“How
come you don’t work here anymore?”
“Because a sprained foot doesn’t
heal in two weeks. If I can’t stand on
it for one hour, I definitely can’t stand and walk and
carry heavy shit for EIGHT hours.”
I’ve been saltier than usual
lately. Must be to do with this
Franken-Foot that I’ve injured for the hundred and eighty thousandth time. It’s not even a re-injury, either; it’s a new
one. How many ways can one person fuck
up the same goddamn appendage? I
sprained the “capsule” on top of the ligament connecting my big toe to the rest
of my foot . . . while playing barefoot soccer, after attending the Real Madrid
v. Inter Milan game . . . where I may have drank several pints of beer. Allegedly.
Lesson learned: from now on, shoes must be worn during any
and all periods of questionable sobriety.
The Butcher’s Apprentice Talks with Max, during the Same Trip
“Take off your belt, your jacket, your watch, and all that jewelry.”
“Ahahahaha! Bursitis?”
“Could’ve used you two on the knife in Colorado.”
The Butcher’s Apprentice Talks with Max, during the Same Trip
“Do you have a bow?”
Do
I have a bow? “Yeah I have a recurve
longbow in my trunk as we speak. Why?”
“No; do you have a beau—a boy?”
“Oh.” Why the
fuck can’t people stop asking me this?
“Maybe. I dunno.”
“How can you not know?”
“I been seein’ this one dude for a
little while now. I wouldn’t call him my
boyfriend, but ‘beau’ might be the correct term.” Read: I have no idea how “casual dating” works. I am winging it and hoping dude doesn’t
notice. Although I really don’t care if
he does.
“Oh.
How’d you meet him?”
“. . . My ex’s old roommate used to
date him. She thought we’d get
along.” Shut up. They dated like six years ago. Need I remind you, this is St. Louis? And
I don’t care?
“Right on, what does he do?”
“Manages a bar. Writes for the local radio station. Climbs rocks.” Read: NOT a musician.
“Sounds cool.”
“He’s all right.”
The
Butcher’s Apprentice Talks with Burt, Same as Above
“So you got a new boyfriend yet?”
“No.”
Upon Opening The Butcher’s Apprentice’s Fridge, Dude Sees a Jar of Pickles, a Bag of Jerky, and a Tupperware Container of Slow-Cooked Ribs (My goddamn foot hurts, all right bitch? I haven’t been able to make it to the store.)
Upon Opening The Butcher’s Apprentice’s Fridge, Dude Sees a Jar of Pickles, a Bag of Jerky, and a Tupperware Container of Slow-Cooked Ribs (My goddamn foot hurts, all right bitch? I haven’t been able to make it to the store.)
Dude: “Is that all meat in there?”
Me:
“. . . Yes?”
Dude: “You really are just like a guy.”
Me:
Hangs head in defeat. “. . . I
know. . . .”
The
Butcher’s Apprentice gets an MRI
“Take off your belt, your jacket, your watch, and all that jewelry.”
Normally
you have to at least buy me dinner before you get to start barking orders like
that at me. “Even my belly rings?” That’s right:
plural.
“Yes.”
“What about my earrings?” I have so many holes in my head.
“What about my earrings?” I have so many holes in my head.
“Damn
girl. No . . . they should be fine. You won’t be that far inside the thing.”
“You
know I have metal in the foot you’re
scanning, right? Is that gonna be okay?” While I’m inside this GIANT MAGNET??
Incredulous
eyebrow raise. “Probably not.”
Really? If you turn that shit on and my foot explodes
with pain I am jumping out of that contraption so fast and we are not having an
MRI today.
It
felt like the two stainless steel screws I have implanted in my nevicular bone
were going to shoot out of my damn foot.
I had pins and needles up and down my entire leg, and my muscles kept
twitching. Not sure if that affected the
final product, but I made it through.
Results: ligament sprained, not torn. No surgery necessary. Discovery of minor arthritis and bursitis not
related to current injury . . . not severe enough to warrant treatment.
Seriously
. . . this old body of mine . . . it is crumbling.
The
Butcher’s Apprentice Speaks with Miss Bea, Who is Studying to be an Anesthesiologist
“Ahahahaha! Bursitis?”
“Why is this funny?”
