Plate, Pie, Pancake, or Cartwheel, whatever you call the large, shallow crown, wide brimmed straw hat that one (well, this ONE anyway) associates with chic 1950's fashion, it has been my holy grail (the metaphorical kind, not the religious drinking goblet kind. No offense, but I'll eat my hat before I'll drink from it) for years.
And today I found one. A Christine Original. In black. In perfect condition. For... well, let's say probably more than it cost new.
And me, as usual, broke, two days after pay day!
Okay, not broke so much as tight-budgetted.
Still, I HAD to have that hat! But how?
Only one hope. I lowered my head, closed my eyes, and did what I have done time and again when faced with one of life's harsh dilemmas and need answers. I asked myself: What would Lucy do?
|Lucy and Hedda Hopper, a couple o' gals who were never in over their heads... without the perfect hat over those heads.|
It seemed so obvious it was embarrassing. I called out "Oh, Ricky... I mean, Hubby... Isn't this just the cutest hat?"
Hubby, hardly glancing up from reading the inscriptions on old bowling trophies: "Are you sure it's the right size? It looks too big."
"It's the style. It's called..."
He's moved on to a map of some place he's never been to, or even heard of, but is absolutely sure is not drawn to the proper scale. Unlike the hat, he thinks this one is too small. And over priced. Why would anyone pay that kind of price for something that isn't properly proportioned?
This is his way of saying he is definitely not buying me the hat.
I put it back and mope my way down the aisles.
"Are you gonna give up that easy? Have you leaned nothing from half a century of watching me wheedle, and connive and plot and scheme to get my way? Honestly, I would never have given up that easily, just ask Ethyl."
I couldn't ask Ethyl but I could ask the Internet. "Look, 19 people in the first ten minutes agree that I should have that hat!" I tell Hubby.
He has moved on to antique snow shoes. Probably shopping for that cold day in hell when he gives in on this hat thing.
Again, I put the hat back. Then I think - Hey, I'm an independent woman with my own job and money, why can't I spend it as I see fit? I can, of course. IF I have it to spend. Which I don't... do I?
Crossing my fingers I reach into my purse to take out my wallet, just to see if there might be enough to get the hat of my dreams.
Four ones. A ten and... a twenty? WHAT? I blink to clear my vision and look again. Where did that come from?
A Miracle? An answer to a prayer?
No, now I remember. Hubby gave me cash to pick up dinner later.
Dang. That's not hat money, it's pizza money.
"Well, there's pizza and then there's pizza."
I hear Lucy's voice in my head. Or maybe I said it out loud. It's hard to tell at this point. All I know is that I now have that hat.
And dinner at our house tonight is not delivery, it's DeGiornos