I’ll just blurt this all out — don’t get excited, it’s not what you think — and refine it later for my intended use.  Brenda, I thought of you as I sat down with this cup.

I’m sipping Jasmine tea, which was lovingly sold to me by a beautiful young man I would have jumped the counter for were it not for my bum knee and advanced years.  Too many “for”s there.  It’s odd that I’d use the tea set for the first time today, after buying it five years ago.  

I retrieved it from the back of the kitchen cupboard, thrilled at my find.  I’m speaking of the day I found it at an artist’s open house.  She had a shop with this huge kiln behind her house.  She needed it big to fit her whimsical, outdoor sculptures.  From the shop led a stone path which wound through her garden, featuring pots that came up to my waist and odd figures that made me go around again.  In her garage there were shelves with ”seconds”: odds-and-ends that never made it to the gallery.  

The tea set cleans up even better than I remembered, round and chunky with an unusual glaze that now shines.  We are served tea at recorder group but her set is flat and uniform, in color, and English, in shape.  Or maybe Indian.  Mine is Japanese but with an early 70′s look to it, though the artist’s name is on the bottom, and it says ’95.

I remember exactly how the young man said to brew it, letting water cool from the boil, having preheated the cup and pot.  The jasmine leaves will lose their exotic smell and taste slightly bitter, if the water is too hot.  The smell is intoxicating and the cup in front of me puts the previously used coffee cups to shame, though one is my favorite and also from her kiln.  I always leave the cups lined up in front of the computer, switching from black tea, to red, to green throughout the day.  When I’m being healthy.

Last night I went to the library and rifled through all the magazines I used to have subscriptions to.  Beautiful clothes, gorgeous furniture, and luscious food; that’s what I took to bed.  I woke up to an email from the organic farmer I buy from.  He’d listed today’s bounty, plants I’d never heard of.  When I got everything home I wasn’t sure what was for salad and what was for cooking.  So I called him.

I laid out each pile of greens on a separate paper towel, and, one by one, we went through them.  I’d chew a leaf, describe the taste and look, and he’d tell me the name.  They all seemed to have two names: one Italian and one Japanese.  He’d bought seeds for one of the bok choys in Japan and after only three seasons is still getting variability, “trying to stabilize the genes.”  I can’t remember if I’ve described this guy to you but he is beyond eccentric, and after today’s tutorial I am even more impressed. 

There were two plants, two different kinds of baby bok choy, that produced an energetic change in me.  I was left smiling and tingly all over.  I suddenly had an urge to be outside.  The tree man came to prune my flowering cherry last week, and while my dog was tearing all over the front yard I went back to see it. What I mean to say is feel it.  When I have the palms of my hands on its bark I get that same tingly feeling. 

That made me want to walk down to the river but the dog is such a pain-in-the-ass, on the leash, that we turned back home.  As soon as I got in the house I thought of the tea pot.  I wasn’t sure why but I knew I had to find it.

I just got back from a spaghetti feed at my church.  Of course, they don’t call it that.  I knew it would be a bunch of families — It was a fundraiser for the middle school kids — and, since I hang out with the old ladies, I didn’t expect to know anyone.  I saw one familiar face but he didn’t recognize me.

I found a table with someone near my age who was sitting alone.  She said all the seats were taken but one, so I asked which one, leaving her the option of sticking me at the other end.  She pointed to the chair across from her.  Shortly the rest of her friends and family joined us, and the kid with the mic introduced our panel of judges.  It was the annual sauce-off.

Playing waitress were 13- and 14-year-olds, shy and gangly in designer evening wear.  Our waitress was the daughter of the couple I sat next to.  These people were tall, thin, and gorgeous.  But nice.  Everyone at church is unusually nice.  The woman I sat across from was a judge who had just put someone away “for a very long time.”  The couple had read about it the paper and were asking questions.  The judge was squirming, explaining the scary walks to her parking lot and the sort of people she now had as enemies.

An accordion player was circling the perimeter, and when he came up behind the judge I smiled.  He didn’t remember me but I asked, 

     “Aren’t you going to sing?” 

     “Oh,” he perked up, “You’ve heard me.”  He smiled, coming closer.

     “I would be glad to.”

     “He won’t even need the mic,” I told the judge, remembering how his voice carries.

     “They won’t know; I’m singing for you.”

     “Oh,” I blushed, glancing back at the rest of our table.

He’d crossed over to stand in front of me — Our table was on the far side of the room, closest to the judges and up against the wall — and when he hit his high note he held it long and loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the room, I’m sure.  My back was to them but judging by the clapping, nobody missed it. 

The blonde and beautiful yoga mom asked me,

     “Does he sing with the opera?”

I paused long enough to decide I wouldn’t bring up bellydance.

     “Probably,” I said, diving into sauce number three.

In dressing for the dinner I wondered why I put myself through these things.  I wouldn’t know anyone, and it would be a bunch of people I wouldn’t have anything in common with.  Just like I thought, it was me at some table of big shots who all knew each other.  The one familiar face was the hired help, who before our interaction was skulking around the room, acting like he wished he were invisible.  The five women who compete each year for the best sauce got the second serenade and from then on things picked up.  That one familiar face made all the difference.

The last three words, now that I look at the previous post, don’t convey what I was going for.  It sounds like I think I’m exciting.  I think he thinks I’m exciting but he’d think any woman was.  What I meant was that HE’S a good fit.

Boo wants to know if he’s a good cook.  And I’m starting to feel like this is kiss and tell but I don’t think he’d mind as long as it’s complimentary.  I don’t know if you can tell how much I’ve changed my thinking.  The real Sam is emerging, and it’s not the bumbling, absentminded professor.  He is aggressive.  He’s funny, he’s sexual and fairly blunt.  So that fits.

