I’m starting my Christmas list so you people have plenty of time to get everything on my list.

This Girl Detective Pin is perfect for that woman in your life who figures everything out.

I watch a fantastic series that is immensely popular called The Great British Baking Show. Since my husband has been home this week, he’s watched it with me. He doesn’t usually watch my shows. This is highly unusual. Of course, he had questions. I had answers, not all of which I said aloud.

What are these people’s qualifications? He’s talking about the judges. The judges are professional bakers with cookbooks and tv shows.

That’s not a pie, is it? Yes, it is.

Those are croissants. No, they are not.

Why don’t they make Cassata? That’s Italian. It’s Italian Week. I don’t actually make up the challenges.

Are we watching another one? Yes, that’s how it goes, it’s called binge-watching.

5 seconds! Nobody saw it! Pick it up. No, they can’t pick up dropped food to serve to the judges.

He’s like Baker Smurf. What is his name? Harold? No.

She’s like Smurfette. I give up.

Strawberry choux buns? I like her buns. Stop.

Why don’t you bake like this? Because I’m not going to get a cookbook deal out of making y’all a tart.

To help you with your Christmas list, here’s something for that woman on your list who shops and curses.

I’m starting my Christmas list so you people have plenty of time to get everything on my list.

Here are the $380 cashmere sweaters with “give a damn” and “everyday I’m hustlin'” stitched on them.

On boundaries.

I’ve had it. I’m declaring a war on inflatable lawn ornaments. These things have annoyed the hell out of me for years and now there are ones for Thanksgiving. It wasn’t enough that one of my neighbors put two giant dragons in her yard for the entirety of October. Now they have a turkey.

But they’re not the only ones. There are several in my neighborhood. So, stop it America. I can’t promise your turkeys won’t get decapitated during the night. Put up a cute wreath like a normal fucking person.

I am so sick of fuckin hippocrips.

This is my medicine thingie for my purse. There’s a word for that, but I’m brain dead and sad, so you think of the word.

Guess what’s in here. Keep it to yourself, there’s no prize.