I sure do like Canadians too, you betcha.

My favorite Canuckdote (can I get away with that portmanteau?) was when I flew, pregnant, to Europe. On the way there, I connected through Newark, the armpit of America. After declining the rape scanners, they made me wait 15 Minutes to get a female TSA agent for a pat down. The airport wasn’t busy; it’s just that the guy in charge of my line was too lazy to walk over and get her, so he’d halfheartedly shout at her every so often, and she never heard him. Then I got my molestationy pat down from the eyerollingest agent you can imagine, who never acknowledged me as a person, but simply groped my body and then stalked away.

On the way home, I connected through Toronto. The lady who promptly arrived to give me my pat down asked for permission to touch my belly (to which I replied, “I’m pretty sure I can’t say no, but thanks for asking!”), apologized for and hurried through the uncomfortable parts, and wished me a nice day.

Canadians are my favorite.