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Like most tots, I luuuuuvvveeeddd Halloween. Of course in those good ol days when we lived yonder in PG Canny a kid could run all night sans parental units. Anyhoot, my favorite Halloween special was, is and will always be “It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!”. There are so many classic lines in there it never gets old.

Linus, “I thought little girls always believed what they were told. I thought little girls were innocent and trusting.”
Sally Brown, “Welcome to the Twentieth Century.”

………………………

Sally Brown, “If you try to hold my hand, I’ll slug you!”

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Lucy Van Pelt, “Bleach! My lips touched dog lips! Bleagh! Poison lips! Bleagh!”

My second favorite “scary” choice is “The Ghost and Mr. Chicken”. Being a huge Don Knotts fan this is right up my wheelhouse. This was the height of his popularity in the 60’s. This was also the first movie I got to see at Oxon Hill Theater by myself! I was only 6, so maybe I wasn’t alone? Oh well, it was plenty scary then and I still love it.

Joan Staley played Don Knotts love interest Alma Parker. Did I mention that Joan appeared in Playboy in November 1958? (Ahem, I uh . . . actually have that issue) And the movie was set in a fictional town in Kansas. Hey my Mom is from Kansas. It’s corny and I love it all the more for it. Netflix that baby, it’s worth it. Of course I own it on DVD, and have several black and white movie stills, some lobby cards and a 6ft high drive-in movie poster I got on Ebay a few years ago for the incredibly low sum of . . . can’t say, my wife reads this thing.

Happy Halloween from TheDadReport!

With Austen’s softball season eating up most weekends this fall we had to squeeze in our annual pumpkin patch trip last Saturday. We all pile into the car and head out to Homestead Farm in Poolesville, Md. When we left the weather was nice, but about 10 minutes from the patch it opened up. We were too close to return home and go on Sunday. So we braved it. You could call that a mistake.

We all had coats with hoods, all except Mommy. Mommy had on a Polartec that was putting a ShamWow to shame with all the rain it was soaking up. The owner of the farm told us if we wanted to walk out to the patch he’d give us a trash bag to wear. (Cue Austen recoiling in fashion killing horror)

Mommy was the hero, she wore the trash bag over her now sponge-like Polartec. The sight of Mommy in a trash bag suit trudging out to the patch was too much for our 10yr old diva, “I will not be seen walking with Mommy in that.” And with that she stomped off a good 20 feet ahead of the rest of us.

So we straggle into the patch, in the rain, and there we see a bunch of pumpkins that look exactly like the ones already picked back at the main farm building. Hhhhmmm?  . . . let’s see, I could have just bought the exact same pumpkins without getting soaked . . . why am I standing in a field? . . . did I mention the wind picked up and the rain, which is now pouring, is coming down sideways . . . did I mention that? “Hey Dad, over here, (way over here) this is the one I want.” Okay sez I, bending my 3 herniated-disc-surgery- having-old-ass-back down to lift. I take, oh a few (hundred) steps to put said pumpkin prize into the wagon when I hear the following, “Uh, I think I like this one better.” Get the picture?

Of course now Daddy has to slog the three 1-ton pumpkins back to the main building. Funny how that wheelbarrow seemed fairly light on the way out now seemed slightly heavy. Did I mention the rain coming down sideways? At this point the main building seemed to take 2 steps away from every 1 step I took towards it. My neck is so tight from holding up the wheelbarrow that I’m starting to resemble The Incredible Hulk. It’s here, with the sideways rain that Miss 10yr old Fashion Sense knuckles under and says, “Give me that trash bag.” Several hours later (OK, maybe 10 minutes) we were able to finally cover the 300 yards from the patch to the main building. There, I had the pleasure of lifting ALL of the pumpkins once again onto the scales. One more rain soaked slog to the car (did I mention it came down sideways?) to lift the pumpkins yet again and we were done.

Pumpkins selected, hauled, paid for and in the car. We’re all soaked to the bone and we’re looking at at least a 40 minute ride home. Now I DON”T do wet clothes, never had never will. (Cue the embarrassing Dad will do anything music) No wet jeans for me. Next thing anyone knows I’m driving us home sitting in my spanking new Old Navy boxers.

