For today’s day trip to Saltsburg (totally lame, btw) I wore the Bela Karolyi (Yeah, he said it) t-shirt I made. We stopped for lunch at Dean’s Diner, a place where all the waitresses wore white scrubs and clung to their beloved crimped hair fad, and I delighted in the fact that some of the seated diners were eyeing up my shirt as I walked to our table.
Afterward, as a waitress rung us up, she squinted at my shirt and then asked, “I guess that’s someone I should know, but don’t?” So I had to explain it and she was like, “Oh OK. That’s cool. Exercising his freedom of speech, I guess, huh?” but my special CIA-coveted ability to hear thoughts told me that she was wondering if I was on a psych ward field trip. Blake, who was standing beside the only person in the world lame enough to create a t-shirt in honor of some aging gymnastic coach, probably lost about 2738994 scene points just by association. Poor Blake — and he just started wearing girl jeans!
Later on, we stopped at Pat Catan’s to pick up supplies for that fucking card business that is slowly crushing my will to live. As I was paying, a woman in another line turned around and sized up my shirt. Then she looked over at Henry before returning her hardened soccer mom gaze at my chest. I’m pretty sure she thought it was a photo of Henry splayed across my tits. Because I’m totally that kind of broad.