RETAIL MAKES MELLIPOP GO CRAZY

Ok, so I’ve done two and a half days of retail (back in the butcher smock), and already it’s seriously doing my head in. I yelled at a customer yesterday. She was elderly. She was in a motorised wheelchair. She had oxygen tubes coming out of her nose.

And yes, I yelled at her. It was all because of two lamb chops. Not one of my finer moments.

So Terminal Woman comes up to the counter with her husband, and orders eight lamb chops. Being the sprightly and efficient butcher chick that I am, I swoop down on the tray, count out eight lamb chops, throw ‘em into a plastic bag and hoist ‘em up on the scales, all in the one swift and graceful movement.

But none of this was good enough for Terminal Woman.

Terminal Woman: (affecting a rude and haughty tone) NO! I don’t want all those rough ones. Put all those rough ones back!

Mellipop: (sighs) What rough ones?

Terminal Woman: Those rough ones you picked up. I don’t want those ones.

Mellipop: (sighs and breathes deeply) Here, look. What rough ones?

(goes through the bag and pulls out each of the eight lamb chops for her to scrutinise, one by one)

Terminal Woman: Yeah, those ones are alright. NO! I don’t want those last two. They’re rough ones! Give me another two instead.

Mellipop: (sighs and places the disputed lamb chops back on the tray, picks up another two chops and places them in the bag on the scales) Ok. That comes to $10.56.

Terminal Woman: (outraged) LOOK – NO - YOU JUST PUT THE TWO SAME BLOODY CHOPS BACK IN THE BAG! I saw you!

Mellipop: (now yelling at a woman in a wheelchair) WELL LADY - IF YOU HAD BEEN WATCHING WHAT I WAS DOING YOU WOULD HAVE NOTICED THAT I DID EXACTLY WHAT YOU BLOODY ASKED ME TO DO. SEE THOSE TWO CHOPS THERE ON THE TRAY? THE ROUGH ONES? NOT IN THE BAG! OK?

At which point Terminal Husband jumped in to placate Terminal Woman (who looked well set to continue arguing the point), reassuring her that I was in fact telling her the truth, and that I was not defrauding her out of premium grade domestic lamb.

Once payment had been transacted and Terminal Woman had left the store, my self-righteous indignation subsided and I kind of felt bad. I mean, she had fucking oxygen tubes stuck up her nose for chrissake. And I yelled at her over two lamb chops. But there’s nothing that makes my blood boil more than having my integrity questioned by rude, ignorant fools.

So the Mellipop moral of the story is: Being seriously ill does not give you free reign to be a complete asshole. Even if you can’t walk and have plastic tubes stuck up your snooty nose.