Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Here is your butter, would you like a side of butter with that? (aka: I can't believe it's not bu- oh. It is butter.)

My colleagues can be pretty awesome. There are days when I want to put my head in the paper shredder because of some ridiculous thing that no sane person would decide, but... for the most part I like what I do and I enjoy the people I work with. Lately though, my projects are stalling, and I can't seem to get them to to get the job done. (I know, you're wondering why this shortstack with barely 2yrs experience and no real authority is having difficulties? Insanity!)

So I devised a plan. A scheme really, that involves cookies. You see the French don't have a damn clue about what's in a chocolate chip cookie for the most part, (too obsessed with their precious Macarons) and if I don't teach them, who will? I'm proud to announce that my bribe to make them cookies if they finished a project has been successful, and we're launching a project in January after several months of hard work. I've reduced them to children. Bravo me.

Btw, I don't care if you build another Eiffel Tower by the time January rolls around, I'm never making you all cookies again.

Why?? Isn't it obvious? Butter and I have had a fight, and I've decided, just like with hair, that it's time for a divorce. It can sweet talk me all it wants with its moist, saltiness, but I've moved on.

Last night, I made the promised cookies. For three and a half hours. It smells in here. I never thought I'd say this, but, it's making me sick living inside a giant cookie. Something happens to me, and I suspect I'm not the only one, when I make cookies. I can't resist tasting the dough, and then everything begins to taste like butter. EVERYTHING. It's like it coats my entire mouth, and no amount of brushing will remove me from my milk-product-induced hell.

I had soup for dinner. Like drinking melted butter. Yogurt for breakfast. All I can taste is creeeeamy butter. I think I'm about to swear off eating for at least the next 24hrs. I blame the french with their skinny-jean-wearing, won't-work-without-cookies mentality.

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