A story about saliva. And a dead hairdresser.

It turns out The Clairvoyant had more on her mind than sex when she called yesterday. She wanted me to go to dinner with her and The One. About 8:30, they come over. It's been a couple months since I've seen The One, and right when he walks in the door, he says, "You look smaller! And your hair looks good!" I knew there was a reason I liked him. He is an Observant Man.

The Clairvoyant hugs me hello, fusses with my hair for a minute and then shows me what looks like a transparent little makeup bag with a couple of empty vials in it. "I hope you don't mind, but we have to wait here until 9, so I can make a saliva sample. Better than doing it in the restaurant!" TC is 37 and has been trying to get pregnant, so I assume (correctly) that this saliva business has something to do with it. "I take a sample every day and freeze it. Then, the lab can see what I'm secreting and make sure all my hormones are cool. Apparently, these herbal supplements I was taking after my miscarriage were making it difficult to conceive."

Here's the thing about TC: She is *so* into her body. Every little thing that goes in her mouth has been scrutinized in some way. She works out with a passion. When she tripped on the stairs at The Farm Cafe a few months ago, she threw her body into a tumble and landed on her feet at the bottom, Dick Van Dyke style. Her muscles are incredibly toned but still feminine. Her complexion is exceptional. Even her butt is perfect. The focus of her life is her health and her physique. But she's stumped as all get-out about why a baby has not been forthcoming. Hence, the vials of spit.

With half an hour to kill, The One and I sit down to share a bowl while TC plays with my computer. TC hypnotizes people, and she's trying to figure out if she can use my computer to record a new CD. Presently, she tells The One to go into the kitchen and get her a couple of glasses, one with water in it. I suspect it requires an altered state to sit and watch someone rinsing, swishing, gargling and spitting water into an empty glass. Especially when they're doing it all while hovering over your nice new wireless keyboard. But there you have it.

After a least five minutes of this swishing and spitting business -- to clean her mouth? -- TC gets out a vial and starts to collect her saliva sample. It takes her about 10 minutes to fill it. She puts it in the freezer, and we head out the door for dinner.

This being Portland, we get to the restaurant of our choosing at 9:30 only to find the kitchen closing. What the hell is up with that? Kitchens close too damned early here. So we head on down to Mint, which has a reliable "after 10 p.m." menu. The place is crowded when we arrive, so we decide to eat at the bar in the restaurant. Mint's lamb burger with sweet potato fries hits the spot. TC and I also share some seared tuna, and she comments several times about eating raw fish when she could be pregnant. "It's day 25 of my cycle, so I really shouldn't be eating this for another few days," she says, taking a bite. "Oh well."

I am enjoying a glass of Lacrima, an exceptionally floral and obscure red varietal, when TC starts talking about her dead hairdresser. "He committed suicide," she said. "Four days after died, I had a dream about him, and I told him: What the fuck did you do that for, dude? I need a haircut! He told me I could do it myself!" At that point, she says, she awoke -- or maybe she was in a trance -- and she went into the kitchen, grabbed some shears and made a couple of quick cuts to her hair. Shortly thereafter, she went into the salon to get a professional to fix her up and was told she'd given herself "a perfect cut." "I'm telling you," TC said to me, "I was totally channeling my dead hairdresser!"

As this point, The One leans over and says, "She watches a lot of reality television, too."

"I do not need you defining me in that way," TC retorts. "Do not give people the wrong idea about me!"

Too late, TC, I said. I formed an opinion about you a long time ago. Your dirty little secret about watching reality TV isn't going to change it. What's your favorite show?

Perhaps this is just airing dirty laundry online, but she likes Oprah, Dr. Phil (which puts me into a lather), "transformation shows," the nanny shows and the wife-swapping shows. Absolutely taudry, isn't it? In her defense, she says most of these hour-long shows really only have about 15 minutes of content (thanks to their habit of previewing what's coming *after* the commercial and then, after the commercial, reviewing what came previously). This allows her to do paperwork and insurance filing while not having to follow closely and not missing anything either. It's just the genius of that TV genre, I guess. ... But it's not that interesting.

So, why did your hairdresser kill himself? I ask and take another sip of the Lacrima.