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Petite Confessions

A HUMOROUS MEMOIRETTE

WITH SASSY DRINK RECIPES

 

 

VICKI LESAGE

 

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Published by Party Girl Press

 

Copyright © 2015 by Vicki Lesage

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

 

 

Cover design by Ellen Meyer and Clara Vidal

Author photo by Mickaël Lesage and Damien Croisot

 


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Table of Contents

 

Introduction

Petite Sips

Keg Party Class

Sangria Spritzer

Deux Pieds Gauche

Rockin’ Mojito

Total Eclipse of Good Judgment

Vanilla Vodka Shot

Drinking Hall of Fame

Pretty Good Bloody Mary

Petite Enfants

Virgins & Baby Fleas

Virgin Banana Daiquiri

Please and Thank You

Spiced Mulled Wine

Oh LĂ  LĂ , Compression Stockings

Aperol Spritz

Five Glorious Minutes

Iced Coffee Delight

Petite Eats

Warning: May Contain Fingers

Whiskey Nog

Attitude Check, Please

Teeny Bellini

That’s a Latte Ask

Holiday Latte Cocktail

Petite Makeovers

Parisian Laser Hair Removal

Sparkling Caipirinha

Face Mask Fail

Mulled Gin

The First Wobbly Step

Ice Cream Float-tail

My Business Is None of Your Business

Lemon Cake

Petite Living

Pick-Up Lines with the Most Fromage

Mind Eraser

10 Ways Living in Paris Is Like Dental Work

The Fluoride Treatment

Venturing Past the Quartier

Mixed Midori

A Note from Vicki Lesage

About the Author

Acknowledgements

 


Introduction

There comes a time in every girl’s life when she needs to confess to the world just how many times she’s passed out on a bathroom floor. How many times she drank too many glasses of Bordeaux and stumbled home. How many times…

Oh wait, scratch that. That would be très embarrassing.

What if instead she just shared a few of her less-than-proud moments? Times when she tried to pull off cool dance moves but found out that not only was The Shopping Cart out, but it had never been in. Times when she tried to speak French with the locals, only to call people virgins and end up eating a finger.

Intrigued?

In this collection of petites confessions, I share times I slipped up, tripped up, and flipped out on my journey to establish a new life in Paris. It hasn’t been easy (and in fact got exponentially harder once I had kids!), but 10 years down the road I’m still living, loving, and surviving in the City of Light. If you like what you see, I embarrass myself further in my full-length memoirs, Confessions of a Paris Party Girl, Confessions of a Paris Potty Trainer, and Christmas Confessions & Cocktails.

Oh, that reminds me: cocktails! Each story in this collection is paired with a delicious drink recipe, perfectly tailored to the story. Or at least kinda sorta related to the story.

I hope you’ll laugh (at me or with me, I’m not picky), cry, and then have a fab time taste-testing these mouth-watering libations.

Happy reading!

 

Vicki Lesage

Paris, 2015

 

P.S. Here’s the part where I tell you to please drink responsibly so I don’t get sued. PLEASE DRINK RESPONSIBLY SO I DON’T GET SUED. We don’t want to take all the fun out of it. Cheers!

 


 

Petite Sips

 

“Parenting is like a glass of wine. It’s… wait, did someone say wine?”

 

Keg Party Class

 

In college, I was one classy chick.

After a long day of playing teacher’s pet in World Geography and Differential Equations, I’d head out with the gang to one of the numerous keg parties in my small university town of Columbia, Missouri. While my fellow co-eds handed over $5 in exchange for a red plastic cup and all the beer they could drink, I brought my own wine.

And wine glass.

Told you I was classy.

Drunken students surrounded me, slamming lukewarm beers while I sipped daintily from my black-stemmed glassware, made out of actual, breakable glass.

I suppose I should specify that this fancy glass came from Walmart and my fancy wine came from a box.

Further adding to the class factor, I mixed the wine with Fanta into order to be able to chug it alongside my beer-drinking companions during drinking games. They’d make trips to the keg, I’d pull my two-liter bottle of mixed deliciousness from my oversized purse and fill ’er up.

Round after round of Drinking Jenga, Kings, Golf, or Quarters, my lips and teeth would grow more and more stained with the syrupy concoction, drawing even more attention to my bizarre choice of drink.

