Just a typical Sunday.

My little family was enjoying breakfast at the Original Pancake House this fine Palm Sunday morning, basking in the goodness and warmth of quiet quality time and orgasmically good blueberry pancakes (or pee-keys, as baby boy calls them). Then it happened. I fell out of my chair. Out of nowhere. In a dining room full of people. Who just kind of stared in half amusement, half horror, at the pregnant lady who just got knocked on her ass by, apparently, an invisible ogre or undetectable gale wind (saying gale wind is actually redundant, as a gale is defined as being a very strong wind, but its most common usage in the English language is as the term gale wind. Just thought you'd like to know).

The first person to come to my rescue? After about 30 seconds? Nope, not my husband. The waitress. The pregnant waitress. We womb-for-wenters, we take care of each other. And, God bless her, what did she say? These damn chairs! They're no good! Kind of like what you would say if, for example, a heftily-weighted person were to sit on a chair and the chair suddenly gives out, shattering in a million different pieces...all to spare their feelings. Despite the searing pain in my side from having landed on a chair leg, I laughed it off and joined my family to finish my pee-keys. When we got up to leave? I pretended I didn't even notice the stares of every person in the room...the people who were just waiting for me to leave so that they could laugh out loud at what had just happened moments ago. A pox on their houses, let me tell you.