Canada

Paranormal Investigators Always Says “Happy Canada Day” to Me


Today marked Canada Day, the offspring of the old Dominion Days, here in the other part of America.

No, it’s not like the Fourth of July. Canadians acquired their independence quiet peacefully and not under the pretense of seeking democracy when they really are just peeved about paying taxes.

We attended the parade in Fort Saskatchewan. It started a half hour late and inexplicably broke down and stalled about midway for nearly ten minutes.

Favorite float?

The Paranormal Explorers from Edmonton.

Why yes, that is a hearse with a ghoulie crawling towards the crowd with gaping jaw and menacing intent. But it got even better.

Nothing says “happy observance of your independent nation status” like a zombie baby from Salem’s Lot.

Today’s parade was sponsored by so many businesses that briefly longed with the farm implement laden small town parades of an Iowa 4th of July.

In case you need a bit of ghost busting though,

Edmonton is a hotbed of psychic activity, but they will travel – for expenses.

Final photo for the day,

Parade viewing is exhausting, so if you can  – make up your truck bed and snuggle in with a beverage.

Happy Canada Day!

Washroom Adventures


UB shared a washroom tale that reminded me of my most recent adventure in public urination.

Well, not “public” because I am not quite Canadian enough yet to squat on the side of the road when nature calls in the middle of the prairie expanses*, but the public access to washrooms here, and their questionable cleanliness, continues to be a blight upon the resumé of my adopted land.

I was at Safeway on Friday. Yoga was cancelled as Jade’s daughter was felled with the latest plague of pukey tummy cutting a swath through the local schools. Dee was down last weekend and listed about pale and whiny for days after the vomiting ceased. So I cancelled rondezvous plans for lunch at BP’s with Rob and invited him home instead.

In our early days, Rob came home for lunch every day, but this cut into productivity on many levels and we reluctantly called a halt to it at the start of the school year this last fall. Lunch at home is a rare treat.

As I cruised the grocery aisle with purpose, I swung by its only washroom to make a pit stop. Occupied. Shopped a bit more and tried again. Occupied. A third try had me missing the vacancy by seconds as a young woman and her toddler emerged and an elderly man in gray sweats out dashed me for the door.

Heavy sigh.

I know this guy. I have seen him in the store before. He is one of two gentlemen whose homefulness is questionable and who use the Safeway washroom (did I mention there is only one in the entire store?) as a full service bath.

Standing outside the door, I heard the water running and the paper towels tearing. 4 minutes. At least. Water and towel tearing.

He slunk by me with head down and I walked in to find a sopping sink and wet floor.

Normally, I can be very yoga about this. Homeless people need to wash too, but I am less sanguine about the whole thing when I really need to pee. Patanjali just cannot be heard over the urgency of this particular bodily function. I am not above some things.

UB’s restroom tale spoke of being admonished to wash his hands by a “friendly” note** posted anonymously for all.

I didn’t go near that sink and I used the edge of my jacket sleeve to flush the toilet (would show no evidence of engagement – in case you were wondering) and the door handle.

I tried not to think about what might have been washed in that sink.

Seriously, one never knows – unless one is waiting in line.

*On our recent Spring Break road trip to the southlands, there were a few drivers here and there blithely pissing into the warming breeze.

**Friendly note courtesy of UB’s blog. Link in first paragraph, in case you missed it.

Road Random


Winnipeg was cold. The Holiday Inn where we stayed was having a hill-billy family special which attracted the range of the spectrum for the working class version of a weekend getaway – renting a poolside suite for an overnight. Children frolicked under the benignly neglectful eyes of parents draped across Kmart special deck furniture seemingly unaware that should their child begin to exhibit signs of being water-logged, their lack of swim attire wouldn’t necessarily spur one of the few properly attired parents in the pool to step in for them.

Rob certainly wasn’t going to step up. In fact, between cold hard stares that made the teacher in me kelly green and the clipped warnings to two not so little girls about watching their surroundings, he was ready to help a few of the offspring of the wet but still basically unwashed to Davy Jones’ locker.

“Next time,” I said, “we’ll have to remember to ask for a room on a floor above the pool.”

“We won’t be coming to Winnipeg again,” he replied.

Problem solved.

It wasn’t as bad as Battleford. We stayed at the Super 8 because the only other hotel is owned by the casino. We stayed there the time before and listened to a herd of teenagers thundering overhead …. all … night … long.

The Super 8’s clientele is made up of the men who are working in the area on the various temporary projects. At breakfast on Friday morning, they watched us with bemused looks as though vaguely recalling wives and children of their own.

Hotels in Canada are a hit and miss affair. Canadians accept truly awful accommodations as the price of admission, but the former full-time American in me has to sigh heavily.

It took an hour to cross the border. The line stretched on forever but as far as I could tell, no one was being anally probed, flogged or water-boarded, so I have no idea what the hold up was.

North Dakota was water-logged. At one point before Grand Forks, the water was up on the road and it lapped the edges for a good while between the border, on and off, until after Fargo.

In Minneapolis – we shopped. I totally went ugly American and bought an awesome sticky, thick yoga mat that I have coveted ever since I spied another woman in my training using the brand. We outfitted Dee for soccer at Dick’s (yeah, that’s what it’s called) and got her one of those Razor scooters.

And we ate at Panera Bread. We have no Panera Bread. I don’t know why. Just like we have no Target. Another unsolved mystery that begs for resolution. The only way Minneapolis could have been more awesome would have been a trip to Target. I think it’s Target’s Mecca of origin after all.

We swam again. The hotel was not full, so we had the pool mostly to ourselves but for a young couple and their two quite wee children and the young wife’s sister.

Rob was looking forward to a soak in the hot tub after a long day’s drive, but the sight of two swim-diapered young-uns in the bubbling water changed his mind. Mine too. What are people thinking when they put incontinent children into hot tubs?

The husband was a redneck. No, he really was. Cowboy hat, boots and button-down long sleeve striped shirt. Very Kenny Chesney except for the beer gut and the fact that he looked a little drunk which contrasted with the Coke can he was sipping on like a baby on the teat.

The two sisters were enjoying the children and trying to chat. He was suggesting that it was time to go back to their room about every ten minutes but the two year old boy kept objecting.

“Wouldn’t ya rather watch tv?” Cowboy Daddy said. “We have a tv back in the room.”

Sad? Scary? Clearly not a future that bodes well.

After they left, we had the place to ourselves until the teens, hot tubbing middle agers and grandmas began to pour in. Clearly, the mall was now closed.