Fros

"We're cousins. We're friends. Some might call us Frousins. I call us Fros."*

*(That's me quoting myself.) 

That's right . . .

. . . Fros.

Mistah and I got to hang out with some my super-awesome Fros last night, which was a gigantic, rare, awesomely huge treat . . .

. . . awesomely huge.

Aren't I lucky?

It was a love-fest, with the love focused mostly on the hugely popular S'mores.

It was a S'mores extravaganza . . .

. . . especially the marshmallow part . . .

. . . pure bliss.

But the best part was my Fros' kids got to hang out with their Fros . . .

. . . Fros, the next generation.

You think *I've* got it good, Fro-wise?

I do; Oh how I do. And so do these munchkins:

Fros for life.

great day

As previously mentioned, I had myself a big time at the padre game last weekend with none other than my surrogate blog mama, Pat. Beth's mom! She's a fan of the game, our newest San Diego transplant. When she invited me to join her for the day game just a week following my little mishap on Father's Day, I hesitated for only the slightest moment before recognizing that I need to get back on the horse. Besides, I figured if she wanted to toss me over the rows in front of these seats

someone handsome would surely catch me.

I was so excited to be so close, to really feel like a part of the action on the field.

I was riveted by the comings and goings of those lovely, fit boys.

I droned on and on to Pat about which one was my favorite, and she reasoned with stats and talent and logic until I explained that favorite, in my book, was mostly judged by physical appearance.

Case in point: Chase Headly

It's almost easier to admire them from afar, for they all look so handsome in their shiny white pants and athletic dispositions.

No, no, no, no.. keep your hat on honey.

unclean whites are pretty appealing in their own right

I loved being right up there, watching the action just outside the dugout, loved the body language and swagger of the next-at-bat  

loved the jogging in and out, the forgetting of sunglasses

the random people who come to stand around in between half innings

hey look.. up there where it says Toyota? that's where I fell spectacularly last Sunday

what are these guys talking about? are they talking?

Candlesticks always make a nice gift

It was a really lovely day at the ballpark. Thank you, Pat! Did you get to the night game this week?

On our way home, we were lured in to a bar near the trolley station for one last beer. At the point we decided that we'd hop on the next trolley that arrived, Pat was almost done with her beer. And then there was the train. We agreed that no one would notice or care that she still had her beer in hand. Pat knew no one would dare confront her because people are shy of senior. In fact, we sat ourselves in the senior seating area of the rig. 

In all my years riding the San Diego trolley, I can't remember a single time that I've been asked to produce a ticket. I could not imagine a scenario where any sort of authority figure would notice or address the fact that we even existed, let alone confront my companion with her dregs of a bud light on ice. 

And they didn't. The guy on the right in this photo, however, did spend about 10 minutes telling Pat in great detail about all the ways she could access public transportation to get from hither to yon in urban San Diego. All the while she was clutching her beer inside her bag, certain that the big guy would pounce.

Great day. 

Rusty old fridge

This was one of my very favorite things about my recent OB beach rental:

Yes, this! This rusty old fridge.

Actually, the freezer was a bit too small, and it made an amazing racket half the time, but I loved it nonetheless.

I loved it because it could so easily go from the photo above, to this:

Wouldja just look at that? It's so cheery, so homey -- our own little in-home art gallery.

I think  you might need a closer look

Hi Jacquie up there in the left-hand corner. And hello tiny daughters and sons in that classic water-park photo. Oh, and my man Ben has a spot too...

Amazing creative talent is displayed down here, plus proof that my girl likes giving me kisses!

Even the side of this ol' fridge was covered with important and colorful do-dads.

I didn't take down the collage that covered the fridge until the very last moment before we moved. If I did, it would, of course, go back to being a small, old, rusty ice-box, as my dad used to say, instead of a display of our family history.

So, you can understand that when I saw what others would, and did, point out as defects on the large, shiny stainless steel fridge in our new house -- tape marks and the outlines of various photos and other display items -- I saw only love!!!

If Mistah took this shot, I'm sure you could actually see what I'm talking about...

Hooray for me.

The Schneider Bucket

You remember the Schneider Can . . .

. . . of course you do.

And, of course, the Carlyn Can . . .

. . . why wouldn't you?

You'd think a modest family of two would be content with two cans of screws and nails and doo-dads and weirdly shaped, mysterious, odd, metal bits.

But you would be wrong.

The other day I cleaned out Bill Senior's workbench, and, well, let's just say it did not look quite like another beloved Dad's workshop:

Joe's Shop 
"It smelled of Dad, the essence of sawdust and repair."

No, Bill Senior's workbench had one big bottom shelf full of nails and screws and bits and weird pieces, but instead of obsessively lovingly labeled, everything was still its original packaging. Like, original paper bags. From 45 years ago.

But, oh the treasures!

A 23 Gotham, um, crayon . . . 

A skein of wire . . . 

An, um, well, who knows, really?

I just started ripping all the old packaging open, and throwing everything into a new, bigger bucket . . . .

. . . I think you know where this is headed.

I could not help pulling out the cool stuff, and arranging it on the back deck, completely absorbed in my own private geekdom.

I mean, the bolts were cool -- bolts are always cool . . .

. . . but then I started finding the completely indescribable, undefinable, wacky stuff.

There was tons of it . . .

. . . and it kept growing and growing.

*With*, I'll have you know, productive and tangible results.

Because yes, unto us . . .

 . . . The Schneider Bucket is born.

scenes from a weekend

stories will follow, first I must sleep