off in traffic or someone steals your node. And then tell them to CRAMET.

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