When I got over there he was in a great mood.  He’d made composed salads with things like beets and mushrooms and a bunch of other vegetables he’d diced with some new kitchen gadget he’d ordered off the TV.  Sam is doing Weight Watchers because his doctor suggested he lose weight.  He exercises every day but still has a little bit of a tummy.  He loves how he feels after he swims, and he’s lost eight pounds since Christmas.  The woman he hired, to take care of his wife while he was at work, taught him how to cook low-fat meals.  He’d baked acorn squash and cooked a little spinach.  Dessert was fruit and tea.  You can imagine how thrilled I was to have found a like-minded eater, willing to cook.  He assured me he doesn’t cook like that every night, though.

On our way to the grill, through the living room, he suddenly remembered a song he wanted me to hear.  He set the plate with the steaks down over on the coffee table and squatted to find the CD.  He has as much music as I do.  When the song came on he hummed along, exclaiming “Isn’t that just a gorgeous piece of music!”  He’d popped back up, still singing, when he suddenly remembered the grill.  “Now where did I put those steaks?” he muttered, left hand on his hip, right hand grabbing a fistfull of soft, white hair.  He has beautiful hair and he does this thing when he’s thinking.  Fingers apart, he pulls strands into his fist and sort of lifts like a hairdresser would.  You can’t tell if it’s practiced or unconscious. 

Spotting the plate, Sam strode out to his front porch.  I think he felt like a new man.  Or was it his old self?  Spatula in hand, he was manning the grill like he’d stepped back in time.  He was picking up where he’d left off but with an exciting new woman.  I like the part; it’s a good fit.

Goodness, Myki, by now you should know, especially when I’ve been drinking, that I’m not clever enough to be using euphemisms.  He stood in the garage and lifted up the door, wondering aloud if his car was too tall.  Even the next morning when I reread it, I didn’t pick up on that. 

I want to give you an update — He made me dinner last night — but it’s getting to the point where I don’t feel as comfortable writing about him; I’m losing the distance.  He would make such a great character, though.   I should ask permission.  Normally, guys don’t mind. 

I taught him to do the swing after dinner.  He has some great music.  AND he’s got great rhythm.  I told him he was my new dance partner. 

He’s acting much more sure of himself.  The high pitch is gone and the tentative tone has been replaced by a more mellow, authoritative voice.  And he knows how to take a dishwasher apart.

It sure is nice to have someone to talk to at 6:30 in the morning when you’re not sure whether to buy or sell.

Intense day. 

Sam is good.  He came over Friday night after dinner and we watched Mad Money together.  He loved it.  He loved my house, too.  He checked it from top to bottom, speculating about whether he could get his car in the garage.  Yeah.

Tonight I told him about a club that R took me to once.  These three woman started a social club where they rent the ballroom floor at a hotel on the east side and have a big dance once a month.  Plus, they’ll have dinner dances at a restaurant every so often.  R loved it because the women were great.  The men not so good.   

Today was the anniversary of his wife’s death and he was a little down but he’s decided he’s ready to date.  He gave me his complete dating history and inquired about mine, saying “You’ve probably had quite a bit more experience.”  I’ve been deterring him ever so gently, telling him about my early years.  When I mentioned dropping acid he didn’t even flinch.  I can read him over the phone and he just kept chattering away.  I think he likes it that I’m a little on the wild side.  He barely knew his wife when they married as she lived far away.  Tonight he steered the conversation dangerously close to my favorite subject:  sex.  Can you imagine anything more fun than being a dating coach?  It’s killing me not to just drive over there and give him a blow job.  Sorry, but I had a large drink a couple hours ago, the first one in probably four months.  I had a beer in December but this was a triple cocktail I made out of an orange, a lemon and absolute vodka I bought for my oldest at Christmas.  Now I just feel tired and I’ve got a headache. 

Anyway, as I was saying, the guy’s rarin’ to go and it’s tempting because I’m becoming so fond of him but I know it wouldn’t be right.  He’s not the one for me and I don’t want to be responsible for any kind of disappointment.  He’s been through enough.   

Whatd’ya know, Sam called tonight.  (I wish I could use his real name because it sooo suits him)  Just as I suspected it was because of the laugh.  He didn’t want to go there, and he didn’t admit it.  He acted like everything was fine but I pushed it, making sure he knew I wasn’t laughing AT him.  I could tell he’d had a talk with himself, licked his wounds and made himself call me.  The tone he used, saying he knew he was ”kinda funny” was consoling, like he’d nursed himself through plenty of hurts in his life.  I wonder if kids teased him in school.  He has an odd speech pattern and a real high-pitched voice when he gets excited.  It kind of reminds me of Truman Capote, except he doesn’t sound gay. 

I could tell he didn’t want to go there because for as long as he could keep it going he controlled the conversation.  I asked him if he was working off a list.  First he had stock questions, to which I had all the answers.  I have to admit I need to work on my ego.  There are very few areas where I just can’t help myself.  I feel like Jim Cramer in the lightening round.  That’s where viewers call in with a stock and he tells them whether to buy, sell, or hold.  Then he moved to what jobs I’d had, wanting to make sure I’d worked ten quarters so I could get social security.  Then he wanted to know what I do for exercise.  He knows I don’t get any now that I’m not dancing so I wasn’t sure why he asked.  I walk my dog some. 

About that time I had to leave for class.  I’m kind of glad we had a time out.  Figuring I might not hear from him for a while, I let it go.  But then he started talking about landscaping his back yard this spring and I got all excited.  I could take him to church.  I could go dancing with him.  He likes to cook.  He’s really fun to be around.  I feel like God planted everything I wanted in my path and I’m bitching about his sense of humor.