Last weekend we went up to DC to look for apartments. It's about a five hour drive from where we live so we stopped in Fredicksburg (about an hour outside DC) for dinner. For some reason, Corinne was craving Cracker Barrel so we managed to find one right off the highway that wasn't too far out of the way.
As soon as we were seated, the waitress came to take our order and introduced herself as Wynona or something. To put it nicely, she was kinda...different. One country fried steak short of the Tuesday night special (if you know what I mean). Now let me jump in here and clarify something. Corinne is pregnant, yes. But she is BARELY showing. If you know she's pregnant, you might could kinda tell. But to the unaquainted passerby, she is NOT showing.
So the waitress walks up to the table and introduces herself. And she turns to Corinne and the first thing she says is, "Are you pregnant?" My mouth just sort of dropped open. Beg your pardon?!? I mean, she went straight to the point. No beating around the bush with her.
I remember when I was younger, someone gave me this advice: NEVER. EVER EVER EVER. Ask a woman if she's preganant. Unless you see a crying, wrinkled little baby coming out from between her legs, NEVER EVER ask her if she's pregnant. PERIOD. I remember my great uncle telling me that he made this mistake once. He was a furniture salesman and was trying to sell some lady furniture and asked her when the baby was due. Uh, yeah. Big mistake. Needless to say he never called on that store again.
Nonetheless, Corinne handled it like a pro. She was just like, "Why, yes. I am." They proceeded to chat casually about baby stuff. I, on the other hand, was trying not to slap this girl in the head for almost making a royal idiot out of herself. After that I couldn't remember what the heck I had planned on ordering. I felt like I had just watched one of those motocross guys go off a ramp and jump, like, 200 cars and (thanks-be-to-God-ABOVE!!) he didn't kill himself. *Whew* she is, indeed, pregnant.