Some people hit garage sales, comb through church bazaars and community flea markets — okay, I just wrote flee. Me. Not so much. For me, it’s all about the hospital gift shop. I can hear you sucking in your breath all the way over here. Yes. That’s right. The. Hospital. Gift. Shop.

Really. They’re little boutiques of booty. No. Not that kind of booty. The other kind. A treasure trove of goodies no longer just for the poor patient languishing in the bed upstairs, but a host of consumables to satisfy the desire of anyone finding themselves revolving through the front doors that are a hospital.

You can still get the slippers and jammies, the magazines and paperbacks, the toiletries, snacks and munchies, and the ever present lottery tickets. Yeah. Plenty of kitsch, too.  But you can find CDs, games, tableware, small home furnishings, fashion, jewelery, body lotions, candles, green items…. I could go on and on. The only thing they’re missing is air miles.

Mr. G, honey has given me more than one gift from a hospital gift shop. He shops were he is. That’s what he does. Just as he’s taken me on more than one breakfast date to a hospital cafeteria. Be still my heart. He gets bonus points for breakfasting outside the box. See Elen laughing.

This was my last find. Found on Friday. It spoke to my playful side.

Check those peepers!

Guilty pleasure slot!

Plunked on top of the Merriam Webster on my desk, I think this is going to be my choose your own guilty pleasure frog. Perfect for an Elen caper.

Oh, and I think we’ll lose the guilty in guilty pleasure. Yeah. That works.

Did you notice that that frog’s head and butt are the same size. I can’t say the same.

Look out. Monday’s coming!

Elen