“The bursa is the strip-club
sweatpants of anatomy.”
“What the fuck does that even
mean??”
“The purpose of the bursa is to prevent friction. Ahahahahaaaa!”
“. . . The places your mind goes . .
. I don’t even wanna know. . . .”
The
Butcher’s Apprentice Spends the Day with Her Folks
Dad:
“I need to go to the hardware store tomorrow.”
Me:
“Did you say you’re going to the hardware store? Can I go with you?”
Dad:
“Oh no, I’m gonna go tomorrow.”
Mom:
“Will you just take your daughter-son to the hardware store?” Looks at me.
“You know you’re the son he always wanted.”
I have two brothers.
Me:
“. . . Thanks? . . .”
Mom
also always used to say, “I always wanted a daughter. Instead I got you,” but not in a mean way. Just a way that let me know that I’m . . .
different.
The
Butcher’s Apprentice Looks for a Job
“You can’t be a butcher; you’re too
small.”
“Isn’t that what saws and hooks and pulleys are for?” I’m not using my bare hands here, lady. And point of fact, I have broken down an entire animal, from start to finish, from breathing and walking and mooing to bleeding and dangling and twitching.
“Isn’t that what saws and hooks and pulleys are for?” I’m not using my bare hands here, lady. And point of fact, I have broken down an entire animal, from start to finish, from breathing and walking and mooing to bleeding and dangling and twitching.
“Well, there are no woman butchers.”
“So don’t you think there should be?”
“Well, there are, but they’re all old, like me.”
“Sooo don’t you think it would be a
good idea to pass the knowledge down to the next generation? Continue the tradition?”
“It
is a dying art; and I think it’s really neat that you’re interested!”
“.
. . Could I have an application then?”
She starts to reach under the
counter, then stops herself. “Well I
don’t know what you would put on it, because you can’t put ‘butcher,’ because
you’re not in the union.”
“How about ‘apprentice’?” As in . . . free labor?
“Why don’t you give my stepson a
call; he’s the one that does all that stuff.
I’m sure he’d love to talk to you about Ag School. And he’s young!”
“What.”
“He has kids about your age!”
Sigh
. . . “What’s his number?”
The
Butcher’s Apprentice Takes a Self-Defense Class at the Community College
Instructor: “In this class, we are not competing with one
another.”
Me:
“Yeah. ‘Cause I would totally win.”
The Butcher’s Apprentice has Drinks with a Married
Couple and their Salty Friend
Wife: “Apparently there’s an old classical song
titled ‘Blurred Lines’ that’s getting tons of YouTube views because people are
looking up the pop song.”
Me:
“What is ‘Blurred Lines?’”
Husband: “It’s a song by Robin Thick.”
Me:
“. . . Who is Robin Thick?”
Husband: “I was hoping you’d say that next!”
Salty Friend: “. . . I think I may have just fallen deeply,
totally, in love with you.”
Me:
“It happens, dude; don’t worry, you’ll get over it.”
“How do you not know popular songs?”
The
Butcher’s Apprentice Shares the Previous Story with her Work Wife
“How do you not know popular songs?”
“Because I turn on NPR once in a
while.”
A
Mass Text Sent to Eli and The Butcher’s Apprentice from a Hunter Friend
“Could’ve used you two on the knife in Colorado.”
Eli:
“Hell yeah. What did you take
down?”
Me:
“Yes dear, what did you murder for me?
=P”
“Those are bags of meat. About 40 lbs a piece. He shot it at 7 am and we finished boning and
capping it out 6:30 pm.”
Me:
“Mm tasty. 11 1/2 hours, that
must be some sort of record!”
Reply to just me: “I’ll tell you about it later. It was not fun.”
Me:
“Awww; I would’ve gladly helped!”
“I know, you’re great!”
Me:
“Eli’s way better.” He’s the one
you want. “Taught me everything I
know!”
No
work at the shop means no take-home pay (a.k.a. meat). I have become obsessed with roasted beets, and
noticed a distinct lack of couscous in my life.
So dinner this week is purple-stained couscous: beets and red onion roasted with garlic—the
garlic gets infused with the most delectable flavors from cooking in olive oil
and beet juice—topped with locally farmed goat cheese.
No comments:
Post a Comment