Stuff Heather Thinks is Super Great

Yes, we’re back!  Or at least I am.  Rachel is out in real life somewhere sleeping/drinking tea/applying to grad school/Autostraddling.  Those are the things I imagine Rachel doing when she is not being a barista.

All right then.  Onto business.

Today is my day off! (Kind of!) As I’ve been selling things or ringing up things every day for the past two weeks, having a day off feels like Christmas.  More than Christmas will feel like Christmas, I expect, since I’ll probs have to work on the Eve and the day after.  I have an article due tomorrow morning for my newspaper gig and I’ve spent the morning doing research, so technically my day isn’t work-free –– I have to call sources and write it up later, not to mention NaNo –– but the Sister Figure should be showing up any time now to go to a movie and/or shoe browse with me.  I AM READY.

The ladies at [clothing store] gave me a nickname! In my brief career I have held… eleven jobs?  And not once have I been given a nickname by a coworker.  Even at [other retail giant], where my supervisor gives everyone a nickname –– Grandpa, Paris, et cetera –– I don’t have one.  They don’t seem to stick to me.  But my friends at [clothing store] have dubbed me “Barbara Bush” because, fashionwise, “You should be married to a president.”  I was going for a hot librarian kind of look, but I’ll take it.

Johnny Weir is a judge on Skating with the Stars. This means that despite the presence of “star” Bethenny Frankel, I now feel obligated to watch the show.

Market Basket. You guys, I went to one of these the other day and it is SO MUCH CHEAPER than where I usually buy groceries!  It costs three dollars to buy tahini!  Three.  Dollars.  The only reason I had never tried to make hummus, before this week, was because tahini cost eight at my usual grocery store.  Now I have made hummus.  It is glorious.  I will shop at Market Basket forever, or at least until I move out of my parents’.

Similarly, I love my food processor. It is tiny and cute and gets the job done.  Part of me wants to pat it on the lid after I cook and say, in a terrible impersonation of James Cromwell, “That’ll do, processor.  That’ll do.”


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