Poor Betty. Nervous Betty works at the post office in Bunn and is always overwhelmed. She’s about 60 years old, has an Oakland Raiders football helmet for hair, has glasses that she can’t keep on her nose, she’s about 4 foot eleven and I won’t comment on her sexuality but her girlfriend looks like a truck driver. She drives an old Ford Aerostar that has a plate on the front that says “Mountain Mama”.
Betty has a hard time with technology. Her main job is to help get the mail into the boxes during the week, hardly ever taking command of the front desk. But on Saturdays, she is the only one there. Granted, they are only open from 8:30 till 11am on Saturday mornings but she’s the one that has to deal with the barrage of folks who can’t do what they need to do during the week. I would be one of those people. During the week the post office is open from 8:30 till 4pm, which doesn’t work for me. I’m out the door by 8am and usually not home until almost 6.
So I’m in there this morning to get a package. Nervous Betty has a line out the door. The computer has her completely befuddled. She was keying in some money orders when she typed in the wrong numbers on one. She’s on the phone crying “I ain’t never doing no more money orders!” blah blah blah to her supervisor or whoever she was crying to.
Some dude in line ahead of me actually utters a sound, something about being in there for 10 minutes already. Betty is quick to interrupt her conversation, “I’M SORRY SIR, THINGS HAPPEN!” After about 15 or 20 minutes I decide to head back home and try again later after a short bike ride. Things had cleared up by then and I didn’t want to ask about how the problem was resolved. Poor Betty, Mountain Mama.