BAH HUMBAG

Two of my favourite words are “70-percent off,” a phenom occurring more readily in the U.S. than in Canada, especially before Christmas. So when I got a text from a pal with the image of the black Proenza Schouler iconic PSI bag with fringe that I have been lusting after and the info that it was on sale for 60 percent off at The Room in Hudson’s Bay on Queen St., I started salivating.

I am an unrepentant bag hag and shoe slut. Shoes are my crack: I swear I will be found in a ditch with a stiletto in my arm. I just had to nip over to The Bay and interview the bag.

It wasn’t exactly cheap, but as another pal pointed out, I have been a good girl and I can amortize it per wearing because I wear my bags to death. In fact, I had to retire a Donna Karan bag woven à la Bottega Veneta because my friends were sick of seeing it.

Besides, this bag can help make up for not having our highly-anticipated annual faux black sluts-and-shoes Christmas tree this year. It is traditionally topped by a drunken cupie doll in flapper attire and laden with permutations thereof accessorized by tons of shoe ornaments.

Alas, not this year. We have a very naughty and clumsy black kitten named Sammy Davis Jr. Jr. who is a one-cat wrecking crew, responsible for breaking at least five lamps and clearing the mantle of everything on it. We call it tchotchke control.

As we were hauling out the tree for assemblage last Saturday, Sammy climbed up the only surviving plant in the house. He has been known to climb up walls. Visions of broken decorations and assaulted cupie dolls supplanted sugar plums in our minds. So we packed it in and Sammy will be henceforth known as the "Cat That Ruined Christmas” (or for short, the oddly familiar-sounding "CTRC").

My new bag is consolation.

 

Words to shop by at the entrance to The Room in Hudson’s Bay on Queen Street. They are attributed to the legendary photographer Bill Cunningham, who started the street-style paparazzi phenom and inspired poseurs everywhere.

The purse sales table at The Room, where a staffer complained that the shoppers aren’t respecting the merch and treating the expensive bags, which had an entry-level price just under $1,000 even on sale, like rough trade.

This is the furry beast that got away. It is a Proenza PSI bag, but it is not the one I bagged for myself. It reminded me too much of my deceased cat, Onslow.

Dale, my affable sales associate at The Room whom I’d met at a party last summer where we bonded over our ensembles. We both wore identical Church’s studded brogues and Chanel brooches like we were evil twins from other mothers.

A random shoe shopper at Hudson’s Bay who is terminally cool. I want her boots.

My go-to happy hour is 4-6 p.m. at the bar at Museum Tavern, the Bloor St. W. reincarnation of Bistro 990, where the oysters are buck a shuck and the wine is $6 and actually drinkable. Bartender Ryan is building me the perfect martini, which comes with a mighty flourish of dry ice. “It’s not a rush unless the keg blows,” Ryan cracked.

Martini madness: The finished product, accessorized by my cell phone-cover, a frankly faux Chanel anchored by a Louis Vuitton lock, which is the real deal. One out of two ain’t bad.

The Hermès window on Bloor Street, not remarkable because the scarf is so boho but because the mannequin is swarmed by squirrels, one of which is decked out in a festive red sweater. What was the window dresser smoking?