Mother loved the post office. It never mattered where she lived, she always spent lots of time at her nearby post office. Between sending packages filled with crap no one wanted, all her letters to pen pals, orders to catalogs for more crap no one wanted and mailing money to scams, shams and shameful “charities”, she dominated the local post office.
When my sister and I visited her in Indiana, she always wanted to stop at the post office. Our first mistake would be to ask why. She would go postal (pun intended) and scream:
What business would that be of yours?
Following up we would ask if we could handle the business for her. Oh, what were we thinking? Of course, we wanted to hurry up the process. But we also were hoping to prevent her falling.
How dare you two treat me as an imbecile or the village idiot! I am just as capable as the two of you and do not wish to be treated like an invalid!
On and on the berating went until we ushered her into the post office.
Once inside the post office, her behavior changed immediately. She was as sweet as pie to the individual behind the counter. Can you say personality disorder?
Concluding her business, Mother would return to the car acting as if nothing had happened to dampen our spirits. My sister and I knew the meaning of “going postal” long before it became a part of our everyday vocabulary.
Lesson learned: If your new best friend wears a postal uniform, works at a federal post office and knows you by name, you need to get a life!