Like the holy grail, a park slope restaurant with room for six for brunch. Talk was all Bromptons, faculty meetings, Fifty Shades of Grey.

K. had the chile rellano, I had two tacos with rice and beans, the total for lunch came to $10.60. According to K., this is what you get when you eat in the middle of Detroit. I could only eat one taco I was that nervous about making my flight, twenty minutes from the restaurant and we had two and a half hours. Gotta be me. The U.S., Mexican, and Canadian flags were flying across the street, must have been a NAFTA tribute.

Sometimes everything just works out, you book a trip to Reykjavik, your friend M. books a trip to New York, you need a cat sitter, she needs a place to stay. Lucky my flight leaves much later tonight, so we got to grab lunch together. Luckily, the shitty brunch place was closed for a baby shower, so we were forced two more blocks to the taco place, great brunch, great catching up, and she picked up the check. A perfect last lunch before I’m faced with aisles of whale filets and sheep heads.

Well, that was nothing some salt and half an avocado couldn’t fix. Bachelor standards, may I keep them forever.

Yesterday afternoon, when I was standing at the stove stirring onions and cumin and chipotle peppers into these black beans, I imagined something more taco salad and less pile of beans on top of rice. At least it was lunch. I was halfway through before I remembered that my Project Become A Baseball Fan subscription fee also paid for an inning or two of the Tigers/Rangers game in my cloffice. Tied at zero in the top of the sixth! (Did I say that right?)

I grabbed something fast around Union Square and tried to decide whether or not I could brave a room full of strangers. Turned out I couldn’t, but I gave it a try.

I ordered the three bean salad over greens with egg and ricotta salata. I had no idea how that would work, but it turned out to be just as described: beans over greens with an egg–inexplicably brown, hard-boiled, and sliced–and ricotta salata. We were all undecided about whether or not to get the pancakes, but A. had the bright idea of ordering one for the table. So good. So smart.

LS. came and found me wandering in the stairwell because I was like four minutes late. That’s how on time I am in my normal life. When she said to pick her up at her office, I just nodded, forgetting that nothing is marked around here. We sat in the pharmacy faculty lounge under its terrible fluorescent lights and I ate my dish of beans and greens while LS. sat and watched me. Something about fried rice coming later. I can count on one hand the number of people I’d rather talk work/school/schoolwork stuff with. The hour, hard-earned by our union forebears and therefore our solemn obligation to take down to the minute, just disappeared.

I’ve been doing that thing where I grouch and grouch at people, snarl and sometimes even yell, just mad at everything. But after I snapped at a colleague and he recoiled and called me out, I put on my cheerful face and hunkered down into it. I mean, really, who’s got the the best life ever! Jazz hands! So running into me at the microwave was a good call, as my greens spun round and round and I delivered cheery updates on my physical health, complete with Kathleen Turner husk and wheeze. Gettin’ better all the time!

I ate in my cloffice and reveled in all the ways it is not my couch or my bed or my television and ate greens and beens with my chopsticks and read articles on the internet about Haiti and knew in my heart of hearts that probably I should be at home and asleep but I just could not sit there anymore, I could not I could not I could not. Besides, isn’t this what DayQuil is for?