Non-Adventures in The Hat

I have really screwed up these five sun-n-fun-filled days in Medicine Hat. I have thoroughly not taken advantage of the tourism opportunities of this, Alberta's sixth largest city. The two days of mind-splitting pain where I was unable to read, write or leave the dark, silent shroud of the room didn't help. Neither does the fact that I snigger any time I see 'The Gas City,' which is how the brochures refer to this place.

This hotel, the Coast Hotel Medicine Hat, is located just off the highway and next to a sprawled-out mall of no consequence in the south end of town. I was right about the Starbucks down the block. It is the only one here. I was, however, wrong to mock Pasta-bilities. Apparently, it's very good.

Not sure if I can find time for lunch in between checking out the massive London Drugs or the giant Winners, or speaking of giant, the Giant Tiger Family Discount Store. Okay, I've already checked all those places out. At Michael's craft supply store yesterday, I seriously considered buying a 'Real Indian Moccasin Kit' for $24.

And after that, I went to Value Village. Because we learned, didn't we readers, that small-town VVs have the best stuff. Found some more kick-ass cowboy boots, but the jerks wanted $14 for them. Forget it. Considered buying another ridiculous hat. Boyfriend has experienced so much joy out of mocking me for that rabbit-fur Elmer Fudd hat I got in Kamloops.

I settled on a book. I wanted a memoir because I'm writing a memoir, but I also wanted something that was the exact opposite in feel to Tropic of Cancer. The only memoir in the Medicine Hat Value Village Luxury Goods of America Boutique was Rebecca Eckler's Knocked Up. She's one of those love-her-or-hate-her people. Me = Hate. I read the whole thing in one sitting to get the insipitude over with and then I threw it against the wall. I think I'm a little bit dumber today. My memoir will be better than that tripe, I promise.

Last night, because it was our last night and anyone can tolerate anything for just one night, Boyfriend and I took the black light to the bedspread. Boyfriend has the light for seeing something inside of the gas vessels he's been lurking in this week. So, we went CSI on our hotel room. The weird thing? I was disappointed there weren't gratuitous bodily fluid stains all over it. Not a one. We wandered around the room, hoping for something (anything) to gross us out. But there was only a blob of mustard near the microwave and a streak of something on the curtains.

This morning when we got up and checked out, there was an email posted by the front desk. The guy who stayed in room 110 sells those CSI lights. He checked out his room and it was the cleanest room he's ever seen. In the whole world, he's never seen one this good. So, the one time I have a black light kicking around, I go and pick the world's cleanest hotel room. The room least likely to have spooge stains. My life stinks.