Petite Confessions

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 Là Là, 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
Acknowledgements
About the Author
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 fulllength
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 beerdrinking
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 burgundytinted
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 think I did.
I’ve even gotten really fancy and attended a few charity
galas. Nothing makes a girl feel like a princess more than
dancing at a ball in Paris. My dress twirling, the room swirling
—it’s magical.
Until I sprain an ankle.
The day I married the love of my life—Mika—was the
exception to my dancing disasters. Our first dance went off
without a hitch, partly because we didn’t try any slick moves,
partly because I intentionally held back on drinking, and partly
because I was so darn happy I didn’t care how smooth I was on
the dance floor.
But even better than that first dance was the re-creation of
the “lift scene” from Dirty Dancing. “I’ve Had the Time of My
Life” blared from the speakers, as I shouted to my brother,
Stephen, across the room that we were gonna do this thing (no
way would I even try to get hubby on board for this maneuver).
Stephen tried to talk me out of this absolutely horrible idea,
but he couldn’t turn down his big sister on her wedding day.
We finished our drinks and did The Rooster (you know,
bobbing your head in time to the music without moving the rest
of your body) until the crucial part of the song. I took a few
steps back, getting the just right distance, then ran toward
him.
One of two things was going to happen: Either Stephen
would successfully lift me up and I would be the coolest person
in the world, or we would both crash into the pyramid of
champagne glasses behind him.
Believe it or not, we succeeded in doing the lift. It was
amazing. We didn’t knock anything over. I soared high above
my smiling guests. It made the best day ever even better. I had,
you guessed it, the time of my life. (Here’s a basket of tomatoes
you can throw at me. That pun was awful.)
For someone with two left feet, I certainly gave dancing in
Paris my all. But for the most part, dancing and me are just not
meant to be.
So if you need me, I’ll be over by the nachos, doing The
Rooster.
Rockin’ Mojito
If you’re dancing all night, you’ll need to keep cool. Alternate
mojitos with bottled water and you’ll be the life of the party,
rock star.
8 mint leaves
4 lime wedges
1 tbsp. sugar
2 oz. white rum
3 oz. club soda
1. Crush mint leaves and one lime wedge with a muddler in a
sturdy glass.
2. Add two more lime wedges, muddle. Add the sugar, muddle.
Pause and take a sip of another drink because, man, this is a
lot of work.
3. Fill glass almost to the top with ice.
4. Add rum, then club soda.
5. Garnish with the last lime wedge, then dive in for your
much-deserved treat!
Makes 1 serving
Total Eclipse of Good Judgment
“Forever’s gonna start tonight!”
And the hangover’s gonna start tomorrow.
There’s a direct correlation between how loud I sing
(scream, if we’re being honest) “Total Eclipse of the Heart” into
whatever microphone-like object I find at the bar and how
crappy I’m going to feel the next morning.
If my singing is pitch-perfect, I’ll be feeling pitch-perfect. (Of
course, neither of those has ever happened to me.)
Using a twisty straw as an earpiece microphone? I can count
on a bitchin’ headache.
Turning around at each “Turn around, bright eyes”? Yeah,
my head will be buried in a plate of greasy breakfast food.
If I’m wildly flailing my arms, “giving off sparks,” my head
will instead be buried in the toilet.
And if I’m standing on the bar doing all of the above, well, I
can count on suffering through all of the above.
Yet somehow, for some reason (Vodka shots. It’s vodka shots,
dummy.) I do this EVERY. TIME. And pay for it so dearly the
next day.
Before kids, I could sleep it off, down a pot of coffee, and
slide burgers down the hatch until I felt like a human, usually
by 10 pm the following day.
With kids, I’m forced out of bed just as the beer buzz wears
off and the hangover sets in. This happens at precisely 5:54 am,
the exact moment my two-year-old son, Leo, bangs the railings
on his crib and my newborn daughter, Stella, decides she’s
starving.
Though I normally work full-time, I’d been home with my
children the summer after my daughter was born. Some of the
longest, sweetest weeks of my life. I enjoyed playing with the
kids, hearing my French-American son master more and more
words in English, and strolling around the lovely urinesaturated
city of Paris.
But it was also a load of work. Days blurred together into
hazy, sleep-deprived, pseudo memories.
I do remember one Friday in particular, though. That never
ending day was the result of combining my passion for Bonnie
Tyler and booze with the fact that, doh, I still had kids to care
for in the morning. I partied way too late and got up way too
early.
“Good luck,” Mika said as he left for work in the morning.
His nuanced tone managed to convey both sincerity and a
much-deserved I-told-you-so-ness. He would never say I had
partied too hard, but his look said it all.
Ugh, just the thought of partying made my stomach turn.
I mean, c’mon. Five beers? You’re not in college anymore!
Pounding headache. “Mama! Garbage truck! Mama!!” Leo
wanted me to play with all 42 of his garbage trucks.
Don’t forget that shot of Stoli, playa. What were you
thinking?
Rumbling belly. I’d be revisiting last night’s mistake. “Mama!
Caca! Mama!!” Leo provided play-by-play commentary as I
inelegantly ejected the contents of my tummy. “Bye-bye, caca!”
he said as I flushed.
One year without drinking and the minute you’re out on the
town it’s balls-to-the-wall, drink-it-all. Tsk, tsk.
I needed some air. I took the kids on the world’s longest walk
(around the block) under the summer’s hottest sun (a balmy 82
turned into 110 with Stella in the baby carrier and, hello, did I
mention my hangover?).
I would NEVER party like that again.
I waited in the world’s longest line for a sandwich (one dude
in front of me) and ate it painstakingly slowly, so as not to
vomit on my baby’s head as she innocently slept against my
chest.
No, seriously. I would NEVER drink that much again.
Especially not when I had to take care of my two little angels
the next day.
Naptime finally arrived. The three of us slept like babies.
When we woke up, it was time to play with garbage trucks
and feed Stella all over again. But by now I had returned to
about 90% capacity. The light shone from the end of a dizzying
tunnel.
I’d survived.
“Every now and then I get a little bit restless and I dream of
something wild.”
Let’s be honest. We all know I’ll do it again. Who’s free
Friday night a year from now?
Vanilla Vodka Shot
When afforded that rare night out, either because you have a
babysitter or your other half sees that you could really use a
little you-time, make the most of it. Make new friends. Sing at
the top of your lungs. Take one too many shots. Vow never to
do it again. Do it again.
1 oz. vanilla vodka
1 oz. coffee liqueur
1. Pour alcohol into martini shaker filled with ice.
2. Strain into shot glass.
3. Shoot quickly, playa, it’s almost your bedtime!
Makes 1 serving
Drinking Hall of Fame
Pre-pregnancy, I partied it up in the City of Light. Parisian
bars could hear me coming a mile away and scrambled to stock
up on wine and shots.
I was a force to be reckoned with.
My liver is much happier these days, and of course I’m
thrilled to have two adorable kids with the most pinchable
cheeks in the world.
I rarely go out any more (other than work, blech) and only
get to spend a few brief moments playing with the kids before
the dinner-bath-bedtime frenzy. I am often in bed myself by a
tame ten o’clock.
Goodbye Party Girl, hello nice, soft pillow.
But, man, sometimes wouldn’t it be fun to clean out a bar? To
drink ALL the drinks?
Shh, liver. No one’s asking you.
In honor of the good ol’ days (if passing out on bathroom
floors is considered “good”), let’s raise a glass to my Drinking
Hall of Fame:
Grossest Drink
Bloody Mary with too much Worcestershire sauce. It tasted
like barbecue-flavored mouthwash. And in case you’re thinking,
“Actually, that doesn’t sound half bad,” let me tell you—it’s
100% bad.
Grossest Shot
Jaeger Bomb with champagne instead of Red Bull. You’ll
burp tiny Jaeger-bomb-covered bubbles all night, a continual
reminder of your mistake.
Craziest Drink
Three glasses of absinthe, including melting the sugar in a
spoon like a drug addict. Considering each drink is as strong as
five glasses of wine, I shouldn’t be surprised I ended up booty
shaking while dancing on the bar to “Baby Got Back.” What can
I say, I like big butts and I cannot lie.
Priciest Drink
A caipirinha at Hemingway Bar at The Ritz Paris set me back
a mere €25 ($32 at the time). Do you know how many cases of
Milwaukee’s Best I could buy with that? (I’m gonna be a dork
and answer my own rhetorical question. Then I’m gonna be a
bigger dork and go all math-nerd on you. But just so you know,
for the same price, you could score about three cases of The
Beast. That’s 72 beers. That means each sip of my Hemingway
caipirinha cost more than an entire—albeit disgusting—beer.)
Latest Night
10 o’clock. In the morning. So, like, the exact opposite of my
life now.
I’m getting queasy remembering all those soirées. At the
same time, I’m kind of in the mood for a drink now. Maybe just
one. Or two. Or… crap. One of the kids just woke up. Maybe
next time!
Pretty Good Bloody Mary
Loads of bartenders fight over the title for Best Bloody Mary.
I think mine is a Pretty Good Bloody Mary, as long as you don’t
overdo the Worcestershire sauce. Can’t argue with that! And if
you spend less time arguing, you have more time to enjoy the
drink.
2 oz. vodka
3 oz. tomato juice
dash Tabasco
dash Worcestershire sauce
lemon juice
pinch salt
pinch pepper
green veggies for garnish
1. Add vodka, tomato juice, Tabasco, Worchestershire sauce
(control yourself! just a dash!), a squirt of lemon juice, a
pinch of salt, and a pinch of pepper to a martini shaker (no
ice).
