Petite Confessions by Vicki Lesage (love novels in english txt) đź“•
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- Author: Vicki Lesage
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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
“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 urine-saturated 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
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?”
“Caca vroom-vroom!”
Leo shouts his favorite word to Grandma, across an ocean, over
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