Magical +1. Throw that D&D lingo around, Sovereign.

We all live in a consumer society, except on the island, when I get the itch to buy something incredibly frivolous and potentially retarded I tend to mosey on down to Home Hardware and gingerly caress things like thumb tacks, or talk to a fisherman about gaining myself some discount fish.

Now that I am experiencing a wealth of summer adventures in various biggish cities I am overcome with shopping fever and, if I wasn't trying so hard to avoid all forms of hepatitis, I'd almost want to lick the glass of the store windows just so I could solidify in my mind what shopping tastes like. Because I'm pretty sure it tastes like rainbows. 99 percent positive.

The other day I bought a custom tshirt that reads "My other ride is a unicorn." I am a little disappointed in myself though. I spent a good 45 minutes inside the shop looking at logos and everyone was waiting for me. Finally, I got flustered and just randomly picked something. Apparently I need to have at least 24 hours notice before I'm required to be decisive about anything. This is why I would never win the Jeopardy Challenge.

What I really want to do is get a tshirt that says "Magical Plus One" so all the world can know that at one time, I was a pretty spectacular Half Elf Fighter.

I've pulled in a pretty excellent haul the last few weeks, and the fact that it's all on an extreme budget makes me want to high five myself. Gently. Sensually.

From plastic pink skull earrings to a set of mushroom cannisters for my dear Melissa, from a fifteen dollar handmade wooden dollhouse (this will someday be an art piece), to an entire set of rare Strawberry Hill pottery to ... are you ready? A bathing suit.

I am all for going pantsless at the beach, but sometimes you really don't feel like wowing the public with your cotton panties. Jamie convinced me to invest in some sort of bathing costume which I immediately tried to cover up with tshirts and shorts. There has always been something about bathing suits that ultimately leave me feeling more naked than I would if I'd just stripped down to the nitty gritty and dove in.

Incidentally, it's about 3 in the morning and I have a feeling that that sentence was the most grammatically awkward word vomit ever.

The thing is, I don't wear shorts. I live my life on a strict no shorts basis. I have never been able to wear shorts. Never. There are pictures floating around of me before I realized that shorts just weren't for me, and in them, I'm fairly certain I've accidentally wedged an entire wad of short material up somewhere in the crotchal region. Canada Day Hair Show Parade 1993? According to the photos I've galavanted out on stage wearing crooked hot pants.

And I am still not entirely against wearing full on pants in the water. There has been many a Wild Goose adventure featuring me in all my fully clothed glory, preparing myself to peel off layers of sand encrusted denim by ... trying to do spectacular handstands on the floor of Lake Superior.

Come Wednesday, more travels, more adventures, possibly less pants.