2. Shake twice.
3. Pour into a highball glass filled with ice.
4. Garnish with celery stalk, or go crazy with asparagus or
green peppers or pickles or olives. Or all of the above.
They’re all Pretty Good.
Makes 1 serving
Petite Enfants
I say to my two-year-old: “Ready to brush your teeth?”
He hears: “Want to eat some toothpaste?”
Virgins & Baby Fleas
“Caca vroom-vroom!”
Leo shouts his favorite word to Grandma, across an ocean,
over the interwebs, as we FaceTime from our tiny apartment in
Paris to my mom’s St. Louis home. It’s our Saturday afternoon
ritual, a time for grandma and grandson to bond.
Well, assuming they understand each other.
“What’s he saying?” my mom asks, surprised at my two-yearold
son’s language. “What are you teaching that boy?”
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say. “It’s his word for garbage truck.”
See, in French “caca” means, well, “caca” but for some
reason it sounds better in my French-American son’s accent.
“Vroom-vroom” is his word for car or truck, since that’s the
sound it makes. Pretty logical, actually.
The kid is obsessed with garbage trucks, so it’s “caca vroomvroom”
24/7 around our house. Our apartment overlooks a
busy street and we have the good fortune of watching the
garbage men come by EVERY day. Leo never misses it. For
someone who doesn’t ever seem to hear me when I say “No!”
he sure can hear the distinct sound of the garbage truck
pulling up in front of our building.
It doesn’t end there. If we’re out running an errand and see
the garbage men, we have to pull the stroller over (not an easy
feat among piles of dog poop and hordes of harried
pedestrians) so he can admire his favorite workers doing his
favorite job. You get a new appreciation for these dedicated
employees once you’ve spent 10 minutes whiffing trash-truck
air. Yet Leo is oblivious to the embarrassment, the stench; he
couldn’t be happier as the odor of rotten bananas and dirty
diapers smacks him in his smiling face. We’ve done this so
often the garbage men know us, waving as they pass.
“Grandma! Look at my camion poubelle!”
The smelly days have blurred into one another and before I
know it, Leo is now calling the garbage truck by its correct
name. Side note: How can the French make something so gross
sound so beautiful?
“Be careful, honey,” my mom says to me on FaceTime, as Leo
waves his toy garbage truck in front of the screen. “He’ll be
better at French than you before long.”
“I think he already is!”
At that point, I’d lived in France for nearly 10 years and my
son could probably hold a more coherent business meeting
than me. Well, as long as the meeting was at the Annual
Garbage Truck Convention.
“Why don’t we put the garbage truck away and read a book,
sweetie?” I suggest. “Let’s show Grandma all your new words.”
As we read a book about baby animals, I’m reminded of an
embarrassing slip-up I made when I first started dating Mika.
“Je t’aime, ma puce,” he had said. I love you, my flea, is what
it meant. Surprisingly, this is a common term of endearment in
the French language.
“Je t’aime aussi, mon puceau,” I replied. I love you too, my
little flea. Or, that’s what I thought I’d said.
You see, many baby animal names in French are simply the
adult name (e.g. eléphant) with an “eau” added to the end (e.g.
eléphanteau). So I’d added the “eau” sound, thinking I’d called
him a baby flea. Hey, it’s no weirder than a full-grown flea!
He burst out laughing. “Honey, that means ‘virgin’ not ‘baby
flea’.”
Oh. Ahem.
“And what’s a baby seal called?” Grandma asks Leo from the
iPad screen.
I cringe as I wait for the response. “Seal” is the
unfortunately-pronounced “phoque,” so I can only imagine
what a baby seal is called. Phoqueau? I really hope my son
doesn’t say FU to my mom.
“Blanchon!” he shouts.
Whew. That was way better than I’d thought it would be.
One day, probably well after Leo does, I’ll learn the French
words for all the baby animals. In the meantime, I’ll giggle
about the ones I do know.
Virgin Banana Daiquiri
What do you get when you mix a virgin-name-calling mishap
and the odor of bananas coming from the back of a garbage
truck? Ew, actually I’m not sure I want to know! Oh wait, it’s
this cocktail. Whew.
1 banana, frozen
2 oz. orange juice
3 oz. lime juice
1/2 oz. simple syrup
1 cup ice
1. Slice banana.
2. Add all ingredients to blender and blend until smooth.
3. Serve immediately, preferably before the garbage man
arrives.
Makes 1 serving
Please and Thank You
“Would you like some more charcuterie?” Sebastien asked
me.
“Why yes, thank you, that would be lovely,” I replied to my
five-year-old French host.
Mika and I were dining at a friend’s house, where the two
children—this perfectly well-behaved Sebastien and his older
sister, Marine—were proving the merits of French parenting.
The meal was raclette. In case you’ve never had the good
fortune of enjoying this amazing dish, let me explain: You melt
cheese on a heated contraption in the middle of the table, then
pour the gooey cheese over potatoes on your plate. You eat cold
cuts on the side (ham, saucisson, salami, and every other way
they’ve found to prepare pork) and sour pickles. With copious
amounts of wine.
Please, you had me at cheese.
The meal requires a bit of work for the guest, because you
have to slice your own potatoes, melt your own cheese, and
dish out your own cold cuts. Plenty of adults bump elbows and
come dangerously close to setting the house on fire. It’s not a
meal I’d recommend for kids, certainly not the American
munchkins you often see running around restaurants in the
U.S.
Yet here was a kindergartener who could not only melt
cheese without burning the tablecloth, he served his guests
and ensured the entire night ran smoothly. He even drank his
juice from a wine glass.
This entire episode happened before I had kids. I remember
thinking to myself something along the pretentious lines of:
“Americans just don’t know how to raise their kids. My children
will be half-French by blood, and by virtue of being born in
France, they will be naturally well-behaved. Not to mention I
will never indulge their ridiculous whims or cave in just
because they throw a tantrum. Honestly, parenting is only hard
if you let it be.”
Oh how I wish I could smack my smug, younger self. Admit
it, don’t YOU want to smack my smug, younger self?
I mean, how judgy could I be?
In case you feel the urge to slap me now, though, trust me—
I’ve outgrown this naïveté. You are hereby cordially invited to
stop by my house any time, any day, and you will see that my
kids are not the well-behaved angels I was certain my A+
parenting would ensure.
You’ll be greeted with screaming children, barbecue sauce
handprints on the wall, and dried up hot dog slices stuffed
behind the couch cushions.
At least my kids will always say “s’il te plaît” before asking
for more food to throw across the room, and “merci” after you
foolishly give it to them. It’ll be a madhouse, I promise.
But we’ll have some wine for you!
As long as you don’t mind smudgy glasses and the unending
chorus of the same kiddie song sung over and over again.
In fact, I’ve grown to quite like it.
Spiced Mulled Wine
A wintry dish like raclette pairs best with red wine. But after
the meal, prolong that cozy feeling with some spiced mulled
wine. Sitting in front of the fireplace is optional, but strongly
recommended.
2 bottles red wine
2 cups water
6 cloves
2 cinnamon sticks
2 oranges, cut into chunks
1. Combine all ingredients in a pot and bring almost to a boil.
Let simmer.
2. Serve with a slotted spoon to avoid clove and cinnamon
sticks getting into the glasses (but keep them in the pot for
flavor).
3. Best served in slightly warmed mugs to keep the chill of
winter far away.
Makes 8-10 servings
Oh Là Là, Compression Stockings
Looking down the barrel of three months on strict bed rest, I
was dejected. This hadn’t been in my pregnancy plans.
Saying au revoir to work was the easy part. The stress of
office politics was part of the reason I was in this predicament
in the first place. (Unfortunately the stereotype of French
offices being lax and lazy didn’t apply in my case.)
Keeping my butt glued to the couch for 14 weeks straight,
however, would be much harder. But that was my doctor’s
condition in order to release me from the hospital after going
into preterm labor with Stella at 25 weeks and 3 days.
“This is sérieux, Madame Lesage,” the obstetrician had said.
“No moving around or your baby could be born early. No
walking, no lifting, no housework. Nothing.”
I thought about my sweet 18-month-old son who was back at
home with Papa. Leo had been a preemie, so I knew from
experience that I needed to take the doctor’s warning seriously,
lest my baby fall out while picking up a baguette from the
neighborhood boulangerie.
And speaking of Leo (and picking things up), I wouldn’t be
allowed to carry him until I was off bed rest. Papa would have
to take over the majority of his care. That broke my hormonal,
sensitive heart. But what choice did I have? Stella needed to
cook a little longer and the best guarantee of that happening
was for me to park my booty on the sofa and chill. Something
this energetic workaholic was not known for.
“Welcome home, Maman!” my French husband shouted
when I returned from the hospital.
“Maman, Maman!” Leo chanted as he cheered at my muchanticipated
arrival.
I settled in on the couch as Leo came over to investigate the
situation. He patted my tummy, which had gotten noticeably
larger during the four days I’d been in the hospital. He poked
my protruding belly button and said “Boop, boop.” All was
normal, just bigger.
Then he noticed that my legs and feet were covered with
some weird, black stretchy material. Compression stockings.
Since I wouldn’t be moving much over the next few months, I
needed these contraptions to reduce the risk of blood clots.
To their credit, the French at least offer the stockings in a
thigh-high, lacy-at-the-top, midnight black variety, as opposed
to the nude pantyhose my grandma wears. As if I could possibly
feel sexy with my huge belly and fat butt firmly planted on the
couch. But I appreciated the notion.
