What some people will do to get a little pussy

Last week, The Clairvoyant gave me a gallon-sized ziplock full of fresh butter crunch lettuce and spinach from her garden. It got overlooked in my refrigerator for several days, but tonight I ate some of it.

Oh, the humanity!

I can only imagine what this lettuce must have been like a week ago. It was, tonight, still the freshest, most flavorful and gorgeously leafed lettuce that I have had in years. As lettuce goes, it blew my tastebuds into orbit around the space chunk formerly known as Planet Pluto.

It's possible that these are no mere leafy greens, but rather may be the Platonic Ideal of "lettuce" itself.

I am almost in love with it too much to eat it. But in a world where you can't have your cake and eat it to, I'm one of those people who usually says, Well fine, then. I'll eat it.

I've got to plan what to do with it for tomorrow. There is a bounty of it, as this gallon-sized bag is stuffed to the brim with pre-washed greens, cut to eating size and still amazingly crisp thanks to her packing it with a damp paper towel.

This is one of those moments where I wish I could turn back time and eat some of that lettuce the day she gave it to me, having just harvested it from her organic veggie garden the day before. TC is a diligent caretaker of all things produce, and enthusiastically offers me interesting ideas with what to do with them. She suggested rolling a buffalo dog in one of the pieces of lettuce and eating it for breakfast.

Pity I forgot to get some frozen buffalo dogs when I was at the store. I think the smoked and honey turkey I have will need to suffice. It will be a glorious breakfast.

...

In other news, I've started another art project, but this one is an assignment for my Human Sexuality in Counseling class, and I've got to bust it out this week. I know I should be making this simple, but I seem reluctant to do that. I like engaging with learning material in this way. It prompts me to think in new and unusual ways about what I will be bringing to my work as a counselor -- namely, myself.

Graduate school is such a navel-gazing time. The more I think about our course materials, the more I realize just how much of this process is the act of really examining and defining oneself in many ways that we're not often asked to do in this society.

My one recurring client in practicum has asked for help with a sexuality issue. Even as I've been contemplating her issues while taking this course, I've also been asked to even further challenge and define the notions I hold about sex and my comfort in talking to others about it.

So this art project requires me to speak about myself and my sexuality from two angles. The task is to decorate a shoebox in a way that the exterior represents that which is known and the interior represents that which I don't often reveal about myself.

It's a great way to make me engage with the material and engage with myself at the same time. Without necessarily having to put words to it. Of course, I am putting words to it anyway. But I'll try to keep them minimal and let some imagery do the talking for me.

I'm interested to see where it's going to go. Because the truth is that I haven't a clue. All I have right now is the word "Queer." For obvious reasons. The rest? I'm vacillating. Everytime I think I have a good idea, I start wondering what else I might do. I take that as a sign that I'm working to get closer to the heart of the matter.

Whatever I do, I've got to get chopping.

....

Last little tidbit.

If you were reading along wondering just what the hell lettuce and art projects had to do with the headline, you were right to wonder. I saved the pussy part for last.

I went over to YogaGirl's place for the first time today. She moved there a year ago and has suggested I come over several times, but this is the first time it actually came to pass. What sweet digs she's got! She rents the entire downstairs of an old Victorian near downtown. High ceilings, lots of interesting little built-ins and very large rooms. Real sense of "home."

There's even a basement.

Which is at the heart of this story.

First, a little mmm-mmm-mmm. I must admit that I suffer from a little objectification of women. Just a touch. And YogaGirl? Well, I suppose she does, too.

We're walking down the stairs to her basement when she points out a window and says, "Look at the neighbor woman."

I remember YogaGirl once telling me a story about a neighbor she could see out her window, so I had a little expectation of something special. And there she was: a beautiful brown-skinned woman with long, curly black hair falling over her bare shoulders; wearing a string bikini top, her little breasts perfectly visible from the window on accounts of its elevation above where she sat.

"What did I tell ya?" YogaGirl asks.

One thing I love about YogaGirl is, among all the bisexuals I know (all of whom are dating members of the opposite sex), she retains a lusty, outspoken interest in women. I feel like I can talk to her about certain special charms of women more easily than with most of my non-lesbian friends. And she does things like point out the neighbor.

Sitting there in the noontime sun in that little bikini.

We paused at the window and savored it for a moment.

Then YogaGirl turned her attention to the basement.

"I just can't fucking believe this," she says. "This is so fucking ridiculous."

She opens a large wooden door that is separating the landing at the bottom of the stairs from the rest of the basement. On the other side is a large, open room filled with storage containers, musical instruments, camping equipment, athletic gear, etc. Stacks and stacks of boxes. It is densely packed with aisles winding through different groups of items.

Somewhere in here is a cat.

This is how YogaGirl described her problem to me in an e-mail she sent this morning: "This cat sitch is so f'ing unreal- I'm so pissed! ... I just set the god damn trap and I'm hoping it goes off and catches that damn cat really soon so I can get it out of here. What a bunch of shit."

This is a little story about how not-so-good ideas carried out on impulse can so easily go to hell in a handbasket.

YogaGirl was, a couple weeks ago, really teetering between moving back to the Midwest or staying here in Stumptown. It seems that, as I conceptualize this situation anyway, she chose to attempt a little deeper "nesting" here to see if it might stick. She adopted a second cat.

This cat did not take well to YogaGirl or her boyfriend or their existing cat, which has a tendancy to hiss at passers-by. One day, the new cat vanished into the basement. YogaGirl searched for it, but could not find it to bring it upstairs. It stayed overnight. And then the next night. And the night after that.

To make a long story short, attempts to flush the cat out of hiding in the basement have failed, and YogaGirl has sunk to renting a trap in hopes of capturing it. Once secured, she'll either give the cat to a friend or take it to the Humane Society. She checked the trap a few times while I was visiting her, but as of this afternoon, her quarry had not taken the bait.

So that's the whole story. It includes a sighting of beautiful breasts and a trip down into a creepy basement. It's what I mean when I say that people will go to great lengths to snag a little pussy. Even -- or perhaps, especially -- YogaGirl.