����Yesterday I was looking to add a little girlieness to my life, and really does anything say girlie quite like a 6'7" transvestite spokesmodel?

����See, the way I figure it, any company that can make RuPaul look girlie can even make ME look girlie, eh.

����And so it was that I found myself in the MAC cosmetics section of the Ogilvie store on Ste. Catharine St. in Montreal, sitting in a chair by the huge plate glass window watching the world go by while the lovely and talented V�ronique plied her skills as a make up artist.

����I got things off to an excellent start by accidentally insulting Veronique's "look".

����"Um, I don't want to look like you," I blurted without thinking. (I'm missing a sock and I think it might still be wedged in my throat from putting my foot in my mouth that deeply.)

����It wasn't that I didn't find her look beautiful or striking, because it was. The problem was that she was TOO striking. There were at least three colours of blue not seen in nature adorning her lids, her lips were an unusual coral pink and her mascara was applied heavily enough that should she walk out in the rain, her eyes had built in awnings.

����There was an awkward pause and then she said her eyes were not finished yet, there was more colour to apply.

����Oh dear. For a brief moment my "fright and flight" instinct wanted to take over and send me flying out the door, but I fought it down.

����There was another microscopic pause and then I explained to her that I wanted a very natural look, that I didn't want it to appear that I was wearing make-up at all.

����For a brief moment you could see fear in her eyes--how could a woman like me, crazy enough to ask for invisible make-up, NOT be certifiable? Was I perhaps violent?

����Then her professionalism kicked in. She gave me the once over, took in the fact that I wasn't wearing a speck of make-up and my hair was barely combed. Clearly, I Was A Woman In Need Of Her Help And Quickly.

����"You're going to wear this stuff if you buy it, right?" she asked, suspiciously. I knew at that moment she was My Make-Up Soulmate. How many saleswomen look beyond their commissions?

����I quickly affirmed that yes, I would wear her magic potions.

����I had dragged my daughter and her unsuspecting sweetie along with me to advise me through this stressful situation. Once upon a time I used to choose Jesspoo's clothes; now I go to her for advice about clothes and other girlie stuff. My, my, my how times have changed.

����(Yes, THIS woman is my make-up and fashion advisor. Some would say I'm lucky I didn't come out looking like that typical Aussie housewife and superstar, Dame Edna, eh?)

����Truth? Without Jess I would have been lost. She was the one who made the final choices and nudged V�ronique towards something subtle and simple enough that even a dimwit such as I can duplicate it. This is no mean feat.

����The real purpose of the trip was to have supper with Monstre and Steven and hear Steven's band .

����So, with my posse in tow, we arrived at the Indian restaurant. Sadly, time got short and Steven (a very busy man) had to leave early to set up. No problem, we thought. Lafontaine Park, where he was playing was just a few blocks away. We'd be right there.

����None of us realized that Lafontaine Park is roughly the size of Belgium and not one of us had bothered to inquire as to just where the band shell might be located.

����Uh oh.

����Even worse, the park's bordered by Sherbrooke St., a major Montreal artery, and traffic sounds basically drowned out any band music.

����If it hadn't been for the bagpipe intermissions in the concert I'm guessing we would have been doomed to wander the park all night. Say what you want about their distinctive wail--for us they were the homing beacon and through them we finally found the concert site.

����It was well worth a last minute dash in to Montreal. Sprawled on the grass enjoying a warm, summer night, distant lightning dancing through the sky above the band shell, good live music, a large and appreciative audience ...

����And men in skirts.

����Yep, my day had an almost spooky symmetry. It began with me thinking about a 6'7" transvestite spokesmodel and ended with a dozen or so more men in somewhat less skimpy skirts playing bagpipes.

����Really, what are the odds?