Leo poked and prodded at the stockings, giving them a
puzzled look. He tickled my toes and pinched the fabric at the
arches of my feet. There was some correlation between these
stockings, Mommy’s belly, and her absence the past few days.
His young mind couldn’t quite figure it out (hey, I was still
wrapping my head around the news myself), so he settled for
resting his head on my lap, facing my belly.
All the better to keep his eye on it.
Fast forward 13+ weeks and my beautiful baby girl was born
at 38 weeks and 5 days with no complications. Looks like
Maman was better at putting her feet up than she realized!
Bed rest had been bearable, Leo and I had found activities
we could do together (like reading the same book 100 times),
and my compression stockings reminded me I would one day
feel sexy again.
In the meantime, I guess I’d have to settle (geez, twist my
arm) for time spent with my two healthy babies, followed by
relaxing foot rubs from my sweet husband.
Aperol Spritz
Goodbye frumpiness, hello sexiness! An Aperol Spritz is the
perfect cocktail to have your significant other (or that sexy
someone checking you out from across the party) saying oh là
là!
3 oz. Prosecco
2 oz. Aperol orange liqueur
1 oz. soda water
orange slice for garnish
1. Fill a large wine glass 1/3 full with ice.
2. Pour in Prosecco, then Aperol, then soda water.
3. Garnish with an orange, and show a little leg. Just a little.
Makes 1 serving
Five Glorious Minutes
Five minutes.
Five glorious minutes.
It’s how long I get to sleep in this Saturday morning. My
adorable little noisemakers wake me up at 6:05 instead of 6:00
and it makes all the difference.
They immediately start chirping for food like baby birds, so
Papa and I drag ourselves out of bed to prepare it for them.
The two-year-old reaches into the silverware drawer and
steals a spoon, then proceeds to bang it against the cabinet in a
four-beat staccato that echoes my thoughts:
Go-ing-cra-zy
When-will-it-end
Way-too-much-noise
For-six-a-m
Then his one-year-old sister copies, because she copies
everything her big brother does:
This-is-so-fun
Do-what-he-does
Drive-Mom-cra-zy
Don’t-ev-er-stop
We finish breakfast and head to the living room. Leo spots
his wooden crane, one that you can pull with a string, and
drags it around the apartment with the most innocent
expression. “La-de-da, I’m just playing with my toy and I have
ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA that its wooden wheels are breaking
the sound barrier as they roll along the hardwood floor. La-deda.”
Stella has brought her spoon with her and is now pounding
on a toy pot, which is unfairly made of the same material as a
real pot and therefore makes just as much noise. She’s like the
street performers we see in the subways in our lively city of
Paris, hammering out a tune and hoping for spare change. If I
thought a few coins would get her to stop, I’d gladly pay.
The Deafening Duo moves on to Legos. Playing with Legos is
fun, sure. But dumping the whole tub of them onto the
hardwood floor is infinity times more fun. The sound of each
little piece of plastic hitting every other little piece of plastic is
the sound of my sanity being buried under the pile of colorful
blocks.
If my son walks past a fan, he’ll turn it on. To Thunder-Level
High Speed, of course.
When my daughter wants to read a book, she’ll first knock all
of them off the shelf in one clamorous swoop, then select one
from the mound on the floor. Usually the one on the bottom.
BANG, BANG! On the bathroom door as I’m trying to pee.
SPLATT, SPLATT! As they rip open the shower curtain midshampoo,
splashing water all over the bathroom.
WHOOSH, WHOOSH! As they flush the toilet while I’m in the
shower, sending a cold chill up my spine.
HA, HA! As they laugh at all the trouble they’re causing.
Five minutes. I just need five minutes without all the noise.
The cacophony is splitting my ears, and my nerves along with
it.
Then naptime rolls around. The baby goes down to sleep.
The toddler dozes off soon after. Papa snoozes on the couch in
front of the TV.
I find myself with a few minutes of alone time. Me time.
Quiet time. I sprawl out on my bed and dive in to the book I’ve
been meaning to read for months. The window is open and I
hear kids laughing and playing outside—other people’s kids,
the neighbors’ kids, kids I don’t have to worry about—and I try
to relax.
I look up every five minutes, amazed I have this much time to
myself. And I realize that I kind of, almost, a little tiny bit, miss
the noise.
A loud fart. My son, waking up from his nap.
I needn’t have worried. I can count on my little noisemakers
to snap me out of my reverie before I get too comfortable.
I made it to page 14. I’ll pick up where I left off the next time
all three of my angels are quiet at the same time, even if it’s
just for five minutes.
Five glorious minutes.
Iced Coffee Delight
When you only have five minutes to sit down with a good
book, you might grab a cup of coffee. When you only have five
minutes because you’ve been running around the past few
years after your kids, you deserve this decadent coffee cocktail
instead.
2 oz. espresso
1 oz. hazelnut liqueur
1 oz. Irish cream liqueur
3 oz. milk
1 cup ice
1. Add all ingredients to a martini shaker.
2. Shake a few times, then pour into a highball glass (with
ice).
3. Drink it before the kids find you.
Makes 1 serving
Petite Eats
Daycare: Would you like to stay for the nutrition
meeting?
Me: Sorry, we’re in a hurry (to get to McDonald’s
before it gets crowded).
Warning: May Contain Fingers
“We’re doing a joint Christmas party and going away party
for Brigitte,” my office’s busybody informed me. “So don’t
forget to bring something special!”
Are potato chips and hummus special enough? Because
that’s what you’re getting, lady! I was pregnant with Baby #2
and perpetually exhausted from chasing my toddler around, so
I was in no mood to make something fancy.
Being in the “I eat everything I see” stage of my pregnancy
(that stage lasts about nine months), I showed up early to the
party.
My coworkers have this annoying habit of not letting anyone
nibble until it’s all prepared. I have this annoying habit of not
caring and eating anyway. Sorry, but a potluck for 40 people
takes way too long to set up. You think I can resist dipping
potato chips into hummus? Show me the person who can.
SHOW ME.
My friend Fanny popped in with homemade pizza squares
and asked me to heat them up while she finished something for
work. No problem! If by “heat them up” she meant “eat them
up.” (See what I did there?)
A nanosecond after the microwave dinged, I shoved a pizza
slice in my mouth and carried the rest over to the couch, where
I parked my ever-growing butt and dug in.
“Attention, il y a un doigt dedans!” My co-worker Camille’s
warning—“Watch out, there’s a finger in there!”—made no
sense. I shrugged off her comment and continued stuffing my
face.
What had she meant “there’s a finger in there”? Was it a
French expression? I often misunderstood those. Or maybe it’s
like if you only want a little whiskey you say “just a finger.” So
maybe she meant there weren’t that many pizza slices? As in,
there wouldn’t be enough for me? Oh, maybe she meant not to
eat them all because there weren’t that many and other people
might want to eat them. I guess that was it. Still, a roundabout
way to say it.
And also, way too late, honey. I’d already made it more than
halfway through the Tupperware container before I’d worked
out what I thought she meant.
Colleagues trickled into the lunchroom as I avoided their
gaze. I should have been embarrassed about how much pizza
I’d hogged but I was more afraid they would take it away from
me.
“Where’s my pizza?” Fanny asked.
Busted.
“Over here, Fanny!” I said, licking my fingers after polishing
off the last slice. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”
“Ha, no problem. Glad they were so tasty! So, did you find
my finger in there?”
“What’s this everyone’s saying about a finger? There wasn’t
actually a finger in there, was there?” I looked down at the
empty container and then my pregnant belly. Was a severed
digit floating around in there?
Then Fanny stuck out a bandaged finger. Oh my God. I felt
the bile rise in my throat.
“I cut it last night making the pizzas. A huge piece came off,
actually. Don’t worry,” she quickly added, noting my horrified
expression. “It happened while I was chopping a pepper to put
on top. I don’t think the finger got in with the pizza slices. At
least, I hope not. I brushed all the peppers in the trash without
looking.”
“Are you OK? And, more importantly, how could you not
look?”
I would be way too curious to see what a no-longerconnected
bit of my finger looked like to just brush it in the
trash without a backward glance.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine.”
“Can I see your finger?” I was concerned for my friend but I
also had to see how much of her finger was missing. It couldn’t
be too bad if she hadn’t gone to the hospital.
“Sure,” she said, pulling the bandage off.
The amount missing was just enough to make me lose my
appetite. I tried not to show it, for fear of alerting her to the
fact that she now only had 9 and 7/8ths fingers.
“That doesn’t look too bad,” I said. “I’m sure it will heal in no
time.”
Yeah right! There was like a quarter of an inch missing!
Which meant a quarter of an inch of finger was possibly cartwheeling
around my tummy.
On the bright side, at least there’s a lot of protein in it.
Whiskey Nog
No many how fingers you have, this drink is sure to please,
though it’s best enjoyed during the holiday season.
1 oz. whiskey (also known as a “finger” of whiskey)
4 oz. store-bought eggnog*
dash of vanilla syrup
nutmeg for garnish
1. Pour the whiskey and eggnog into a martini shaker filled
with ice. Add a dash of vanilla syrup.
2. Give it two good shakes, then strain into the glass of your
choice.
3. Dust with nutmeg to make it look fancy. Drink with your
pinky out to look even fancier (and to show off the fact that
you still have all your fingers).
* What, you call that cheating? Trust me, you don’t want to
drink eggnog I’ve made from scratch!
