The Meaning Is in the Mess, Part 2

“I … hope that there is meaning in mess and pain, that more will be revealed, and that truth and beauty will somehow win out in the end.” — Anne Lamott

My best friend and beloved dog of thirteen years, Rillo, died on July 2. His best friend Dudley — who showered my face with kisses and always climbed into my car unprompted and wouldn’t get out — died exactly a week later. I hope our two big boys are galumphing over the rainbow bridge as I write these words. I hope, more than anything, that Rillo waited for him.

Last night, I set aside my sorrow to attend a neighborhood potluck. And since it was a hundred degrees and we were eating outside, I brought my favorite summer wine — Barefoot rosé — which I find to be light and refreshing. After a pleasant hour sipping rosé on ice, the asshole sitting at the “guys” table called me over, handed me my half-empty bottle, and told me to take it with me when I left. He said that our host, Olivia, would, of course, “pour it straight down the drain,” which is what you do when someone has the nerve to bring cheap wine to a social gathering, he said. “What, did you get this at Walmart for $3.50?”

“No, I got it at Smith’s for $6.99.” You asshole. Taking my half-empty bottle with me, I offered it to Olivia, who smiled and told me it was her favorite summer wine, too, and she’d love to finish it off…