Confessions of a Paris Potty Trainer: A Humorous Parenting Memoir (American in Paris Book 2) by Vicki Lesage

Author:Vicki Lesage [Lesage, Vicki]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Party Girl Press
Published: 2014-05-23T00:00:00+00:00

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“Can you make it to my going-away party?” Marie asked. “I know it’s hard with Leo but it’s going to be at the Long Hop.”

Going-away parties are at the top of the list of Events You Can’t Miss, right next to weddings, birthday parties, and George Michael concerts. Throw in alcohol and schedule it at my favorite bar, and you’ve made me an offer I can’t refuse.

“Of course I can come! Work isn’t going to be the same without you. So let’s get drunk and forget about it!”

Marie had quit her job to move to the French countryside and write a book. I would have been jealous if I wasn’t so darn happy for her. Plus, as an author, she could provide quality feedback on my book (which she did, and you can thank her for how awesome it is).

That Friday night I was ready for Mama’s First Big Night Out Since Leo Was Born. He was eight months old. As a former party girl and bathroom-floor-sleeper, this night was long overdue.

True to form, I drank too much, sang too loudly, and had way too much fun. I had completely forgotten about the time, and when I checked my phone, noting three missed calls from Mika, I was shocked to see it was already 1:00 am. The last time I’d been up at that hour was to clean up baby vomit.

And if I didn’t call it a night soon, I’d risk cleaning up my own vomit.

“Marie, I hate to do this but I have to go home. I need to catch the last Métro.”

“No problem! I’ll go with you.”

We stumbled out of the bar and headed up the street to Notre Dame. We sang (shouted) every song from “The Little Mermaid” as we made our way to the Marais, where Marie lived and where I would catch Line 1 home.

“The seaweed is always greener, in somebody else’s lake!”

“Le roseau est toujours plus vert, dans le marais d’à côté!”

We continued our melodious tune, me singing in English, Marie singing in French, arms hanging around each other’s shoulders, until we came face-to-face with two guys, similarly drunk, with their arms around each other’s shoulders.

“You girls are American? We love Americans,” they slurred.

I was about to correct them and point out that Marie had been singing in French so their assumption was stupid (because I’m nice like that), but Marie said, “Yes, I am American. U.S.A.! U.S.A.!”

We played along, pretending Marie was from New York and these idiots bought it. Marie’s English is perfect but she still has an accent.

“Would you American ladies like to see what a real Frenchman is like?”

And… we’re done. Gag me.

“Sure! Let me just call my husband and check on my baby,” I said.

They looked confused for a second until they realized that was my way of blowing them off.

“You’re missing out!” they shouted, as they continued down the street, searching for girls who would actually go home with them.

“You’re so mean, Vicki!” Marie said.

“Hey, I have a Métro to catch.

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