I can’t wait for next year.

As a Nats fan I don’t much care for the Phillies. After reading what happened to some really good Nats people in Philly during the season my ardor for their demise grows stronger with each pitch. Whenever people talk about Philly fans whether it be in baseball or football they all laugh about it. I have no problem being a loud fan, but what the Philly fans do is criminal, flat out criminal. Go Tampa Bay!

In the car last night Austen is telling us all about the Halloween dance that’s coming up at school. This will be her first dance in middle school. ALL the kids are going. Someone told her about past dances so she’s relaying that info as well. As usual, her younger sister Erin has the line of the night.

Austen, “I heard that the deejay sucks.”
Me, “Uh . . . I don’t think that’s the word you should . . .”
Austen, “Oh, yeah . . . he stinks.”
Me, “Well I’m not sure . . .”
Austen, “Can you believe he played the Hokey Pokey?”
Erin, “If he plays the Hokey Pokey ‘I’d slap him all about’“

Miniature Golf. I used to love miniature golf, now not so much. I’m not sure where or when I stopped giving mini the love. Lots of standing around, kind of expensive for the experience, worrying about that family of 39 jackals that seem to be behind us at every course. I hate it when they start encroaching on us when I’m trying to size up a fairly tough windmill hole. “Hey, do you mind . . . a little quiet in the gallery please.”

Imagine my unmitigated joy when ALL the mini love came flooding back in one big fell swoop. I speak of The Perils of the Lost Jungle miniature golf course in Herndon, Virginia. You can find it at Woody’s Golf Range. It’s a real nice place, hitting range, batting cages and of course the best mini golf going.

Austen near the Mummy's Tomb.

My girls are nuts about The Lost Jungle. You really have to go and play it to see what I’m raving about. Check out a few pics I took on our last visit. The animatronics really separate this place from the run-of-the-mill astroturf lame ass courses that I grew to dislike. There’s a nod to Bogey from The African Queen on one hole, a witch doctor, a pith-helmeted jungle explorer on others. You can walk through a tomb with a mummy laying in it.  Want a pygmy blow dart guy taking a shot at you? check. Want a gator to rise up out of a lagoon to take a chomp at you? check. There’s a tree full of monkeys that have broken into some hooch and are happily swigging away. There’s a cave with bats hanging down from the ceiling. There’s a skeleton stuck in quicksand, a hissing cobra, and much more.

The Mummy at The Perils of the Lost Jungle mini golf

It’s not cheap at $9.25 for adults and $8.00 for kids but hey, it’s fun and it’s outside. Note that you can’t just walk the course with your kids or “share” a putter between two peeps. They’re onto that move, everyone that goes in the jungle pays. Don’t worry, it’s worth it. Sorry I’m late with this review, if you can’t get out there soon, tuck the info away for the spring and summer. Call before you go because they do close the jungle when it gets cold. Now, if I can just hit that ten footer without taking a spear in the ass.

Oh God.

Just about every morning I go to Einstein Bros Bagels to get a bagel and the elixir of the Gods commonly known as Diet Coke. I then stroll into Starbucks next door, sit down, eat and read.

Also just about every day I pass 1, sometimes 4 people asking me for money. I try to discern whether these people really need my help or are just attempting to get money for another purpose. I have no way of being sure. Admittedly I use a flawed system of simply looking at said person, euphemistically called “hobos” by my young daughters.

Again, this is a flawed method, but one of the hobos has a cell phone, thus she don’t rate in my mind. The others wear different clothes every day, are super clean and have shoes, good decent shoes. I know, I know, describing people that way is lazy and uninformed. I’m describing the regulars to contrast with the guy I call “The Einstein Man.” I call him that because he has wild grey hair reminiscent of Albert.

I see The Einstein Man every once in a while. He is completely and utterly filthy. He has no shoes, only rags tied around his feet. He talks to himself. He never asks for anything. The few times I’ve see him he’s invariably digging through trash cans looking for food. Man. That does rate in my book.

So, a few weeks ago I buy him a bagel, take it outside to where he was laying down and give it to him. He said, “Thanks.” I felt pretty decent. Read more »

Austen and I jump into Lisa’s car to go to softball practice. The radio is tuned to a country station and the singer is singing something about God.

