Bag Lady had every intention of bringing you a column today about all of the glorious deals to be found at the soon-to-be-out-of-business Payless Shoes in the Auburn Mall.

Then, inconveniently enough, it closed.

When I arrived this week, it was all shadows and fixtures; amazing Christian Siriano heels and stiff cardboard-bottom flats are no more.

The trip to the mall, however, wasn’t a total loss.

Of baths and butts

It turns out there’s now a Bath Fitter store (or, three-wall ad? or permanent booth?) in the spot that once upon a time was occupied by a little clothing store named Rave.

Go retrieve your best mesh-front rayon clubwear while I set the scene.

At Rave, you could buy anything neon, tight, polyester, polyester-adjacent or fringed — they solidly owned the 13-to-21 dance market.

Bag Lady vividly remembers one time trying on a black skirt with a built-in chunky belt and emerging from the dressing room for the required parental spin only to hear my father’s calm, fact-finding assessment that said skirt was giving me “Oprah butt.”

Yeah. That happened. He apologized, but we’re talking cool, calm assessment. It was sincere.

I believe I bought it anyway.

So in the very spot that Bag Lady experienced dressing room indignity 108 years ago, we can all now go buy ready-to-remodel shower stalls, and I think we all just learned something today.

Speaking of deep emotional scars.

My demon trash cans are out to break me.

For several years now we’ve owned self-locking outdoor garbage cans and, like clockwork, you’ll find me out there at least once a week swearing wildly that I can’t get the ^%!$# lid off to save my life.

It seems to helpfully indicate turning it left will unlock the seal, but it’s Sneaky McSneak and not to be believed. Another arrow pointing right indicates the same thing.

I twist, I tug, I turn, I pound, until the neighbors are all, “What’s up with that Oprah butt fighting with her trash can? Again?”

Is it just me? Has this happened to no one else in the history of garbage canning?

Someone please back me up here. And if you want to recommend the brand name of your cooperating can, please do.

But let’s end on an uplifting note, shall we?

I’ve done the undoable.

I’ve gotten Mr. Bag Lady to start watching Bravo’s “Vanderpump Rules” with me.

It started slowly. An eye roll as he walked by. A “these guys sound like idiots!” from the next room. A slightly curious, “Wait. How long ago did he cheat on her? And they’re getting married?”

And he was in. Should you ever unmask his identity and threaten him with a cassowary — I mean, don’t, clearly, but if you did — I don’t think he’d publicly admit it.

But still he’s in, and that’s love, so the week wasn’t a total loss.

Bag Lady’s true identity is protected by a pair of stylish, sweater-wearing Doberman pinschers (who enjoy watching the “Vanderpump” dogs) and the customer service counter at the Sun Journal. You can reach her at [email protected]


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