House Call

I had just settled Le Petit onto the couch, post-nap snack in hand, and was headed to the kitchen to get the Dustbuster ready, when the doorbell rang. At the door was a large, grinning French man who greeted me with a hearty "Bonjour!" I smiled, awkwardly, which is what I usually do when I'm expecting someone to begin speaking rapidly to me in French, which I will probably not understand.

"Habitez-vous ici?" he asked. Oh good, a short sentence.

"Well, um, I'm the au pair...."

"Yes, Madame asked me come here. I'm a doctor. I am ostéopathe. You know ostéopathe?"

"Oh, well..."

Meanwhile, Le Petit had come bounding over from the couch and was asking the doctor questions. Or rather, he asked the same question several times over. ("Monsieur? Monsieur? Monsieur? Pourquoi tu es ici? Pourquoi? Pourquoi? Monsieur?")

Monsieur was on the phone with V. "You want to talk to her?"

Yes please! It was indeed V on the other end.

"I'm sorry, Kate. I forgot to tell you. This is the doctor for your back. He is the best in France. You don't have to let him see you if you don't want. He will do Le Petit and me also. But he is the best and I think it is a good idea."

Sigh. Oh, what the hell. Sure, doc, why not? So I gave Le Petit another compote and turned on Disney Junior and went in for my first visit to a chiropractor. One I didn't exactly sign up for, by the way. You know how difficult it is to try to make small talk when you're at the dentist? Try keeping up a conversation when you're twisted into a pretzel in your bra on your boss's bed while a French chiropractor you've never met before and who doesn't speak a whole lot of English attempts to crack your back.

"Don't go to party tonight," he was telling me. "You can drink alcool? You know alcool?"

"Well, yeah."

"Don't drink too much tonight. If you are bourré it will be very bad. You know bourré?"

"Um..."

"Bourré is like--" He let his head hang to the side and stuck his tongue out to mime puking. "No, you would be more pompette."

"What's pompette?"

"Pompette is more, nice. Or cute. You are English?"

"Américaine."

"Bourré is like the English girls. I was in London and they all were wearing such short skirts, and all so bourré all the time. And in very high heels. It was very bad..."

The man has obviously never been to the intersection of Clark and Addison on a weekend, or he might think more kindly of English girls. By the way, I'm now thinking about changing the title of my blog to "La Jeune Fille Pompette." Thoughts?