Beyonce and Butterscotch

You will have to forgive me (or thank me) for not writing more lately.  I am recovering from a butterscotch-induced coma.  My lovely wife Jen was kind enough to bake my favorite cookies last week, butterscotch chip.  She made approximately 400 of the delicious little treats, assuming that our three children would help me eat them.  This was a false assumption.  It turns out that these children may not have gotten any of my genes at all.  They prefer their chips to be chocolate, not the most delicious substance known to man: butterscotch.

So Jen threw down the gauntlet.  "You need to take the cookies that are left to work on Monday and get rid of them."  GET RID of butterscotch cookies?  This is anathema to me.  Does that French museum, what's-it's-name GET RID of the Mona Lisa?  No.  Does Jay Leno GET RID of his beautiful collection of classic cars?  No.  Does Jay-Z GET RID of Beyonce?  No.  (I know what you are thinking.  If I were uglier, would Beyonce date me too?)

So I spent the weekend frantically eating cookies at every opportunity.  Breakfast?  Good time to eat 12 cookies!  Overly full from going out to dinner?  Why not throw down 6 butterscotchy-good morsels? 

I gained 3 pounds, was blind for about 5 hours, and I now have something called Stage 2 Diabetes, but it was worth it.  I didn't have to share a single cookie.  In your face, co-workers!

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