Austen, “Wow, country music people must really like God, they always sing about him. It’s like they worship God like a . . .”
Me, “A God?”
Austen, “Yeah.”

It’s raining this morning so I’m driving Austen to the bus stop 2 blocks away. Hey, it’s raining hard, leave me alone. Of course she wants to stand in the rain and look cool. Uh, no. I did the same shit, “What? I don’t wanna wear a coat to school. (Insert Mom reason #37) So? I don’t care if it’s 43 degrees out . . . my coat makes me hot.” (Read uncool)

And now here I am :-)

Anyway, while we’re killing time waiting for the bus Austen asks how the Skins are doing overall this preseason. She watched some of the brutal beatdown last week, a loss to Carolina 47-3. I said we were 3-0 before that. I then uttered something like, “man did we get killed”. And that started a list of variable terms on the Redskins beating.

Me, “slaughtered”
Austen, “liquidated”
Erin, “beat”
Me, “eviscerated”
Austen, “smashed”
Erin, “creamed”
Me, “pureed”
Austen, “all isn’t well”
Erin, “whipped”
Me, “stomped”
Austen, “exposed”
Erin, “crushed”
Me, “blasted”
Austen, “emotionally scarred”
Erin, “crying to their mommies”
Me, “sliced and diced”
Austen, “frappéd”

And then the bus came.

Yeah, that Intervention. That’s where I’m headed if I can’t stop my addiction. I guess I’m halfway to being cured cuz I recognize I have a problem. Big time problem. Damn it though, it feels so good when I do it. It puts me on another plane, I just can’t explain it. I can score just about whenever or wherever. Got my latest fix today in Burtonsville, yesterday, College Park. I find myself justifying reasons to be in certain parts of town.

To look at me you’d have zilch-point-shit idea anything was going on. I look and act normal, for the most part. Forget about the money I’m blowing, I just don’t care. Wasting gas at plus $4 a gallon, who gives a shit. I’ll drive anywhere to get what I need.

It goes something like this:

Me, “Hey baby whassup?”
Connection, “Whassup with you playa?”
Me, “You know, it’s your world I’m just living in it.”
Connection, “Whadya need? . . . got a new ship in, limes are killa yo. Get some reds on, they da bomb . . . blues are . . .”
Me, “Stop it. You know exactly what I want.”
Connection, “Damn, you do need this, you all jumpy an shit.”
Me, “Yeah, yeah whatever, I got a problem, blah, blah, blah, hurry up.”
Connection, “That’ll be . . .”
Me, “I know how much, damn.”

Rinse and repeat. That’s me now. That’s my life 24/7*. It’ll stay like that until the end of the summer when things seem to change. I get a little more rational through fall and winter. Come spring, it starts all over again. That’s when Rita’s opens and I can get my mango ice on once again.

*OK, maybe that was channeling The Wire a bit too much. OK, a lot too much. But, every time I get my mango ice on I do channel Clay Davis, “Sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiittttt.”

I’ve got my eyes (and hands) on a much larger concern. There exists a staple that I absolutely cannot live without. I can drive less. In our household that priceless commodity is toilet paper. TP, Toilet Paper, The Big Wipe, Ass Cleaners, Dook Scrubbers, Sh*tBegone, you get the picture.

I never really thought about toilet paper before. Before a wife and two girls entered the picture. Now, it is one of my obsessions. It is a minor obsession I assure you. A major obsession would be those Cottonelle flushable wipes. More on that in a bit.

With 3 gals (1 adult, 2 fast growing kids) in the house I started to notice a pronounced drain on the tp supply. Hhhmm? Must be my imagination. I could’ve sworn I just changed that roll yesterday. Oh well. A day later, no mistake, another new roll. Should have been more alert to the clues. Kids, as many know like to use the bathroom, then leave sans flushing. Me, “Hey, who left the foot high mound of toilet paper in the toilet? Is that much paper really necessary for a pee?” I shudder at the number of trees needed for a “number 2″ natural event in my house. At this rate, my family is denuding forests at a clip that would make rainforest/slasher farmers look like they were moving in quicksand. Read more »