It all starts with this.

You see why this is a problem, yes?

Pumpkin pie. Carnegie Deli cheesecake. White chocolate mousse cake. Coconut cake. Key lime pie.

Not pictured: Homemade Reese’s cups. Homemade shortbread cookie amputees. (It was a sad state of affairs really. Who in the heck put me in charge of making these cookies out of sugar and butter? Did they really think they would come out in one piece?) Homemade chocolate chip cookies. M&Ms. Homemade chocolate pastries. Homemade sugar cookies. Pound cake.

I am in the house where diets go to die. Not that I’m on a diet particularly. I am, however, trying to work off this lovely ten-pound gift that tri-cyclen lo has given me this Christmas. (Thanks, new birth control pill…for giving me horrific skin, morning sickness, bloateous maximus, mood swings, and a FULL TEN POUNDS. Just what I asked the mall Santa for when I sat on his lap last week!)(Although now I’m thinking that maybe I picked up all these symptoms for the mall Santa….) (AND NO I AM NOT PREGNANT. I SWEAR. Please don’t make me go into it, but I can assure you that this is, indeed, a fact.) (My hair, however, is lustrous and my nails are growing like weeds and my boobs are in-your-face gigantenormous, so there’s a wee silver lining.)

BUT, back to the subject at hand.

Yes.

The problem with Chrismukah.

There are so many lovely things about this time of year. Getting to spend time with my brother and my sister in law and HOORAY FOR ALL COUSIN TIME complete with playing dolls and watching movies and nail painting and fashion shows and hip hop dance routines and theme songs and communal baths! Getting to be in the US to reap all the benefits of both pre-Christmas and post-Christmas sales. Getting to watch my children’s faces as they open up their new toys and games and clothes and omg Isabella’s face when she opened up her brown cowboy boots. Getting to open my own gifts (Paige jeans and 7 jeans and J.Crew sweaters and an 85mm prime lens and new pjs oh my!) and getting to play new board games with my siblings and drinking expensive wines and escaping the dead of winter and, of course, Target.

But there is just one thing I cannot handle. I walk into this house and immediately that little thing called willpower goes running for the hills. It knows that it can’t even possibly compete in this house. It would lose its legs like my poor shortbread men well before the first round was even close to being over.

So, that’s it. Halfway through my trip and I am a sausage. There is no getting around it. I have eaten my weight in cake and pie and cookies at least three four times over. I feel gross and really all I want to do is sit around in my new elastic waist pajama pants and hoodies and sloth away.

It may just be the booze talking, but I have made a decision and it’s a doozy. And I figure if I tell you guys than if I cheat, I’ll have lots of people to answer to and then I’ll just feel like an asshole…even though it’s the week between Christmas and New Year’s and I know that there are about three people reading the internet, but still, that’s three people who would be all, “ALI! YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE!” and we can’t have any of that. So. Here it is. There will be no more dessert. I have eaten my last piece of pumpkin pie. My last just-one-little-bite of key lime pie. My last cookie. My last M&M. Done. And done.

Clearly, I am crazy. But my new jeans are going to thank me for it next week when they actually fit over my lard ass. Take that, willpower. Who needs you?