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

Carpe diem

Today is perhaps my favorite day of the year. The day when the tilt of the earth's semi-axis is most inclinded toward the sun. Very most inclined, as in very closest, as in very most sunlight of *any* day of the year.

What can be better than that?   

So, happy, smiley, rabbity-eared, sunny summer solstice to you all.

Let's carpe the hell out of this diem.

A Night When The Light Was Right*

*Mistah title

*Mistah photos

*Mistah poured me this glass of wine.

*I chopped the veggies.

*Yeah, he's awesome with the photos.

*A night when the light was right?

*Oh, it was right.

candlesticks always make a nice gift

You know that feeling when you lose your balance a little and shit suddenly gets real as you struggle to regain it? How you swear silently loudly and think about how stupid you must look trying not to go from vertical to horizontal? You give this goal your full attention, though, except for the fleeting thought about how embarrassing it would be to actually fall. Even toddlers are embarrassed when they fall, and you, sir, are no toddler.

Picture this: lovely family day at the ballpark on father’s day, afternoon game following a sunny westy tailgate. Our seats are upper infield, right behind home plate but way up towards the front of the uppers. It’s not a full house, so we move around a bit and take several sojourns for food and bevs. The game is tied going into the 8th, the kids are engaged and asking questions about play and it’s really pretty close to perfect.

I had one of those Dad-inspired “isn’t this great?” moments at this point in the game, and I turned on my phone to snap a photo of the back of my kids’ heads framed by the glory of the field. My girl had a padre visor on her head and the logo looked cool, and they were talking to each other and there were men on base. It would have been a great photo. Then we all heard the crack.

The kids were all “huh?” but Bill and I were immediately on our feet, watching that sucker sail over the left field fence and score 3 for the pads, then we erupted into celebration with every other home team fan in attendance. My celebration involved jumping up and down, and whooping. That’s a legit response. Bill’s celebration, while also legit, was a bit more… how shall I put it… spastic demented assaulting….. exuberant. He went with high fives, and after giving me one he apparently intended to lean over and across my designated jumping/whooping area to offer high fives to the children.

This did not go as planned.

He caught me on a jump up, knocking me perilously off balance. There I was, in the dangerous teetering zone between vertical and horizontal, swearing silently loudly and thinking how embarrassing it would be to actually fall, right here in the ballpark in the middle of a million cheering fans. I had it. I really thought I had it. I got my legs back under me and just sort of needed to regroup and stop the forward momentum, and I did so just as the top of the seatbacks in front of me made contact with my unyielding shins, and I knew I was a goner.

Where is there to fall in the upper deck? Only one place to go: down. Once I crashed against the seat backs, the ample weight of my body made me top heavy and I tumbled right over the row of seats where my unsuspecting children sat. I got one hand out and I think I somehow managed to challenge the forces of gravity and propulsion, because I miraculously did not land on top of anyone. Except myself. On the cement.

Time stood still. I sensed a collective gasp. I immediately started saying “I’m okay! I’m okay!” and I sort of kneeled up for a minute to determine whether or not I was, in fact, okay. People kept asking if I was okay and I kept saying that I was okay, so I figured I must be okay.

I’m okay.

I got myself into the seat next to my girl and told her to please stop asking me if I was okay. I took some deep breaths. I was surprised to realize that I was still clutching my phone! Mad skillz. As my heart rate normalized and the world somehow continued turning despite my bewildered condition, I had only one thought in my head: “Get me the fuck out of here.” I quietly picked up my bag and hobbled down to the bathroom, stopping for a cup of ice at the concession stand.

I approached the mirror and surveyed the damage. My most pressing concern was that my face was throbbing where my sunglasses had pressed into my eye sockets, and my chin hurt. I pressed ice into those places and on my legs, shoulder, and hip where bruises were already forming, then I picked up my phone again and texted Ellie, because we had just been communicating about the awesome moment when the D’backs were having an unusually long mound meeting and my brilliant San Diegans displayed on the big screen that scene from Bull Durham when they talk about candlesticks and wedding registries. I told Ellie what had happened, and she replied with two words:

Blog fodder!