Makes 1 serving
10
Attitude Check, Please
I enjoy champagne but I also dine on the occasional
McDonald’s dinner. I like puttin’ on the ritz but I like dive bars,
too. However, I blanketly detest poncy posh places (of which
there are zillions in Paris).
Unless someone else is paying.
One evening, I was invited to a business dinner at Costes.
Here’s the type of place Costes is: cocktails are €19, my friend
once thought she saw Sienna Miller in the restroom, and the
hostesses seat ugly people in the back of the restaurant. I’m
not even kidding—there was a whole media storm about it.
I splurged (since I wasn’t paying) on a Bellini. I was pregnant
at the time, so I only allowed myself two miniscule peach-juicediluted
sips. Meaning each sip cost €9.50.
Yowza.
The service was OK, the food was fine. Our total bill for six
people was over €3,000. And it would have been €4,000 if I’d
been drinking like the good ol’ days. A bottle of wine plus a
bottle of champagne could easily cost that much, and in my
pre-pregnant days I easily downed that much on my own.
By midnight, I was beat. My all-night-long partying days
were behind me; my new pregnant-mama bedtime was 9:30.
Add two sips of Bellini to the mix, and I was about to crash.
“Well, I’d better get going before I fall asleep in your lap,” I
awkwardly joked to our business partner. My absence from the
social scene in recent months had clearly made me forget how
to talk like a normal person. I quickly thanked him for the meal
and said my goodbyes to the group before dashing out of there.
As I headed to the front of the restaurant, not one but two
waiters bumped into me, sans apology.
Thanks, guys!
When I finally got to the front, I remembered I needed to
retrieve my coat from the coat check.
“Bonsoir, I’d like to get my coat, please,” I said to the hostess
with a smile.
She looked up from the reservation book with a look of
disgust on her snooty face and spat out her response. “You
need a coat check ticket.”
“Oh. Hrm. It’s back at the table with my colleagues. Is it
possible to get my coat without it? I’m kind of in a hurry to get
home,” I said, pointing to my pregnant belly. I peeked around
the door, and among the sea of trendy black coats my green
plaid number stuck out like an unfashionable sore thumb. “It’s
that green one back there.”
“You need a ticket,” she insisted.
Seriously? My coat had to be the cheapest one in there. Who
would want to steal it? I know there’s a policy and I needed the
ticket and blah blah blah, but you’d think when someone pays
€3,000 for dinner the hostess could be a little more
accommodating. Like perhaps, just give me my cheapo coat? Or
offer to go back to my table and get the ticket for me so I don’t
have to waddle my pregnant ass back there? I might expect
this attitude at a fast food joint but not at a so-called high-class
place like Costes.
“OK, fine, I’ll get the damn ticket,” I muttered, hefting my
purse over my shoulder and hauling my pregnant booty back to
the table.
Not one but two waiters bumped into me on the way. Sans
apology, of course.
“Hey, it’s me again,” I said sheepishly as I arrived in front of
the group. “Could I please get the coat check ticket?”
“Sure,” one of my colleagues said. “I’ll go with you. I need to
stop off at the restroom, and that way I can take the ticket back
when you’re done.”
We headed back to the lobby as—believe it or not—two
waiters bumped into me again. Did they hire waiters for the
sole purpose of walking down the hall and bumping into ugly
people (which I clearly was, since I’d been seated in the back of
the restaurant)?
My colleague headed to the restrooms as I geared up to
retrieve my coat.
“Here’s the ticket, you stupid cow,” I said in my head. “Voilà,
mademoiselle,” I said instead, a huge smile plastered on my
face.
She rolled her eyes and got my coat. She held it out like a
dirty diaper as I stuffed my arms into it and tried—in vain—to
button it closed over my belly.
“Merci,” I said. “Oh wait, I had a scarf too. It’s green, like
the coat.”
“Are you sure it’s not in the sleeve?” she asked as if I was
totally stupid.
“Yes, I checked. Sorry.” What was I sorry for? That she
hadn’t brought the scarf?
She rolled her eyes again and huffed off to get my scarf.
When she returned, she thrust the horrible offending object at
me. Just as I wrapped it around my horrible offensive neck, my
colleague returned from the restroom.
“Here you go,” I said, handing him the coat check ticket, and
counting my lucky stars that I didn’t have to go back to the
table to give it to him (thus getting bumped four more times by
the waiters).
I bounded down the restaurant’s marbled front steps, vowing
never to return.
Unless someone else was paying.
Teeny Bellini
When I indulged in my $25 Bellini, I was pregnant so I didn’t
actually get to indulge. More like “wet my lips and pretend.” So
in the spirit of going for the flavor but not the liquor, this drink
is very light on the alcohol.
1 peach slice
3 oz. peach nectar
2 oz. Prosecco
1 cup ice
1. Place all ingredients in blender.
2. Pulse until smooth.
3. Serve in a champagne glass. Great for baby showers or
brunches or other places where you want to feel like you’re
drinking, but don’t actually want much alcohol. (Pregnant
moms: Sorry, this still doesn’t really mean you, but the
cocktail still tastes delicious without the sparkling wine!)
Makes 1 serving
11
That’s a Latte Ask
One Sunday morning, Mika and I took Leo on a leisurely
stroll and stopped into Gare de Lyon for a coffee at Starbucks. I
know there are a million cafés in Paris and it’s sacrilege to go
to Starbucks, but there’s something about the hustle and bustle
of the train station that we like.
Plus I had to get my holiday latte before Starbucks took it off
the menu.
Mika and Leo sat on a nearby bench while I waited in the
long but quick-moving line. I could have pulled rank and
pointed to my pregnant belly but I kept it hidden (well, as much
as one can hide a five-month-pregnant belly) under my coat. We
weren’t in a rush and I don’t like to butt in front of people, no
matter how valid the excuse (and how raging my hormones).
Leo contentedly watched trains arrive and depart, eyes wide
with love for his favorite mode of transportation.
Slowly but surely I reached the counter and placed my order.
The friendly employees ran the operation like a well-oiled
machine. I guess you have to be efficient if you work at a coffee
shop in a busy train station, but in France—a country not
known for its efficient service—that’s absolutely no guarantee.
Then clear out of the blue, a woman in a long fur coat and
stilettos as sharp as her attitude cut in front of me, literally
knocking the credit card out of my hand as I was about to pay.
“I’ll have an espresso and—” she started.
Um, what? Who did she think she was? Ooh, wait, maybe she
was someone? Was this a French celebrity in my midst?
Though, other than Gerard Depardieu (who I saw in a cheese
shop once) and Sophie Marceau, I wasn’t sure I’d actually be
able to recognize a French celebrity if one was butting in line
right in front of me.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but you’ll need to get in line,” the
Starbucks employee said, indicating the line that was now
snaking around the station.
Celebrity or not, she just got TOLD.
“But I have a train to catch!” the lady wailed.
“Ma’am, we’re in a train station. Everyone has a train to
catch.”
Touché!
Actually, I didn’t have a train to catch and neither did my
patient husband and son, who were waving at me from the
bench, but we were probably the only ones at Gare de Lyon not
waiting for a train.
If everyone else had to stand in line, why did this lady think
it was her God-given right to have a latte—and pronto!—for the
train ride?
The possibly famous, definitely annoying woman stormed off,
her clicking heels echoing in the cavernous station, and I paid
for my coffee. The cashier and I shared a knowing look. Order
had been restored.
And that’s a rare thing in Paris.
Holiday Latte Cocktail
Taking its inspiration from the Starbucks holiday menu, this
cocktail will get you in the Christmas spirit without having to
wait in the long line.
1 oz. hazelnut liqueur
1 oz. coffee liqueur
3 oz. Irish cream liqueur
1. Add ingredients to martini shaker filled with ice.
2. Shake, then strain into a martini glass. Enjoy at a relaxed
pace, knowing you don’t have a train to catch.
Makes 1 serving
Petite Makeovers
Parenting [noun]: When you make sure everyone else
has eaten, slept, and gone to the bathroom before you.
12
Parisian Laser Hair Removal
Tank tops are kind of my thing. They show off my toned
arms, one of the few features worth showing off (because,
hello, you can’t SEE how funny I am).
With sleeveless shirts, though, comes a responsibility to keep
those pits shaved. Hence, the reason I opted for pricey laser
hair removal. And why not throw in the bikini area while we’re
shooting laser beams at sensitive bits?
I had located a swanky place off the Champs Elysées that
would happily take my euros in exchange for permanently
burning hair off my body.
At the consultation, the doctor compared the color of my hair
(relatively dark) to the color of my skin (relatively see-through)
and determined I was a good candidate for the treatment. She
wrote a prescription for topical anesthetic and told me to bring
the numbing cream and my freshly-shaved goods to the next
appointment.
At this next appointment, a quick-talking mademoiselle led
me to the Special Room Where They Rub You Down With
Anesthetic Cream.
“Blah blah le blah?” she asked.
“Pardon?” I eloquently replied. I was still working on my
French and had missed class the day they taught laser hair
removal lingo.
“Ah, you speak English. Please take off zee clothes.”
Let the fun begin. I obliged, leaving only my bra between me
and zees total stranger.
“I put cream, to show you how, then you do zee rest yourself,
yeah?”
Got it.
“You want me to do your underlegs?” she asked.
What the flip was an underleg? I assumed it was a bad
translation of “part of my body next to my hoo-hah” so I
replied, “Oh, I’ll do that myself.” I would let her demonstrate
on my armpits and then I’d do my “underlegs” on my own time.
