I was wondering whether I should blog this, as it’s rather personal, but then I decided I was probably being a prude. I mean, if Ed can fart discreetly on his blog, I can talk about this.

I went to the chiropractor for the first time about ten days ago. I expected to be lying face down and have the guy poke his hands expertly into my bare back, and I wasn’t prepared for how involved and “intimate” the procedure ended up being. I mean, I’m lying on my side, in my panties and a patient’s robe, and there’s this guy - my age - holding my foot between his thighs, holding my arms crossed against my chest and pushing into my upper buttcheek with his own body to get my pelvis to pop. All the while I’m thinking, “Hey! I don’t normally pay for this.” When he’s done both sides, he connects me to some sort of electric machine and leaves. His assistant disconnects me later.

Left me with a strange feeling akin to “what, no cuddling?”

But at least with the chiro there was foreplay. I mean, we did spend quite some time talking about my x-rays and exercise habits, occasionally drifting into unrelated topics like travelling. That’s really not bad.

However, I’ve recently experienced what I’d call a pretty extreme lack of bedside manner, at the gyno’s office. I’m looking for a new one.

This is how the visit went: his assistant asks me a few admin questions (address change and such) then she tells me to go to the exam room, drop my underwear, nylons and shoes, leave my skirt on and climb into the stirrups. I do this, then when I’m nicely set up in one of the most disgraceful positions imaginable, crotch duly pointing to the sky, the doctor (first time I see him in a year) comes in. He says hi, but doesn’t make eye contact. I have to crane my head to see him, and within seconds he’s poking around in there with a cold speculum, painfully pushing down on my stomach. No questions asked. Not 20 seconds later, he snaps off the glove and says “Ok, meet me in my office”.

I climb down, don’t bother putting on my stockings and shoes again, and walk into the adjoining office (remember I’m wearing a long skirt, it’s not like I’m walking around with Abraham Lincoln in the wind, if you know what I mean). He sees my bare feet and says “Oh my God! Get dressed! Don’t embarrass me!”, with this Kurtzian “the horror, the horror…” look on his face. This is the guy who was just palpating my FRIKKIN ovaries! NOW he wants me to be all modest? Embarrassed, I go put on my stockings and shoes, and when I return to the office he doesn’t wait for me to sit down, hands me a prescription and says “see ya next year”.

So, I’m dumping my gyno for both lack of foreplay and afterwards cuddling. Overreaction?

Me: 13$ to get in, are they kidding? Let’s go see this at the Parc tomorrow. I feel bad encouraging this.
He: Well, we’re here now. Just don’t buy popcorn.
Me: That’s not the point. I’m still giving them 13$.
He: Yeeeeees, but if you don’t get popcorn, you’re denying them an additional seven bucks. Isn’t that sticking it to them enough?
Me: For the same 13$ somewhere else, I’d get admission and snacks. How am I sticking it to them by denying myself the snacks I’d get for the same amount of money, somewhere else?
He: (rolls eyes) But I wanna see this.
Me: All right, let’s see it.
He: No, I don’t want you to bitch and moan the whole time.
Me: I won’t. I’ve decided I’m just going to give them a bad plug on my blog later.

(Later)

A preview for Le Divorce is playing. There are a lot of American actors, as well as Thierry Lhermitte who seems to have a major role in the movie. At the end of the preview, they name all the actors, but not Thierry Lhermitte.

He: Ben c’est ça. Fuck Thierry Lhermitte.
Me: (GASP!) You said Fuck Thierry Lhermitte! You know you’ll have to go to the Plateau confessional tomorrow. Combined with the fact that we haven’t bought proscuitto in a week, you’ll probably have to recite nine Ondes de Choc. Else we’ll never again get a table at the Avenue.

And is it me or does Roger Ebert love everything? Here are some of what other critics said about Gigli (which got a 19 out of 100 on Metacritic):

Rolling Stone’s Peter Travers:
The only people likely to get a kick out of Gigli … are Madonna and her director hubby Guy Ritchie. Finally there’s a movie as jaw-droppingly awful as their “Swept Away.”

USA Today’s Claudia Puig:
An embarrassing debacle…the rare movie that never seems to take off, but also never seems to end. It tries hard to titillate, but ends up making audiences want to avert their eyes.

Jonathan Foreman, NY post:
Even [J-LO’s] remarkable sex appeal isn’t enough to distract you from the idiocies coming out of her mouth.

