Hell is Other People in the Park Slope Post Office

Not even the Tea Lounge at sing-along hour on Wednesdays can hold a candle to the horrible experience that is the Post Office on 7th Avenue.

Unlike most of you who have to occasionally schlep on over to pick up Grandma’s care package that never showed up (package slip MY ASS), I spend way too many hours at the Post Office because I do the Etsy thing. This particular location is quite possibly the most diminutive post office I have ever seen and is appropriately short-staffed ALL THE FUCKING TIME. The line can be out the door, the stamp machine broken more often than not, and two windows open is always wishful thinking. Customer service? Forget it.

But I guess if I had to be a postal worker here, I’d hate everyone and dole out blank stares too (i.e. you will probably find yourself behind someone with eight packages or the inevitable dimwit whose little baby hand has to be held while filling out the International green slip). Mostly, I describe the experience there as one akin to jamming pencils into my eyes as trolls gnaw at my hands and a tape of screechy subway sounds plays on a loop in the background.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this statement there: “this is THE WORST post office in the city.” No wait, yes I can—e-v-e-r-y s-i-n-g-l-e visit. Of course, the same person who says this will invariably be a Park Slope mom and will ask in a raised voice to speak to “whomever is in charge” in order to report the postal suckage in full detail. Only after first being disparaging to the sole worker present and asking for tape AND a pen. It can turn into a real shit show at this point, because someone in line will point out that you can’t really be a post office complainer if you forget fucking tape and make us all wait even longer on account of your retarded-ness.

What are your near-death experiences here?