Swipe. Pause. Swoosh.
Before I knew what had happened, she’d rubbed anesthetic
cream down one side of my lady bits and back up the other.
“You see how it’s done? Now you do underlegs.”
The heck? I’d thought she was going to do my underarms
and… oh. Ohhhhhhh. I got it now. “Underlegs” had been a poor
translation of “underarms.” I’d unwittingly asked her to rub
down my previously-private parts, leaving the pits for myself.
Naked, shaken from the recent fondling, and still generally
confused, I somehow managed to spread the cream on my
underarms as she watched.
“Now we wrap you in plastic.”
This just got better and better. She bandaged a roll of saran
wrap around each shoulder and armpit, then covered my bikini
area, creating a chic transparent diaper.
“This keeps the cream moist,” she said.
Gag, cough, blerk… She didn’t know the word for
“underarm” but she knew everyone’s least favorite word,
“moist”?
“Get dressed and wait in zee waiting room until you are
called.”
Excusez-moi, WHAT? I had to go in public like this?
I trudged down the hall, armpits and butt crack squeaking
under my clothes, embarrassed to enter the waiting room
looking (and sounding) like this.
I needn’t have worried.
The room full of mummies barely looked up from their
tattered copies of Vogue, embarrassed enough by their own
saran-wrapped faces, necks, arms, and legs. We waited in
mutual silence as if saying, “I won’t look at what you’re having
lasered off if you won’t look at mine. Weirdo.”
Five sessions later, I was hair (and plastic wrap) free. If only
they could laser off the embarrassment.
Sparkling Caipirinha
Whether you’ve endured laser hair removal or Brazilian
bikini waxes, each is painful in its own way. Reward yourself
with this French-inspired Brazilian cocktail.
1 lime
3 tsp. sugar
2 oz. cachaça
3 oz. sparkling wine
1. Cut lime into 4 wedges.
2. Add lime and sugar to a sturdy glass and muddle until you
can’t muddle any more (i.e. the lime juice has been extracted
from the lime.)
3. Add the cachaça, stir.
4. Top with sparkling wine. Enjoy the beauty of (a hair-free)
life.
Makes 1 serving
13
Face Mask Fail
One of the many joys of pregnancy—aside from reflux,
fatigue, nausea, and perpetual discomfort—is acne. Some
women get that beautiful healthy glow. Lucky them!
I got the teenage zit-face sheen instead. Thank you,
hormones.
After trying nearly every pregnancy-safe product on the
market, I turned to the internet. Surely there would be
something to rid my skin of these horrible spots? Surely I
wouldn’t have to spend my entire pregnancy holding random
objects in front of my chin so people wouldn’t see my pimples?
My arms were getting tired!
Then I stumbled across a do-it-yourself natural face mask on
Pinterest, the land where everything looks easier than it is.
This was it! This was the solution to my crappy skin issues!
And I (kind of) had all the ingredients on hand!
In all my excitement, I only briefly skimmed the directions
and quickly got started. Looked easy enough.
And I’m sure for any normal, calm, patient person it would
be easy. But I think you can tell where this is going.
Normal person:
1. Follows directions.
2. Uses honey and cinnamon, as the ingredient list states.
3. Measures 1 tsp of each, as the directions indicate.
4. Stirs the mixture in a bowl, for even distribution.
5. Applies gently and lets set for 5-10 minutes.
6. Scrubs while removing, to exfoliate.
7. Ends up with fresh, acne-free skin.
What I did:
1. Did not follow directions.
2. Used lite pancake syrup because it tastes gross and I had
a whole bottle to get rid of. Close enough to honey, right?
Wrong. I did at least use cinnamon.
3. Did not measure the quantities, and instead eyeballed it.
How hard could it be to gauge a teaspoon? Now I didn’t have to
wash a measuring spoon!
4. Put ingredients into my left palm, rubbed around with my
right index finger. Now I didn’t have to wash a bowl or spoon
either!
5. Applied to my face, scrubbing as I went. On this step, I
was not intentionally ignoring instructions, I just totally spaced
out, dreaming of the beautiful skin awaiting me.
6. Tried to let it set for 5 minutes, but only lasted 30 seconds
because of the burning. Oh my God the burning! Rinsed gently
but quickly, trying to remove every last trace of the wicked
concoction before my entire face melted off.
7. Ended up with a bright red face that throbbed for a good
10 minutes afterwards.
But… the acne had dried up!
Will I attempt this face mask again? Maybe. Will I remember
to follow directions? Probably not.
Mulled Gin
I’ll give you one guess which ingredients this cocktail
contains. Nope, not lite pancake syrup. I threw that stuff away
as soon as my face stopped burning. Yep, you guessed it: Honey
and cinnamon are this cocktail’s featured ingredients.
1 bottle red wine
12 oz. gin
1 tsp. honey
1 oz. orange juice
1 oz. lemon juice
1 cinnamon stick
1. Add all ingredients to a pot. (Measure them! No shortcuts
or substitutions!)
2. Stir, and simmer until the honey has dissolved.
3. Serve warm (but not burning!) and relax.
Makes 8 servings
14
The First Wobbly Step
A bowl of ice cream has roughly the same amount of calories
as I burn carrying my newborn daughter up and down the two
flights of stairs to our Parisian apartment. If my toddler is in
tow as well, that makes up for the hot fudge.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
Oddly, and unfairly, I gained weight after Stella was born. I
mean I guess it’s not that unfair when you count the number of
empty Ben & Jerry’s containers in the trash. But other than my
ice cream indulgence, I ate healthy, nursed round the clock,
and walked nearly everywhere with my baby girl strapped to
my chest in the baby carrier.
So why was I so jiggly and low-energy?
Each day I thought, “Today’s the day I’ll start exercising.”
But when your days blur into nights and you have no more than
10 minutes at a time to yourself, how are you supposed to work
out? Or count calories? Or strike even one yoga pose?
Our apartment faces a maternity hospital. Sipping lukewarm
coffee while feeding Stella, I glance out the window and see
tiny bundles of joy leaving the hospital for the first time. As the
father putzes around with the car seat (no one ever remembers
to install it before the baby is born) and the mother stands
there impatiently holding the baby, I spy on their little family.
I can’t help but notice that the cliché is true—French women
don’t get fat, not even the ones who gave birth four days ago. I
glance down at my spare tire. Sheesh. As if I didn’t have
enough post-baby concerns, now I’m comparing myself to stickthin
French women. I really am a glutton for punishment.
And ice cream.
Months tick by, my belly swaying with each step I take, until
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window of a trendy
French boutique. Stella’s chubby legs dangle from the baby
carrier and she looks much bigger than other four-month-old
babies. Like mother, like daughter? Or maybe we’re just normal
Americans, destined to forever be larger than our French
compatriots.
I take another look. Underneath my daughter’s legs, my
stomach protrudes and I appear four months pregnant. The
clothes in the store window look impossibly small and I feel
impossibly frumpy.
Something needs to change.
That afternoon, I dig out our Wii and strap on the Zumba
belt, shimmying and shaking like a fool as Stella smiles up at
me from her swing. I ignore the stares of the people in the
hospital windows across the street. I look silly. I look like I’m
being attacked by a swarm of bees.
But I feel amazing.
It’s not just about the weight. Yeah, I’ll be happy when the
baby belly is gone. But I’m happier taking charge of my body
again. Moving, stretching, jumping, and what could charitably
be called dancing. It’s invigorating.
I finish the 20-minute beginner’s session and score lower
than I even thought possible. It threatens to demotivate me
until I catch my daughter’s eye. Her face breaks into a full
smile as if saying, “We did it, Mommy!”
We can do this! I can do this. At least I took the first wobbly,
out-of-practice step. The rest is cake.
Or ice cream.
Ice Cream Float-tail
Sometimes you just have to not worry about calories and
exercise and blah, blah, that’s boring. Ice cream is much more
fun. Treat yourself with this ice creamy cocktail!
2 oz. vanilla vodka
1 scoop vanilla ice cream
12 oz. root beer
1. Pour vodka into a frosty mug.
2. Top with a scoop of ice cream.
3. Pour root beer over the ice cream.
4. Sip with a straw and savor. Until you get brain freeze.
Makes 1 serving
15
My Business Is None of Your Business
The French government subsidizes dildos. OK, not really, but
the French healthcare system covers perineum re-education,
and that includes the purchase of a “sonde” (probe, in much
scarier-sounding English) to be used by your professional
perineum re-educator in determining the quality of your
vaginal muscle.
What happened to doing a few Kegels and calling it a day?
The French are preoccupied with a woman’s state of affairs
after giving birth. Invasively so.
When my husband returned to work after his 11-day
paternity leave (you won’t catch me complaining about that
perk of the system), his co-workers asked the routine
questions:
“The family is doing well? Baby is healthy?”
“Yes, we’re all doing great, thanks,” Mika replied.
“And your wife has started her perineum re-education
sessions?”
Because apparently my hoo-hah and its elasticity are typical
water cooler banter between colleagues and employee-whosewife-
just-had-a-baby.
After Leo was born, I went along with the state-sponsored
plan to get my goods back in shape. I didn’t want to pee my
pants every time I sneezed. I understood the importance of
returning to business as usual. Or business as “usual” as you
can get after giving birth to a 7 1/2-pound preemie.
I asked Mika to go to the pharmacy to buy the probe because
I’m mature like that. I showed up to the consultation with the
physical therapist, government subsidized sonde in hand, and
answered all sorts of embarrassing questions that sounded only
slightly better with a French accent.
