There’s only two things you need to know about my behaviour when I go to Montreal: 1. I eat like a carny.  2. I drink like a Lohan.  Hopefully this behaviour starts after I get off stage.

I’m working with one of my favourite headliners, Ian Sirota.  He’s originally from Montreal, so he’s pretty excited to return to Homeville(not Farmville, you weird facebook game players.)  He hasn’t been back in five years, so he has many places he wants to re-visit.  The five hour drive there is not very scenic, so I do my usual routine of counting Fifth Wheel truck stops, and pretending I know the classic rock hits  on the radio.

As we edge on downtown Montreal, Ian says we’re going to stop for the best steame in town.  He already sent me the link for their website, so I too, am excited about this steame.  In case you don’t know what a “steame” is, it’s a hot dog that’s so small, you can have four per sitting.  Or at least that’s what I tell myself.  On most trips to Montreal, I will have more steames than showers.

We pull up to Decarie Hot Dog.  I’m excited.  I didn’t even order anything when we stopped at A&W in Brockville, because I was saving my appetite for steamies.  (And you know I love A&W.)  The sign above this hole in the wall eatery is more faded than my traveller cut Chip n’ Pepper jeans.  We walk in.  There’s a counter, seven stools, two middle aged men working, and the sweet, sweet smell of grease.  I’m not even going to let the condition of the bathroom jade me from this wonderful, four dollar dinner. 

I decide fries are important too.  I’m not going to get a full blown poutine, cuz I want to save some excitement for a later day on the trip.  When the fries appear in front of me, there’s a creepy, little toothpick resting on top of them.  I throw it aside, and enjoy the hand-cut frites.*

When we’re fully satisfied from our fries and “beef,” we hit the road. 

“Have you ever had an Orange Julep?” Ian asks.

“You mean like Orange Julius?” I respond.

“No!  Orange Julep!  It’s way better than Orange Julius.  Do you want to stop for one?”

“Ummm… we don’t have to… I’m pretty stuffed from the steamies.”  And by that I really mean, I’m scared I’m going to have a major buttasstrophe(a word I learned from my American comedian friend, Christina Pazsitzky, that is derived from the word “Catastrophe,” specific to disasters from the butt.)

“Okay,” he says.  But as we cruise at the speed of Montreal traffic, the Giant Orange appears on the right and Ian guns it for the exit lane.

“I have to!”  He says.  Fair enough.  He hasn’t been to Montreal in five years.  If a grown man needs an Orange Julep, he needs an Orange Julep.  And I’ve never had one, so I should probably get excited too.

We walk into the giant Orange.  He orders a large, I order a small.

“You only want a small?”  Yes, I just want a small.  I’m not sure if these things are made with heavy cream or raw egg, but I’m pretty sure I should not taunt my stomach any more than I already have.  We get back in the car, and head for the condo we will be sharing all weekend.  I start sipping on the beverage.  Fack!  It’s delicious!  I’m sucking it back faster than that beer a bartender tries to take from you because the bar is closing.   Ian pipes up.

“See!  I told you you should have got a large!”  See.  Not all Jewish men are cheap.  Take back that stereotype, please.

Then it happens.  CRASH!  Not the car.  Not even someone else’s car.  It’s the steamies, fries and Orange Julep.  They’ve created a three-food pile up in my lower intestine.  I immediately start squeezing my butt cheeks together the same way Karey instructs me to in my Flirty Girl Fitness class.  I officially need a bathroom more than I need oxygen.  I’m sure I’m not the only one whose ever been stuck in traffic without, at the very least, a pack of Tums.

Twenty minutes later, we are inside the condo.   Now, since this is the first time ever sharing quarters with this comedian, I decide to push my bowel strength to it’s limit, and try to act like I don’t really need to use the bathroom.  Immediately he enters the bathroom.  Guys always do this- they just get up, and go, without so much as a word.  Girls, on the other hand, usually announce their trips to the bathroom, with something like, “I’ll be right back-I’m going pee.”

As he’s in there, I have to wonder if he’s going through the same pain as me?  He did mention something about acid reflux in the car.  He exits the bathroom, non-chalantly, telling me he has the power to digest a whole Wendy’s Value menu and then get in a hot air balloon ride.  I fuckin’ wish I had that strength.  Now it’s my turn in the bathroom.

“Be right back.  I gotta pee.”  See how I cover that up?  I walk in the bathroom, turn on the light, and much to my pleasure, there’s a loud fan that turns on too.  Who doesn’t love a bathroom with a loud fan?  That at least masks some of the sounds.  And so, I have my moment of zen.  Relief.  Relaxation.  That is, I’m relaxed until I flush the toilet and realize not everything’s getting on this train, if you know what I mean.  If I’m cursed in any way in life, it’s with bad plumbing- my apartments, my boyfriends’ apartments- I am in a constant battle with toilets that don’t flush.  I’d like to know what American Standard’s standards are.

What do I do now?  I’ve been co-habitating with this guy for less than 10 minutes and I’ve already violated the bathroom.  So I do what any insecure, embarrassed girl would do.  I hop in the shower.  Yes, I will just pretend that was my plan all along.  I was in the bathroom to shower.  Even though I left all my shower materials in my suitcase, which is still in the entrance way, and I will have to use the hand towel to dry off with, because all the towels are in the closet in the hall, I would just shower.   There’s some Mandarin Orange shower gel in there, which should take care of some of the smell, plus to be fair, I’m pretty sure I needed a shower anyway.  By the time I get out of the shower, the toilet will replenish itself enough for it’s second flush, which he will believe(hopefully) is just me disgarding a Q-Tip or some dental floss.  By the time he has to use the bathroom again, he will think the worst thing I did in here was stick a random string of my long, blonde hair to one of the tiles(sorry, I do that.  There’s always one that gets stuck to my finger, and I need to get it off.)

It was a lot of work for a bunch of hot dogs, an Orange Julep and my reputation, but I pulled it off.  Well, not really.  Ten minutes later I will just confess everything.  I suppose you’re wondering why I haven’t mentioned the show?  The Habs are in the playoffs.  There didn’t end up being a show.   It ended up being a night out with the comics, full of drinks, and a 3:00am Shawarma… 

I told you I eat like a carny here.

lol,

comedian girl

* Do you know they purposely put a toothpick in with your fries in Montreal?  It’s supposed to be your untensil, I guess.

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