Sweets

Here's the deal...

I have a horrible obession with sweets. Yes, sweets...as in desserts.

I was lucky that during my pregnancy sweets actually grossed me out up until the last month or so. It could have been very, very bad.

Every night I have to have some sort of dessert. Whether it is a bowl of ice cream, brownies, cookies, anything.

I'm honestly not sure how my 5 foot 3 inch frame isn't morbidly obese.

Last week, I texted Ryan saying how badly I was craving a slice of Possum Pie. He said to go get me a piece so of course I did as he suggested. (Next time, he needs to tell me that it's a bad idea.) I got to the drive-thru window and asked if they had an entire pie to sell. (Go big or go home.) Of course they did so I spent $15.18 on an entire pie. I'm pathetic, right?

Wrong...what makes me pathetic is I single-handedly ate the entire thing in 3 days. What. The. Crap. Who does that? Pie for breakfast, yes please. Pie for lunch? You know it. Pie for dinner. Of course. Pie for dessert? Without a doubt.

I'm ashamed that I have this terrible, sick problem.

Today, since I am making stuffed pasta shells for dinner I decided the only fitting thing to have with Italian is cheesecake. So, I made some...about two hours ago...I have already dug into the stupid thing:

Now, again with being pathetic...I didn't even bother cutting a slice and putting it on a plate. (Those jagged edges are in fact fork marks.) No way...that's just one extra plate to wash. I instead ate directly from the pan. I'm allowed to do this. Why you may ask? Because I'm the only one in my household that will be eating it. Ryan's definition of "dessert" is his nightly Chips Ahoy and milk. Not much for excitement, huh?

So I should be ashamed right? Eating cheesecake directly out of the pan I made it in and before I've even started cooking dinner? Eek.

What's worse...I've discovered The CakePlace here in town that opened yesterday...gourmet cupcakes? Don't mind if I do!

We will be tring this very, very soon...probably tomorrow. I'll keep you update. This could get ugly. My dear husband, our bank account, and my hips may despise me months from now...

I. Need. An. Intervention.

Thank goodness for my gym membership and ultra-high metabolism.