“OK, now undress and hop up on the exam table,” the
physical therapist said, as if she hadn’t just told me to get
naked in the middle of the room.
I looked around for a changing room or even a thin, paper
gown. Nothing. She expected me to drop my drawers right
there and shimmy over to the table? My American modesty
paralyzed me.
“Is there a problem?” she asked.
“Um, no, um…” I glanced around and my eyes landed on the
probe.
“Oh, don’t worry. We won’t be using la sonde today. I’ll just
evaluate your situation and make recommendations for
improvement.”
Like a face lift. Except not for your face.
I disrobed and managed to get through the appointment,
squeezing out a few Kegels as she watched and took notes.
“Great job! I’ll see you next week. Don’t forget la sonde!”
In your dreams, lady. Between the demands of caring for a
newborn and re-watching every episode of Scrubs, I decided to
prioritize my remaining time off work and skip the supervised
Kegel sessions. (And, still the mature one, I had Mika call to
cancel my appointment.)
Two years later, after Stella was born, I didn’t even
contemplate perineal re-education classes. I didn’t need a
physical therapist to tell me you could throw a saucisse down
my hallway. I would do my Kegels in the comfort of my own
home, this time binge-watching House of Lies while cuddling
with my second bundle of joy.
Thinking all the unpleasantness of labor, delivery, and
vaginal exercises was behind me, I returned to work eager for
conversation with other adults.
“Welcome back!” my boss’s father said, kissing each cheek in
the French custom. “We’re glad you’re here.”
“Thanks, it’s good to be back. Well, I better get to work!”
“Hold on. Do you have a second? I need to ask you something
important.”
“Of course,” I replied, ready for whatever new project he
would throw at me.
“Do you know what a perineum is?”
The clattering of keyboards in the open floor plan office
screeched to a halt.
“Um, yes.” What did this have to do with work? Where was
he going with this?
“And do you understand the importance of re-educating it
after childbirth? Because it’s really important. My wife didn’t
and…”
Tuning out was my only coping mechanism against this
uncomfortable dialogue. This affront on my modesty. If only I
could put a thin, paper gown between me and this
conversation.
“… very important to do what your doctor says.
Understand?”
I nodded numbly, then took me and my out-of-shape goods
back to my desk. The keyboard clatter resumed, and the
redness in my cheeks slowly drained away.
Welcome back to work, where your business is everyone’s
business. Even the French government’s.
Lemon Cake
What’s sweet? Your new bundle of joy. What sours it all? Your
boss’s dad asking how your recovery down there is going. What
better than a sweet and sour shot to take your mind off things
(and quickly)!
1 oz. vanilla vodka
1 oz. sour mix
sugar
1. Wet the rim of a shot glass, then coat with sugar.
2. Pour vodka and sour mix into a martini shaker with ice.
Shake well, then strain into the shot glass.
3. Shoot it, and put the awkward conversation out of your
mind as quickly as possible.
Makes 1 serving
Petite Living
I don’t always take the trash out in my socks, but when
I do, you can bet I’ll run into all my neighbors.
16
Pick-Up Lines with the Most Fromage
“That’s a hot outfit. It’d look better crumpled up at the foot
of my bed.”
Barf! Fortunately, I haven’t been the recipient of too many
cheesy pick-up lines, at least not stateside. Before moving to
Paris, I didn’t spend much time single. I dated my college
boyfriend for four years, and moved to France soon after our
break-up.
French men, however, are an entirely different story.
They’re not crass like some of the American guys I’ve
encountered, but they make me cringe all the same. I just don’t
do typical romance. Poetry? Gag. Lengthy discourse about how
beautiful my eyes are? There are only so many ways (I’m
interested in hearing about) to say “green.” Can’t a girl just
have a night out with her friends?
Maybe I’m being too harsh. You decide:
After kissing one dude (I blame the wine for even letting me
get that far), he groped my butt then said, “My hand
discovered a land I would love to explore.”
He wanted to explore my ass? No thanks!
Another time, after being duped into going back to a guy’s
apartment for a “party” (again, I blame the wine for me not
noticing that none of his friends were following us), this guy
wrote a sappy note in a tattered copy of Le Petit Prince, signed
it, then handed it over with strict instructions for me to read
the book ASAP so we could discuss it on a future date.
Like homework? Not interested. Also, we were SO not going
on any future dates. Any guy who tries to trick me to get me
alone completely loses my trust (once I realize that’s what
happened, of course).
Luckily, Guillaume Shakespeare had written his love note in
pencil so I was able to erase it and donate the book to charity.
“Hey, you! Girl with a smile! Would you like to have a coffee
with me?”
This was shouted to me one time in the pouring rain as I was
struggling with numerous shopping bags. Of course, this
“gentleman” didn’t bother to help with my bags as he strode
alongside me. He only offered to buy me a €1 espresso.
That was extremely kind of him (one whole euro!) but I had
plenty of coffee at home.
“I’m so lonely,” one guy whined to me on a cold, rainy night.
I could practically hear sad violins playing in the distance. “My
girlfriend doesn’t pay attention to me anymore.”
Girlfriend? I was out of there before the crocodile tear rolled
off his cheating cheek.
“I had a great time tonight but I have to head home so I can
help my friend move early tomorrow morning. Can I take you
out on a date tomorrow afternoon?”
Wait, what’s wrong with this one? Nothing! That’s what my
future French husband said to me the night we met, in a bar
nonetheless. No groping, no trying to get in my pants, no
stubborn persistence. Just a nice, respectful end to a lively
evening.
The rest, as they say, is history.
So what lesson did I learn?
The more wine you drink, the less cheesy the pick-up lines
sound. And the harder it is to tell the sleazebags from the
chivalrous knights. Oh, and usually the knights don’t need a
pick-up line, and certainly not loaded with cheese. Their
genuine smile will get them pretty damn far.
Mind Eraser
After one too many sleazeballs hits on your badass self, you’ll
want to wash away all the icky memories. This is just the shot
for you.
1 oz. vodka
1 oz. coffee liqueur
1 oz. tonic water
1. Pour all ingredients into martini shaker. Add ice and shake.
2. Strain into a large shot glass.
3. Shoot it quickly, and proceed to forget about every sleazy
pick-up line you ever heard, leaving you open to meet the
love of your life.
Makes 1 serving
17
10 Ways Living in Paris Is Like Dental Work
Movies and books tend to paint Paris as a lovely tableau of
historical monuments, aromatic wine, and romantic scenery.
The City of Light is full of life and love. It’s a dream come true.
Until those few snarky commentaries slip through and show
us what it’s really like to live in the French capital.
Overall, living in Paris is worth it, despite the infuriating
government workers and the Métro smelling like urine.
I’ve lived in Paris for over 10 years. And I’ve had extensive
dental work—pulled 13 baby teeth, replaced my two front teeth
twice, suffered through root canals, and donned braces,
appliances, and pretty much every other dental gadget that
exists.
So if anyone can bring these two topics together into the
world’s weirdest list, it’s me.
Without further ado, here is a comparison between real life
in Paris and dental work:
1. It’s Expensive
Paris: A 30-square-meter (323 square feet) apartment will set
us back at least €1,000 per month ($1,350). We’ll consider
ourselves lucky if the bathroom is in the apartment (as opposed
to the hallway of the building) and we have a functioning stove.
Dental Work: Routine check-ups are affordable, but as soon as
we start filling cavities, making crowns, and having root canals,
we’re quickly in the thousands. And when we submit our
insurance claims, we hear silence, except for a few crickets
chirping in the distance.
2. It’s Frustrating
Paris: We arrive at our visa renewal appointment with all 10
items specified on the Official Visa Renewal Documentation
List, only to be met with “What about [item that wasn’t on the
list]? Pfff. Come back when you’re prepared.” You mean, come
back when we’ve learned how to read minds? So now we have
to file for an extension and suffer through another
appointment.
Dental Work: “So how was your vacation?” “Garg… fleurg.”
“Please hold your mouth still while I’m doing this.” Then why
did you ask, nimwit?
3. It Hurts
Paris: We attempt to pay for a €12 taxi ride with a €20 bill, only
to have the cabbie launch into a tirade about how “you people”
never have change and “you people” always expect him to
make change. It’s not like “we people” flagged him down in the
street and asked him for change for a vending machine. “We
people” are paying for a service rendered and are rightfully
expecting change. Why is he yelling at us?
Dental Work: Fewer drills were used to build the Eiffel Tower
than the dentist has used on our mouths, and we’re only five
minutes into the appointment. Not to mention the lingering
pain we’ll feel after the appointment is over.
4. We Experience a Wide Array of Unusual Tastes
Paris: Escargots are better than we thought (mainly because
they’re drowned in a butter garlic sauce) but some things will
always seem a bit odd to the non-French taste-tester—like
kidneys and cow tongue and bone marrow. Thankfully we can
wash it all down with a delicious glass of wine.
Dental Work: The dentist thinks he sucked out all the saliva
from our mouths so he gives us permission to swallow, and we
are met with the taste of cement and blood. Yuck. But if we’re
lucky he’ll give us cherry fluoride to rinse it out with!
5. We Experience a Wide Array of Unusual Smells
Paris: From the homeless man urinating in the Métro to a
yappy poodle pooping in the street, our nostrils will be
assaulted with many unpleasant smells. But we’ll also enjoy the
unique aroma of pungent Roquefort that’s been aged in a
regional French cave. And it will be paired with full-bodied red
Bordeaux to bring out the best flavors of the cheese.
