I'd never been in a friperie until I moved to Quebec. They're somewhere in between a used clothing shop, a consignment store, and a vintage clothing/accessories store. Some of them even showcase stuff by young local designers. You never know what you'll find in them and the thrill of the hunt is half the fun.

When I read in Kaffeine's journal that she'd been on a frip crawl in Montreal I threw myself on her mercy, begging a list of good frips. I've shrunk out of everything I own but I'm not through shrinking yet. I am loathe to spend money on a new wardrobe which will have to be replaced again in a year or so.

Generously, Kaffy and Mysteria agreed to meet the daughter and I and take us on a guided frip safari. Appropriately, we did it in monsoon rains because what's the point of going out on a safari if you can't forge through unspeakably bad weather?

My thoughts, exactly.

As my three loyal readers know, I work at my home which is deep in the woods in an isolated rural area. My hobbies are gardening and fitness and so of course as we sorted through endless rails and bins of clothing I kept my eyes peeled for clothing appropriate to those pastimes.

Which I found. That is, if we all agree that a gold lam� dress that looked as if it had left Tina Turner's closet about ten minutes previously would be appropriate for, um, gardening. You have no idea how much it killed me to put that shiny dress back on the rack.

When Kaffy mined this flesh toned faux pearl and sequin covered tank top from the $5 bin in one store I bought it. Do I have any place at all where I can wear a flesh toned faux pearl and sequin covered tank top?

Shut up.

The preciousssssssssss is shiiiiiiiiiiny.

Yes, apparently my great-grandmother three times removed was a magpie. Who knew?

The previous day's success only whetted my appetite for more. And so it was on Sunday that my poor daughter had her sleep broken by me poking at her. "Are you awake yet? Huh? HUH?" This, of course, would be payback for her pre-school years when she did the very same thing to me at 5:35 each and every morning.

She should be grateful that I didn't start until 9 a.m.

Our third store into Sunday's Frip Safari, Part Deux ... We Saw It. It was the dress of my dreams, a re-interpretation of the 1950's sundresses I remember my mother and all her friends wearing when I was a very young child. It tied at the neck, big buttons down the front, HUGE pockets, big, full skirt. I almost wept when I saw it�that dress was as powerful a memory jogger as Proust's madeleines.

The price tag said $14. FOURTEEN DOLLARS. It Would Be Mine. With trembling hands I took it to a change room and tried it on. It buttoned fine until the second button up from the waist.

I could not close it. Oh, don't think there was not major tummy sucking innage, because oh there was. Had I sucked things in any harder, I would have passed out from lack of oxygen. Finally, I had to face the truth. It Did Not Fit. WAHHHHHHHHHHH.

If Shakespeare was alive today, I just know he would have written a major tragedy about this.

I pointed The Magic Dress out to the daughter. Sceptically, she tried it on. It fit her, of course, because The Universe Is A Cruel And Capricious Place Bent On Sucking All Joy From My Life.

The whimsy of the dress appealed to her, so she took it.

I am an adult.

I can get over these major life setbacks.

I will work through my bitterness.

One day.

On Saturday when we were walking around with Kaffy and Mysteria, we spotted a very droll art installation outside the Mont Royal Metro (subway) stop that involved a series of huge turquoise Adirondack chairs. Because it was pouring rain it was out of the question to crawl up into one of those chairs, which is a pretty immature act anyhow.

And I think we can all agree that it would be even more immature to make a special trip to the chairs the following day and crawl up into one.

So, uh, while the 54-year-old woman you see in this picture bears a startling resemblance to me, um, er, ah � it's not really me.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 726.82 miles. Half way there. Oh, man, please let this be over