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Love Thy Postal Worker
Unlike my husband, I do not tender my bill payments online. Call me ancient, call me a Luddite, call me stupid; I prefer postage stamps and paper to electronic commerce. When one forgets to pay a bill on time, sending a letter (with a check enclosed) is much more personal in my book. It makes me feel like Santa Claus. This, of course, necessitates that I go to the post office on occasion. Yesterday was one of them.
It took me an hour to get the wherewithal to make the trek. This was not due to innate laziness on my part. Rather, I simply needed sixty minutes to achieve the proper Zen state to cope with the quest that laid before me: dealing with my fellow post office patrons. In the clarity of 20/20 hindsight, I assure you it was time well spent.
Ever since the powers that be saw fir to divest of the Polish speaking employee at good ol’ 66 Meserole Avenue, my postal service experiences have become much more provocative, entertaining and time-consuming. Yesterday was no exception. Upon entering I beheld:
- A line of people winding all the way back all the way to the entrance. This is not difficult to achieve given the post office is very small and only has three “teller” windows. Nonetheless…
- I am certain the lengthy queue was exacerbated by a 50-60-something Polish woman (wearing a leopard print hat, older Polish women LOVE leopard print) blathering something incomprehensible (it was English, I think) to the postal employee helping her.
- The postal employee helping her is Vietnamese and speaks with a distinct accent, thus adding to the multi-cultural hilarity. I have dealt with this postal employee before, and although I can easily understand her, I am certain someone with a very tenuous grasp of English (at best) would not. It should also be noted that this employee is hardly going to win any “Miss Congeniality” awards anytime soon. Then again, if I had a customer call me a “chink”*, I would not exactly be Miss Happypants either.
- Given points 1-3, I elected to use the postage machine. This too entailed waiting. The old codger in front of me was mystified when the machine asked him if he wished to conduct another transaction. I shit you not, he looked to the left and right of this machine. Had he been able, he probably would have looked behind it as well (to see who was inside asking him this vexatious question). It was like something straight out of Candid Camera. He finally gave up and walked off.
And that, dear readers, is when I got my turn.
Be nice to your postal workers this holiday season, my fellow Greenpointers. They might be civil servants, but they are also human beings. If you had to deal with all the bullshit these people did— day after mind-numbing day— you would not be a ball of sunshine either.
Miss Heather
*Yes, I saw/heard this with my very own eyes/ears.
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