Dental Work: The drill whirrs and we convince ourselves this is
a trained medical professional who knows what he’s doing. But
that slightly burnt odor is still unnerving. Why does dental
work smell like something’s on fire? Even the fruity rinse he
provides afterward isn’t strong enough to overtake the smoky
aroma.
6. We Keep Putting It Off
Paris: It’s been a lifelong dream to visit Paris, or maybe we
even envision settling in for a prolonged stay. But we haven’t
quite gotten around to it yet. We need to take time off work.
The flight is long and pricey. We want to finish x, y, and z first.
There’s always something getting in the way of us and our
fairytale destination.
Dental Work: We go in for a check-up and after a routine exam
the doctor delivers the verdict—we need to fill three cavities
and have two root canals. Yikes. We need to take time off work.
The procedure is long and pricey. We want to finish x, y, and z
first. There’s always something getting in the way of us and our
torturous appointment.
7. We Have to Wait
Paris: Everywhere we go, there’s a line. Which shouldn’t come
as a surprise since Paris hosts millions of visitors per year, and
that’s on top of the millions of residents populating the city.
From Notre-Dame to the local bakery, we’re stuck behind slowmoving
people who take forever to complete their transactions.
At least we’re likely to enjoy whatever is at the end of the line
(world-famous view, world-famous pastries).
Dental Work: We’ll be stuck in the drab waiting room, dreading
what’s about to happen on the other side of the door. We’ll flip
through the torn pages of old magazines, bored out of our
minds. Part of us will just want to get this over with and part of
us will be happy we can put it off a little longer. Nothing good
waits for us at the dentist’s office, except for the fact that this
will all be over soon.
8. We Have to Fill out a Bunch of Forms
Paris: If we’re visiting, sometimes we’ll luck out and border
control will give us quick stamps in our passports and wave us
through. But if we’re staying for an extended period of time
(somehow I’m still here 10 years later, so watch out—it can
happen!) we’ll have to apply for a visa. Which involves a yearly
renewal process of 848 pieces of paper (originals) plus 848
photocopies. The forests of the world weep as we prepare our
dossier. We join a gym and lift weights religiously in order to be
able to carry the two-ton folder to the appointment. Our hand
cramps up from signing and dating so many forms. It’s
unbelievable how much information they’re asking for. Why do
they need a birth certificate that’s less than six months old?
The data on the certificate doesn’t change! Next they’re going
to ask our kindergarten teacher for a sworn affidavit that we’re
decent human beings.
Dental Work: We sign waiver after waiver, wondering just how
dangerous this procedure is if it requires signing a form first.
They ask all sorts of seemingly irrelevant medical information
(why do they need to know if we have heart murmurs?). Then
we get to the stack of insurance forms, which seems pointless
to fill out since the lame dental insurance plan will barely cover
the cost of a candy bar. Of course, eating too many candy bars
is possibly what got us into this predicament in the first place.
9. Once Isn’t Enough
Paris: Strolling along the Seine at sunset, hand in hand with
that special someone, we feel like we could do this forever.
Spending a day at the Louvre, we realize we’ve only covered
1/30th of what we’d planned to see. Working our way through
the glass display case at the boulangerie we notice we’ve only
tried croissants and pains au chocolat and madeleines—we still
need to taste éclairs and macarons and mille-feuilles. Feet
worn out after a week of walking around the City of Light, we
would gladly run a marathon if it meant we could stay an extra
week. Somehow we’ll find the time and money to do so.
Dental Work: Rising from the dentist’s chair with a numb jaw,
dried spit in the corners of our mouth, and drool running down
our chin, the kind doctor informs us that he only got through
half of the work today. We’ll have to come back for the crowns
and a final polishing. Somehow we’ll find the time and money
to do so.
10. It’s All Worth It in the End
Paris: Where else can we picnic in front of the Eiffel Tower,
being treated to a sparkly light show on the hour every hour?
Or view some of the world’s finest art? Or drink some of the
best wine on the planet? Or walk from the Arc de Triomphe
down the Champs Elysées, passing luxury stores like Louis
Vuitton? Every street, every sight is like a scene in a movie.
Flipping through our photo album after we return home
(assuming we don’t make Paris our permanent home) we’ll be
amazed that we actually saw and did all those things in person.
Dental Work: I’ve literally had people stop me on the street and
say what a nice smile I have. Clearly I must like Paris if I’m
smiling like an idiot while walking down its cobbled roads.
The Fluoride Treatment
Nothing like minty fresh breath to make you feel like you just
came from the dentist!
1 oz. vodka
1 oz. blue curacao
3 oz. soda water
1 mint leaf
1. Pour vodka and blue curacao in a highball glass over ice.
2. Top with soda water.
3. Use a mint leaf for garnish, and to give you that dentistclean
feeling.
Makes 1 serving
18
Venturing Past the Quartier
Seven years of living in Paris had been filled with wine,
cheese, and late nights that turned into early mornings.
Hopping into a cab after the night’s partying had come to an
end and the sun began to rise, I often didn’t know whether to
greet the driver with “Bonsoir” or “Bonjour.” I lived city life to
the fullest and never slowed down.
I could jet off to places like Marrakech or Ljubljana on a
moment’s notice, leaving behind freshly watered plants in my
small one-bedroom apartment in favor of sheep’s head stew
and medieval castles. Adventure was just a heartbeat away.
The last few years have been a bit different. With two kids
under two, the only thing in my life that hasn’t changed is the
fact I still live in a small one-bedroom apartment. My family
dines on vegetable puree and builds castles out of Legos.
Adventure has taken a different form.
My childhood vacations included trips to Yellowstone and
Disney World, typical American destinations. We saw herds of
antelope and hugged Mickey Mouse. My French husband’s
family ventured to Santa’s Village in Finland and the
Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany, typical European
destinations. They saw herds of reindeer and the castle from
which the Disney castle took its inspiration. Mika and I want
our children to experience the same diversity in their
vacations.
That is, if we can ever get out the front door.
Shortly after Leo was born, we managed quick jaunts to
London and Brussels. With only one kid in tow, it was doable.
We even took several longer trips to the U.S. Now I’m happy to
make it to the boulangerie and back, struggling to strap a
squirmy Leo in his stroller while Stella snuggles in the baby
carrier against my chest. Forget leaving the country—I’m lucky
to leave my neighborhood.
Not that I’m complaining. My French-American children see
amazing sights on their daily stroll to the park, sights I didn’t
lay eyes on until my first international trip at age 19. What is
magical to me—buildings older than my home country, iconic
monuments, decadent cuisine—will be commonplace to them as
they grow up alongside wonders like Notre-Dame and the Eiffel
Tower. And eat croissants every day.
When I moved to Paris, my mom wished me good luck in my
new life, an entire world away. France was foreign to me,
exotic. It’s the norm for my children. Will they decide one day
to move to the U.S., viewing it as an adventure, like I did when
I moved to France? Or will they seek out a country even more
exotic? Will I wish them luck in their new life, or will I secretly
wish they stay close to home? Will I be able to let them go as
easily as my mom let me? Or was my mom only pretending to
be OK with it because she knew it was what I wanted?
I have years to ponder/worry/agonize over this before the
kids leave the nest. Until then, Mika and I plan to travel the
world with our children, giving them a taste of what’s out
there. Even if it means losing them to another country later on.
It’s what I did, and what I would do again. I have to be
prepared that will happen and I should be supportive when it
does.
In the meantime, we’ll stick to the neighborhood park and
the occasional trip to the world-renowned ice cream parlor
down the street. There’s enough adventure in our own quartier,
with its winding roads and ancient structures.
We feel right at home.
Mixed Midori
When my kids finally leave the nest, I’ll be equal parts
relieved (ah, peace and quiet!) and sad (my babies are all
grown up!). But the familiarity of drinking my favorite cocktail
should get me through.
1 oz. Midori
1 oz. raspberry vodka
2 oz. sour mix
2 oz. cranberry juice
1. Mix all ingredients in a martini shaker with ice.
2. Pour into a tumbler (including ice) and drink in that
comfortable feeling!
Makes 1 serving
Acknowledgements
Thanks to everyone who edited and gave feedback on these
pieces. I wrote a lot of them when I was up with a baby in the
middle of the night, so it helped to have a non-sleep-deprived
perspective. Thanks to Mamalode, BLUNTmoms, Established
1975, and When Crazy Meets Exhaustion for publishing a few
of the original pieces that developed into these stories. Writing
for different audiences allowed me to explore different styles,
and it was great interacting with the wonderful fans on those
sites.
And thanks to Jennie Goutet for the title inspiration!
Super big thanks to my ever-patient husband, who takes care
of our totally impatient kids while I write. And merci to Leo and
Stella, who give me so much material to write about that I’ll be
busy for life. Big sloppy kisses to all three of you.
About the Author
Vicki Lesage lives in Paris and writes about the ups and
downs of her life abroad. Thankfully, there are more ups than
downs, and at least the downs make for great stories!
Vicki hopes you enjoyed the book! If you did, she’d love it if
you left a review at Amazon.com. For every review—even just a
few sentences—Amazon sends Vicki a cocktail. OK, not really.
But Amazon does help convince other people to buy Vicki’s
book, which is arguably even better. Depending on the cocktail.
Want more? Get Confessions & Cocktails for free! Simply join
Vicki’s mailing list: http://bit.ly/lesage-news.
