Petite Confessions by Vicki Lesage (13 ebook reader .TXT) đź“–
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Petite Confessions
A HUMOROUS MEMOIRETTE
WITH SASSY DRINK RECIPES
VICKI LESAGE
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
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?”
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
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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