“Ooh, you’re drinking red wine?” an intrigued beer drinker would ask.

“How could you tell?” I would respond with a burgundy-tinted grin.

“Um… no reason. Could I have a taste?”

“Sure,” I’d say, proffering my glass. “But just to warn you, it’s carbonated. With Fanta.”

At this, the partygoer would instantly retreat and I’d be left in peace with what remained of my two liters of weirdness.

So you can imagine the culture shock when I moved from the Midwest to Paris. As in France. Where the naked ladies dance.

I enjoyed a good French wine, sure, but I secretly enjoyed my low-class wine cocktails, too.

How would I survive life in the City of Light? I would never blend in if I insisted on blending my vin with soda.

During college I could explain away my drink preferences as a budget issue—mixing the wine made it last longer and didn’t cost as much. But as a 20-something girl on her way to Paris, I’d had to leave the mixed wine concoctions at home.

Sniff.

I poured a little boxed-wine-mixed-with-soda out for my homeys before packing my bags and heading overseas.

Turns out, I was able to get over my unusual cocktail preference pretty quickly.

As soon as I arrived in France, Parisians welcomed me with open arms. Arms holding bottles of delicious Syrahs and Cabernets and Pinot Noirs that didn’t need to be mixed or chugged or made to suffer any other horrible treatment.

Notice I said “bottles.” Because of course there wasn’t a box in sight.

I drank plenty of amazing French wines over the years. Which led to its own set of problems (that’s a whole other story—a whole other book, actually), but at least no one ever had to know about my boxed-wine-soda-drinking past.

Until now.


 

Sangria Spritzer

 

Don’t worry, this recipe isn’t wine mixed with Fanta. Because clearly after reading the story, you already know how to make that fabulous cocktail (not that you ever, cough, would). No, this recipe is for a socially acceptable form of blending wine and carbonated beverages: sangria!

 

1/4 cup water

1/3 cup sugar

1 bottle red wine

1 pineapple, cut into chunks

2 oranges, cut into chunks

2 limes, cut into chunks

12 oz. lemon-lime or orange soda

 

1.     Pour water into a large pitcher. Add sugar and stir.

2.     Add red wine and fruit chunks.

3.     If possible, chill before serving (even overnight).

4.     To serve, pour over a glass of ice, then top with soda. College drinking games optional.

 

Makes 8 servings

 

Deux Pieds Gauche

 

As a self-proclaimed Party Girl, you’d think I’d have some killer dance moves. After all, drinking and dancing pretty much go together, right?

Well, in my case, drinking and thinking-I-can-dance is more like it. In all my wild nights in the City of Light, I’ve managed to bomb on the dance floor nearly every time.

First, you’ve got nightclubs. Those are so not my scene. I’ll stand on the sidelines, sipping champagne, watching everyone else cut loose on the dance floor. They make it look so easy!

After a few flutes of bubbly, I’m convinced I can do the same. Yet once on the floor I’m stiff and robotic. So much so, in fact, that I literally do The Robot as a way to laugh it off. Like, “Hey, I totally meant to only move my joints at right angles.”

Then back to the sidelines I go, sipping champagne, hoping nobody witnessed my nerdiness.

Much more suited to my style are bars and pubs. I like to start the night out socializing at the bar, chatting with the bartender and getting an ill-advised number of drinks in my system to prepare me for dancing.

Then, once the lights are dimmed and the music is turned up, I head out to the dance floor and get my groove on, “American Girl” style. You know what I’m talking about—throwing my arms in the air and shaking my booty. No rhythm whatsoever but it’s fun as hell.

Depending on how many beverages I’ve consumed, I may or may not end up dancing on tables. The only thing that’s guaranteed is embarrassing myself in front of the entire bar.

Less annoying than clubs, but equally easy to look like a fool in, are salsa bars. No, not the kind with chips and dip, although, mmm, nachos sounds so good right now. I’m talking about the Latin-inspired venues that serve mojitos on the menu and spicy moves on the dance floor.

Even as a beginner (which it seems I’m destined to be for the rest of my life), it’s fun, and there are plenty of Rico Suaves happy to teach me the moves. More than happy, really. In fact, I usually have to bat them away with a stick after a few songs. But after several mojitos, I can usually find my groove.

Or at least

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