I moped across the Bridge, lamenting the latest from Gavin. M&R are reporting that he was boozed up and canoodling with his soon to be ex-girlfriend, and after Saturday’s party, I received some off-the-record gossip on that night’s events. Apparently, my boy was crazy drunk. And that’s just the way I like him.
Anyway, I was bummed that I missed Gavin all wasted and flirty, as that’s my target audience, and equally bummed that the pouring rain had destroyed what was, at 8am, a fabulous hair day. I wrapped my locks up in pigtails and threw on a hat.
This hat, I should warn you, was purchased in 1998 during a snow storm in Philadelphia. It was made by Tibetan hobs and, no matter how I attempt to describe it, will sound ridiculous. I think it’s cute, but I also like Luther Vandross, so what the hell do I know.
Me and my hat stopped at SuburbaGas for our daily gallon of coffee and I was greeted warmly by the proprietor, Mohammed.
“Is that your Christmas hat, Bette?”
“Oh. Uh, yeah. I guess so.”
“I like the beads on top, yes?”
“Okay. Thank you.”
I wanted to rip that stupid hat from my head, but maintained my composure.
It’s a hat, Mohammed. Relax.
I filled my cup with coffee and attempted to pour some milk out of those stupid thermos’ where the arrows never line up.
“Can’t you see from under your hat?”
Alright, funny guy. Enough.
“Mohammed, I know you love my hat. In fact, you should sell them here.”
“Why I should sell something no one buy?”
“I’d buy it!”
“All you buy is coffee. One time you get Snapple.”
“Fine. Don’t sell them. Keep selling those pink Raiders caps.”
“You such a pretty girl. Why you wear hat like that?”
Oh my god.
“Mohammed, it’s pouring rain. It’s freezing outside. Come on!”
He smiled as I paid for my coffee. “You never find husband in hat like that.”
Great. That’s just great…