Just another Tuesday.

The Jackalope.

Tonight’s stars were a drunk I’ll call Randy and a martial artist I’ll call Jackie Chan. It’s nice of me to call them these things, because they’re their names.

Randy the drunk and I meet at the Jackalope, a bar famous for its stuffed authentic jackalope, velvet paintings of naked ladies, and old movies on repeat (oh, and some giant pink cocktail for 12 that I’ve never seen anyone order). I’m a few minutes early to meet my friend, JB, so I order a vodka tonic, sit at the orange, sparkly bar and catch the final act of a horrifying blackface song-and-dance in one eye and “The Great Escape” in the other.

Randy opens with the bar standard: “What’re you drinking?”

“Vodka”

“Mixed with what?”

“Oh, tonic?”

“With a squeeze of what?”

(Oh, you mean that green wedge on the side of my glass?)

“Lime.”

“I’m Randy.”

“Jaime.”

We shake, and I try to go back to staring vacantly at the man dancing in black and white.

“How are ya?”

“Fine. It sure is hot today, though!” My legs are sticking to the vinyl chair even in the air conditioning.

“You from around here? You know, I’m not hitting on you.”

“Sure.”

And actually, I realize he isn’t hitting on me, not in the typical drunk way, the way some guys are when they insist they’re not hitting on you but follow it with a pregnant pause that says “but I will be if you want me to be.”

He’s just drunk. And bored. And pretty lonely. He’s got the last dregs of a beer and an empty shot glass in front of him, and we talk about his ideal summer drink – rum, water and lime – for a while.

“Yer not from around here,” he insists.

“Austin? I’ve lived here five years!”

“Man, I’ve lived here 34!”

“OK, you win.”

“Yeah! Yer NOT from around here! Where ya from?”

“Well, I’m pretty much from Texas. Maybe I was born cold. Detroit.”

“Where in Texas?”

“Houston.”

“What parta Houston?”

JB walks through the open doorway. I practically jump up to greet him, but he’s sitting down next to me at the bar before I have a chance to steer him elsewhere.

“What parta Houston?”

“Oh, Katy.”

“I usta hunt goose there all the time.”

The closest I ever came to a goose in Katy, Texas, was working next to this joint.

“Oh, JB, you ever hunt a goose?” I turn to him, my back to Randy. He’s got nothing. He’s never goose-hunted, and he’s currently much more interested in procuring a beer than anything else.

Randy insists on dragging JB in, grilling him, in a slurred and mumbling way that shows that there really was no flirtation earlier, on all the places he’s lived, what kind of a person he is, and whether they’re having a conversation (indeed, JB agrees, they are), and how the two of us met – a coordinated lie about being in school together suffices there.

A break in the story of Randy’s drunk friend’s trick of putting his finger on his throat at bars and faking a tracheotomy in order to get free drinks (dubbed a “trickeotomy” by JB) allows me to suggest that I show JB the beautiful (aka smoke-filled and smotheringly hot) patio.

“I thought we were having a conversation here!” pleads Randy.

“We were, bro. We were. High five!” JB says, holding out his hand as we rise.

Once outside, the conversation seems a little empty.

Our man Randy, as obnoxious as he was, filled a role. We could say things that wouldn’t have been funny to just the two of us – it’s not that outrageous that we might have met in a class, for instance, but JB’s blurting of patently false but clever details doesn’t work when there’s no one around to believe him.

Randy makes a brief appearance, talking loudly into what might be a turned-off cell phone, then dipping back inside after making eye contact with each of us. His plea for attention revitalizes the conversation, and we’re back on track for the rest of the evening, cracking jokes and having a good time.

We meet up with an old friend and some new ones at the theater across the street for “The Legend of Drunken Master.” I’m not experienced in vintage martial arts cinema, so this is the perfect show for me. Plenty of laughs (especially the outrageous stepmom’s voiced-over jokes, and Jackie Chan getting more and more drunk while fighting evil antiquities thieves) and a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner during. The others are used to these movies and watching with them only made the experience better.

Several of us then decide to track down some other friends who are supposed to be at a bar a few blocks away. I drive the group down there, only to find that the bar they’d mentioned (a wine bar called Mulberry, across from Austin Music Hall) had closed early. A call confirms that they’d found the same thing, then gone to Malaga, another wine bar not too far away.

We get to Malaga, only to find that it, too, is closed – but this closure is permanent, with brown paper over the door and the light out on the porch. Another call, and we find that Malaga has moved.

By this time, everyone is getting tired, so we agree to walk the additional five or so blocks, get one drink and call it a night. Malaga is a really pretty place with an extensive wine menu that I don’t bother to peruse because I know I wouldn’t know what I was reading and I’d rather not waste everyone’s time.

I order a Stella and sit back to witness a nerd conversation of epic proportions, centered around the X-Men. Our friend, who as of this conversation shall be known as the Nerd Pope, is the type of guy who will talk your ear off about something once you get him excited, and boy is he excited about the X-Men! It was a nice way to get the new couple in on the conversation and (hopefully) feeling welcomed, but, boy, did the sheer nerdiness of it all overwhelm me!

It had been a good evening, but I was feeling oddly tired (for me) at 11, and as we went our separate ways, I reflected on how nice it was to spend time with some good-hearted and fun-spirited people. It’s not like these friends and I click on everything – X-Men seem to be a sticking point, for example – but they’re nice folks to have around of an evening. I’m one lucky girl.

I picked up some groceries and plastic storage containers on the way home. An old fellow asked me where I bought my shoes, which he thought were awesome (red slip-on sneakers, by the way). He didn’t believe that you could buy backless sneakers ready-made. I showed him!

Back home and in the kitchen, I made five salads and five pasta dishes for my week’s lunches. Hopefully I’ll find that by packing five meals in advance, I’m not as tempted to buy overpriced convenience food on work days.

I did succumb to one impulse buy. I’d never had grapefruit juice before, and it was the same price as orange juice but with more vitamins, so I gave it a whirl. Not bad.

Grapefruit juice and a yellow rose from dinner the night before at Vivo.

Here’s what I made. I know it’s not anything too innovative, but considering that the only things I bought for these dishes at the store today were the bag of spinach and carrots, the Craisins (a buy-Crasins-get-free-spinach-salad deal!) and the spaghetti, I think I did a good job.

Clockwise from top left: peas and parsley with balsamic vinaigrette; corn, cilantro and tomato with peanut sauce and Sriracha; olive and tomato with vinaigrette; pecan with raspberry vinaigrette; corn and cilantro with Sriracha

And the pasta dishes:

Clockwise from top left: tomato, olive and fresh garlic with pepper, olive oil and balsamic vinegar; carrots and snap peas with cilantro, peanut sauce and Sriracha; tomatoes with garlic, basil, olive oil and vinegar; olives, garlic, olive oil and Sriracha; peas, corn, butter, salt and pepper.