Newsweek / Jeff Giles:
After the schadenfreudian thrill of watching beautiful people humiliate themselves wears off, it has the same annihilating effect on your will to live.

Roger Ebert:
Lopez and Affleck are sweet and appealing in their performances; the buzz said they didn’t have chemistry, but the buzz was wrong.

Okay, he did say the movie didn’t work, but I can’t forgive him for the thumbs up to Maid in Manhattan. To me, a thumbs-up from Roger is about as credible as a good review from Tribute magazine.

Oh yeah, lest I forget the negative plug: The AMC theater is way overpriced! You don’t even inflated prices like that, at the Paramount! It’s obscene!

But I really am in a good mood, really.

So I’m in the living room reading last night, and I look up from my book just to see something white go past my window on its way down (I’m on the second floor of a three-storey building). Then I hear a big thump.

I go outside to see what the upstairs neighbors are throwing out their windows, but there’s nothing on the ground. Then I start hearing anguished, lost meows from under my balcony. Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no… it was a cat that fell! I’m looking for it, not really wanting to see. I ring the neighbor’s bell (cute in that gay way so many men have around here). “Tu m’niaises-tu?!!”, he says. Yeah, I ring stranger’s bells all the time, dude.

By the (very short) time he makes it down to the second floor to meet me, the cat’s already back up to the second floor as well, looking at us with this “what?” look.

C’est drôle un chat.

A little girl stands on a stage with tears in her eyes, trying to figure out how to spell Lycanthrope, fully aware that success or failure at this crucial moment may have a significant influence on her future.

My friends, I’ve finally seen the must-see movie of the year (so far), namely Spellbound. The only reason why it’s taken me two weeks to write about it, is that I was afraid I lacked the words to do it justice.

Spellbound, a documentary about the US National Spelling Bee, follows eight children from very different backgrounds from the moment they win their regional spelling bee, through their preparation for the nationals, and finally at the national spelling bee in Washington.

The movie is by turns hilarious and heartbreaking. For sheer human drama and nail-biting suspense, it leaves all of the summer’s big-budget blockbusters in the dust.

You follow all kinds of kids, kids from disadvantaged neighborhoods, who have made it thus far despite relatively uninterested parents, and who really need to win. You follow kids with very pushy parents, who hire a different private tutor for each foreign language of origin, and you follow awkward geeky kids who could use the boost to their ego. You want them all to win. You know they won’t all do so.

Lump in your throat, edge of your seat, tears and applause of relief, this movie has it all. Run to see Spellbound at the Cinéma du Parc. Go!

Steph over at Your Mileage May Vary has just given birth to a new Montreal-area blog, Typo Negative by the fabulous Lou. Well, not just given birth, but I’ve just noticed.

Why don’t you go see the baby?

“I, for one, know of no sweeter sight for a man’s eyes than his own country”

- Homer

Or city, for that matter. I’m back.

Well, my stay in Vegas is drawing to an end. I initially couldn’t figure out if I liked the place. The casinos are truly impressive and, objectively speaking, I have to admit some are downright beautiful. I just can’t get past the fact that these beautiful castles were not at all built out of a love of beauty, but rather a love of money.

The city is a strange hodge-podge, a mix of rich and poor, both impressive in their own way, neither in really good taste. Squeezed in between the incredible monuments to opulence that are the casinos, you find all manner of dirty little businesses in disrepair (”Do It Yourself Divorce Kits!” “World’s Best Uncensored Adult Hypnotist!” “Hot Chick Visits Your Room 49$!”). Vegas reminds me of an aging starlet still dressed in sequins, wobbling on stilettos, rhinestones and age spots on full display.

All that being said, when you finally let yourself enter the game and just start taking the city for what it is, basically a giant theme park with free alcohol, I have to admit it can really be a lot of fun. For a few days, by somewhat reserving judgment as best I could, and taking the city on its own terms, well, I’ve had a blast. A blast I’m glad to be ending today, but a wonderful time nonetheless.

I’m sitting at a café, waiting for my order. The Borg comes up.

- (robotic, with a southern accent) Greetings female.
- (looking around, a little embarrassed) Uh, hi.
- Be not alarmed. You may have gotten the wrong idea from what you’ve seen on the two-dimensional entertainment box.
- Is that right? Ah, here’s my food. I gotta go.
- Success on your digestion.