Bryan asked what I wanted to do for dinner, and all I knew was that I wanted biscuits and tea.  So, naturally, that left only one option: Cracker Barrel.  We enjoy the restaurant, but attached the caveat: “I hate eating there, because everyone wants to talk about the damn baby.”

He looked at me with mock sympathy and said, “It must be so hard to be you.”

Sure enough, after waiting the requisite 10-15 minutes for a table, we made our way to the hostess stand when our name was called.  “OH!” the hostess exclaimed, “when are you due?”

Bryan and I both answered in stereo, “Three days ago.”

The hostess stopped dead in her tracks and said, “Oh.  Well, it’s against Cracker Barrel policy for you to deliver here in the restaurant.  You can’t even go into labor, really.. we’d lose, like, 10 points on our health rating.”  At this point, I was laughing.  She was not.  “So, really, if you start feeling like.. you know.. pregnant.. or really pregnant.. or like .. something’s happening, please let me know.”  And she left.

You know, as if I was just going to power through my delivery because I like the wooden, hardback chairs and limitless biscuits. 

As we heard her seat two tables near ours, we overheard the words “induce”, “pregnant”, and “can’t happen here”.  I flashed a glare at Bryan. 

Now, she was young.  And if a manager had manifested at any point during the meal (our server was as useless as the hostess), I probably would’ve made the slight suggestion that they have an HR conversation about discrimination with the young hostess.  But as it was, I’ve just stewed over it since then.  I’ve considered wearing a water balloon back in there and as soon as we were seated, pretending to have my water break.  And then refusing to leave. 

But, today, cause I’m lazy and tired, I’m just gonna bitch about it to y’all.