Check out the other books in the Paris Confessions series:
Confessions of a Paris Party Girl, Vicki’s wild Paris debut.
Wine, romance, and a new life in France—a laugh-out-loud
memoir from an American in Paris.
Confessions of a Paris Potty Trainer, the #1 Amazon Best
Seller about Vicki’s bumpy journey into motherhood and
French parenting. Diapers, tantrums, and French bureaucracy
—the crazy life of an American mom in Paris!
Christmas Confessions & Cocktails gets you in the Yuletide
spirit with 25 Christmas-themed stories, each paired with a
holiday-inspired cocktail recipe.
Confessions & Cocktails, five funny stories partnered with
five fun cocktails for a quick taste of life in the City of Light.
For more stories, check out VickiLesage.com. And you can
always drop Vicki a line at vicki@vickilesage.com.
Read on for a sneak peek of Confessions of a Paris Party
Girl…
Get your groove on with…
Confessions & Cocktails
Drink up the good life in the City of Light!
If you’ve ever had one too many drinks and ended up spilling
one too many secrets, this book is for you! This mini
“memoirette” is a collection of stories about Vicki’s life in Paris,
designed to give you a quick taste of her writing style. Each
vignette is paired with a sassy cocktail recipe.
So grab that cocktail shaker and let’s get this party started!
Get it for free! Join Vicki’s new release mailing list and she’ll
send you a free ecopy of Confessions & Cocktails.
Join here: http://bit.ly/lesage-news
Confessions of a Paris Party Girl
A HUMOROUS TRAVEL MEMOIR
1
Sister Mary Keyholder
I would like to say that when I first stepped off the plane and
embarked on my new life in France, something memorable
happened. Or something funny or amazing or romantic or at
least worth writing about. Truth is, I don’t remember. I take
that to be a good thing. Considering all the mishaps I’ve had
since moving here, “uneventful” nearly equals “good” in my
book.
Looking back all these years later, I see myself as a hopeful,
naive girl full of energy stepping off that plane. Tired of
running into my ex-boyfriend seemingly everywhere around my
midwestern American hometown, and having been
unceremoniously freed from my IT job, this fearless 25-year-old
was ready for a change.
I had dipped my toes in the proverbial European pond over
the course of several college backpacking trips and now
wanted to experience living there. To wake up to the smell of
fresh croissants, to drink copious amounts of wine straight
from the source, and maybe meet a tall, dark and handsome
Frenchman. Who was, of course, not a wienie.
Oh, to be back in the shoes (or flip-flops, as it were) of that
intrepid girl, arriving in a new land, successfully
commandeering the Métro and her luggage, triumphantly
arriving on the doorstep of her destination.
The smooth sailing didn’t last long.
I had sublet an apartment for the summer from an unseen
Irish girl, Colleen, using Craigslist. The photos showed a
charming, yet tiny, apartment that I already pictured myself
living in. You’d think this was where the story starts to go
wrong, but the girl and the apartment did exist! Making it
probably the last apartment to be legitimately rented online
before scammers cornered the market.
For me, the issue was getting in to the apartment.
First I had to get the key. Colleen had agreed to leave it next
door at the convent (Me? Living next to a convent? This’ll be
good.) The Catholic schoolgirl in me had an overly
romanticized notion of how a Parisian convent would look. I
was expecting some sort of Gothic cathedral with nunny
looking nuns. So I must have walked past the modern, imposing
structure about twenty times, sure I’d been conned, before I
noticed the sign. Ahem.
I retrieved the key using a combination of my shaky French
and the logic that, c’mon ladies, how would anyone else have
found out about this bizarre scenario and come knocking on
your door?
“Bonjour, je m’appelle Vicki. Comment allez-vous?” I asked
the group of navy-blue-clad, pious-looking women gathered
inside the doorway.
The elderly (aren’t they all?) nun closest to me cautiously
replied, “Pas mal. Et vous?”
Ack! What did she say? I was so busy forming my question I
didn’t plan for her response! Just keep going, you can do it. “Je
cherche une clef.” I’m looking for a key.
“Une clef?”
“Oui, une clef.” Now I know that’s not much to go on, but
let’s be real. Do lost girls often come to their door? Hrm. Now
that I think about it, maybe that’s how girls become nuns?
Better speed this up before I get stuck in the nunnery, never to
be seen again. “Colleen leave key? It’s for me.”
“Oh yes, a key! For an American girl. That must be you.” Was
it that obvious? Was it my blonde hair? Wide, toothy smile? No,
it was probably my command (or lack thereof) of the French
language.
“You’re friends with Colleen?” she asked.
I wasn’t sure how to answer that since we weren’t really
friends, but then again I wasn’t even sure that was the
question. My French wasn’t up to the task of explaining how I
knew Colleen, and for sure if I said we weren’t friends, Sister
Mary Keyholder would never hand over the precious key.
“Yes,” I said with a smile, then promptly got the heck out of
there.
Key and two heavy suitcases in hand, I headed to my new
apartment building. The number on the front, 20, was written
in the ornate curlicue script that most French buildings employ.
The large windows of each apartment were fronted by black
wrought-iron rails, providing the perfect vantage point from
which to observe the goings-on of the street below. I eagerly
punched the five-digit code into the digicode reader to the right
of the door and was in.
Next issue: finding the actual apartment. You’d think this
would be easy since Colleen had said it was on the third floor.
Silly me, that seemed like enough information until I scoped
out the situation.
Problem 1: Once inside the front door, I saw two buildings–
one that faced the sidewalk (in which I was currently standing)
and one past a quiet courtyard containing a few trees and a
large, overflowing trash barrel. Which building was it?
Problem 2: Colleen had said the apartment was on the third
floor but in France the ground floor is counted as the “0th”
floor, so what an American calls the third floor, a French person
calls the second floor. I didn’t know if Colleen had adjusted for
the American way or stuck to the French method or if Ireland
had an entirely different technique1.
1 I’ve dedicated many a conversation to this topic because that’s the
kind of life I lead (if you understand that, you’re going to love this book)
and I still can’t tell which system is better. I can see counting the
ground floor as the first floor because it has a floor and it’s the first one
you walk on. But I can also see the logic in going up your first flight of
stairs and then counting “1”, then another flight and saying “2” and so
on. I mean, are you trying to get credit for making it to the ground floor
when you haven’t even gone anywhere? When you’re not in a building
do you say you’re on the first floor? No, because you’re just on the
ground! So I guess we’ll have to call it a wash. Sit back and relax – I’ll
take care of sending the memo to America and France so they know
what I’ve decided on this important matter. And I still don’t know how
they do it in Ireland!
Problem 3: Each floor had two apartments.
So I had a total of eight possible apartments to choose from,
none of which had names on the door. I was afraid to leave my
bags unattended so I schlepped up the first set of stairs, bags
and all, and knocked on each door. On any door where I didn’t
get a response, I tried my key. No dice in any of the apartments
in the first building, so I hauled my luggage down the stairs
and through the courtyard to the second building. One person
answered and had no idea who Colleen was (friendly
neighbors!) and I tried my key in the other three doors. But
again, no dice. Crap! After trying eight different apartments,
one of them should have been the right one.
I sulked down to the courtyard and let out a few choice
words of frustration. I thought back to when my mom and stepdad,
Doug, were seeing me off at the airport. We had a tearful
goodbye and I choked up when my mom said “Good luck in
your new life, honey.” She was sad to see me go but wanted me
to be happy. And now here I was, trapped outside my new
apartment, admittedly not doing so hot in this new life.
I wanted to call her and cry but I needed to get into the
apartment to get the damn phone! Plus, I didn’t want to give
Mom a heart attack by waking her at 5:00 in the morning. No,
better to sort everything out myself and call when I had good
news to report.
I straightened up and reassessed the situation. I know I’m at
the right address since the front door code worked. Colleen
hadn’t said anything about crossing the courtyard, so her
apartment is probably in the first building. And since we’re in
France, she had probably used the French system of floor
numbering.
Not giving a rat’s ass about the suitcases anymore, and
hating their guts for being so stubbornly heavy, I hauled my
sweaty self up the first stairs once again and tried both
apartments on the (French) third floor.
Funny thing, no matter how determined you are, if the key
ain’t right for the door, it ain’t gonna open. And this key was a
monster. At least twice as large as a standard door key, it
squirmed of its own volition, so determined was it to not fit in
the door.
Now I was dejected. I went back to the sunny courtyard to
throw insults at my luggage and half-seriously glanced around
for a place to sleep. Behind the trash bin? Under the tree?
Maybe with enough vin rouge I could make the courtyard
comfortable. I turned to the sky for answers (why do people do
that?) and that’s when I noticed the burgundy curtains in an
apartment on the third floor of the second building. I
recognized the color from one of the Craigslist ad photos. At
last! This could be it. So looking at the sky does provide
answers.
Leaving the luggage once again, I climbed the stairs and
tried the key in the door. It wasn’t easy going, but I was more
determined than ever. I shimmied and I shook. This key had to
fit! I was NOT sleeping under a tree!
With vigorous jiggling, cursing, and promising my firstborn
child, the door finally opened. I’d never been more proud of
myself in my life. I might have even literally leapt for joy.
“Hello, Paris! Vicki is here and watch out, she can OPEN
DOORS!”
After touring my new digs, I mustered up the strength to
retrieve my luggage. Me! And my bags! In my apartment! With
a key that opens doors! Wheee! The possibilities in this new life
are endless. If I can open a door, I can do anything!
Find out what happens next… buy Confessions of a Paris
Party Girl today!