I’m so excited to bring you Christmas Confessions & Cocktails by Vicki Lesage.
American-turned-Parisian Vicki tells it like it is, from her crazy Christmases growing up in the Midwest to her even crazier holidays in her new home in France. Bizarre gifts, stomach-turning food, and holiday travel disasters are just some of the tales you’ll chuckle at in this installment of the Paris Confessions series.
This Christmas-themed memoir features 25 funny and heartwarming essays, all with a tenuous tie to Christmas, and pairs each with a delicious drink recipe. So grab your martini shaker and get ready for tasty cocktails and hearty laughs this holiday season!
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Vicki is giving away her book ‘Confessions of a Paris Party Girl’ below:
#1 Amazon Best Selling Author
When newly-single party girl Vicki moved to Paris, she was hoping to indulge in wine, stuff her face with croissants, and fall in love. It proved to be much more difficile than she’d imagined. In this laugh-out-loud memoir, this cheeky storyteller recounts the highs and lows of her life in the City of Light. Sassy and shamefully honest, Vicki makes you feel as if you’re right there in Paris stumbling along the cobblestones with her.
Will she find love? Will she learn to consume reasonable amounts of alcohol? Will the French administration ever cut her a break?
A funny memoir about coming of age and embarking on a new life in Paris. Part travel memoir, part love story, this collection of funny essays shows the humorous side of life, love, and drinking in Paris.
Excerpt from Christmas Confessions & Cocktails by Vicki Lesage
When 55 people gather for Christmas, there obviously isn’t room for everyone at the official dining room table. Grandma and Grandpa always sat at The Big Table, the grandkids had to sit at The Little Table, and the other adults had to either fight for a spot at The Big Table or resign themselves to sitting on the couch or one of The Medium Tables set up in the basement.
“At least you get a table,” my mom would say every year. “We always had to sit on the steps when we went to our grandma and grandpa’s house.” If I thought I had a lot of cousins, my mom had even more. And at every family event at her grandparents’ house, situated on a farm in central Missouri, the kids would line up on the front porch steps and eat their meal on their laps. I doubted they did this in winter, but like the “We walked uphill to school in the snow both ways” line parents always spit out, you just nod and go along with it and let them enjoy their trip down memory lane, not even realizing you’ll totally do the same thing with your kids one day.
Stephen loved sitting at The Little Table. “Mom doesn’t nag me about my manners and I don’t have to zip my pants up.” Which isn’t quite as pervy as it sounds because he was a kid and just wanted to stuff himself full of as much turkey and mashed potatoes as possible, and his only-worn-once-a-year-yet-still-always-too-small dress pants did not accommodate that plan.
One year, when he was five, his pants were so tight they literally burst at the seams, putting his Superman tighty whities on display. He didn’t even notice it at first, so being the mean older sister I am, I let him run around—excuse me, fly around—in his superhero undies in the hopes of embarrassing him.
Finally, he asked why I was giggling. “Because we’ve all been staring at your butt for the past hour. You ripped your pants.”
He looked down. “I don’t see anything.”
“I said your BUTT. Turn around.”
He twisted around and saw his pants flapping around behind him. “I thought I felt a breeze! Oh well.” He shrugged and ran off to play.
That is so not how I would have reacted. And that is so not how I expected my teasing to go! I was done with these little kids. I headed to The Big Table.
Grandma didn’t reprimand me when I hopped up in the empty seat next to her, likely vacated by one of the smokers in the family. She continued talking and I tried to keep up.
“I don’t know about this Dukakis character,” Grandma said. “You think he’ll win?”
“I sure hope not,” one of my uncles said. “But I’m not so sure about Bush, either.”
At school I’d heard kids calling the Democratic presidential candidate “dookie caca,” but I was pretty sure that type of dinner conversation wouldn’t get me invited back to The Big Table. I kept looking for an “in” but at seven years old, precocious as I was, I couldn’t convincingly debate politics.
Then they moved on to a topic I did know a little something about: babies.
I was one of the oldest cousins, so I got to play with each new little baby that came along. I loved holding them, rocking them, and giving them their bottles. What cute little story would my aunt tell about her new baby?
“This probably isn’t for kids’ ears, but…”
I looked around. I didn’t see any kids. I gave her a look indicating the coast was clear.
Then she proceeded to talk about childbirth, which is ohmygod way different than talking about babies. I couldn’t unstick myself from my seat. And I couldn’t unhear that conversation. I tried to nod along, as if I totally understood what she was saying and wasn’t totally terrified by it. Then, when she was done, I politely excused myself to go eat all the Christmas cookies and try to forget about things like “cervixes” and “epidurals” and “episiotomies,” whatever the hell those were.
I set my plate of cookies down at The Little Table, a look of horror still on my face.
“Welcome back,” Stephen said, grabbing a handful of cookies.
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About the Author:
Amazon bestselling author Vicki Lesage proves daily that raising two French kids isn’t as easy as the hype lets on. In her three minutes of spare time per week, she writes, sips bubbly, and prepares for the impending zombie apocalypse. She lives in Paris with her French husband, rambunctious son, and charming daughter, all of whom mercifully don’t laugh when she says “au revoir.”
She penned the Paris Confessions series in between diaper changes and wine refills. She writes about the ups and downs of life in the City of Light at VickiLesage.com.
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