There is an incredibly irritating song on the radio these days with the refrain, "How'm I gonna be an optimist about it . . . oh . . . how'm I gonna be an optimist about it."  I'm only pretty sure those are the actual words, but that's what they sound like to me, and they are the only lyrics to the song that stick in my head.  The reason those words literally and figuratively resonate inside me is that more and more often I'm faced with situations that, even when looked at through rose-tinted glasses still seem permanently shit-stained; having a needle driven into your eyelid and having your eye sewn shut both qualify under this rubric.

Last Thursday I found a whole new previously undiscovered section of a hellish living nightmare.  Incredibly, the whole situation began with my friend and I lounging on my porch, having a beer; My two pittie puppies on a long lead attached to the fence.

A few minutes later a neighbor and her son came walking by, the young boy riding his small bicycle.  Our puppy, Falcor, is not a huge fan of bicycles.  Also lumped in this category are walkers, wheelchairs, and push carts.  They just freak him out.  But, firmly attached to his lead, I didn't think  much of it when Falc began to bark.  In fact, the mom and son continued along our fence, closer to the house.

At some critical juncture, Falcor felt that this bicycle may be parking its terror in his lawn and he ran at the passerby's, and, yanked back by his leash, still managed to put his paws on the bike/boy's shoulders and mouthed the child's arm.  Not awesome at all.  At this point every adult present was up and taking action.  I was putting the dogs away as the mother comforted her son.  Because a 60 pound pit bull, no matter how cute, is a lot of dog for a small child to handle.

A few months ago at the bar, a 25-year-old friend of mine rolled up looking deflated.  Upon closer inspection, the lack of life in his face reflected a particular brand of dehydration that I most associate with hangovers.  "You don't look so good," I mentioned.  Stating the obvious.

"Yah.  I have a huge friggin headache.  Just massive."  "Can I tell you something?," he mused, "Back in college, I used to drink twice as much as I did yesterday, and I would never get headaches like this the next day. It's like, as I get older, the hangovers get worse.  Is that a thing?"

Cue air-gasping laughter.

"I'm sorry to tell you this my friend (I wasn't sorry, I was giddy), but not only does it get worse, it gets exponentially worse.  I can't even have two drinks at age 35 without waking up to the munchkin horde hammering away inside my temples."

His reaction, a mixture of shock and terror, really tickled me.
____________

Tuesday was the first game of my summer Co-ed Drinking-League Softball season.  Unfortunately I was running late for the game and pulled into the parking lot during the bottom of the 3rd inning.  Due to a lack of players, by the time I got my shoes tied, they were already hurrying me in the direction of first base.  I took a few warm-up tosses from my infield, and dropped every single one.  My new teammates playing shortstop and 3rd base glancing worriedly at each other.  "Can this kid catch anything!?!," said their eyes.