When I measured my age in single digits, one of my favorite things in the world was root beer. There were ads touting a frosty mug of frothy, ice cold root beer on TV in those days (and this WAS before color TV.) Dad had introduced me to root beer early in life and by the time I was 5, I was addicted. He would finish work before Mom did, so he'd pick my sister and me up from the babysitter and take us to the A&W Drive-in. We'd get great big chunky glass mugs of root beer brought to the car. The ice would have already formed on the outside of the mugs - even in the heat of the Las Vegas desert. The three of us would sit there freezing our hands and chugging enough root beer to float small nations.
A&W closed it's restaurants. They bottle their root beer now. It's not the same. The flavor is flatter. It's no where near as rich and spicy.
So while I doubt there's a single person alive or dead who'd describe me or what I write as frothy, if we extend the root beer story out to metaphor, I might could get by with dark, rich, and spicy with a sweet creamy finish.
But frothy as in bubbly and effervescent?
I don't think my train stops at that station. The tracks do take long winding paths through sarcasm and smart-assery, though. Does that count?
Who knows where there's still an A&W brick and mortar hold out? I need a frosty mug.