I’m angry at the wine for spilling on the kitchen counter. It is Syrah wine, the american version of an Austrailian Grape. I am not the american version of anything…I am not from Australia, nor am I a grape. So what right would I have to be angry at the wine for spilling? Perhaps I am fermented, or maybe it’s just jealousy, because instead of fermenting, I’ve just gone bad. “Off” as they say in the irish accents on that beautiful island. The wine spilled and it was supposed to calm my nerves, not fuel the fire already smoldering because of that boy. He did not return my call, and it’s the uncertainty of it all because I can’t even be sure he got the message. What right do I have to be angry at him? What right does the uncertainty have to anger me so?
"Don’t piss me off!" I shout at the wine, and the dog, my computer, the phone. Don’t piss me off, as if the object of our anger is every truly the thing responsible. My wine looks up at me, through the green spiral rimmed glass and says….simply, "don’t get angry….it’s not my fault, it’s yours…what right do you have to be angry at all?" And in response, I kiss my wine, and drink in it’s bittersweetness, dry humor and all. I love my wine, I love the boy, I love the dog, and it is myself that I am angry at, all of these times.