I was accosted

Last Saturday evening, the Husband and I and another couple that we met (more aptly, I stalked them and befriended them in our baby sign language class) last spring decided to try out a restaurant located in a strip mall near our home. I know what you are thinking: "wow, you guys really know how to keep it classy." And you're right: we do know how to keep it classy and while eating in strip malls doesn't seem to support that, this particular Italian restaurant came highly recommended to us so we decided to take a chance.

As a side note, these are also the friends, we'll call them Caslinn and Cyan, who invited us to their daughter's two-year birthday party and we showed up a day early and totally lied about it. When we pulled up, we noticed there were no other cars in the driveway or on the street so I made the Husband go knock on the door. My friend's mother answered the door and said she was babysitting and no one else was home. The Husband replied that we were just in the neighborhood (not at all true) and were just stopping by because this is what people do all the time, right? We eventually surmised that I clearly read the invitation incorrectly and we showed back up the next day, in the same outfits of course (why waste a good outfit if no one saw you in it?), and the party was in full swing. We confessed our goof to our Caslinn's mom and our friends and they still agreed to hang out with us. Whew.

Back to the restaurant...

We were seated right away and our waiter came around shortly there after to take our drink orders. He was tall, dark and was the stereotypical jovial Italian who mixed Italian words like bella, vino and bambino into his pitch to solicit appetizers. When he noticed that I was indeed carrying a bambino myself, he whipped out pictures of his daughter who he said was 11 months old (he later recanted and told us she was 21 months old...I should have suspected something was amiss at this point). I was buying it but the Husband wasn't having any of it. He thought the whole thing was an act and that the kid wasn't even his. This intrigued the whole table and for the rest of the evening we tried to determine if he was an actual Italian or a big faker. Sometimes the accent was rich while other times he sounded like a regular ole suburban American. We suspected that maybe he moonlit at a local Mexican restaurant during the week and put on a similar show with a bit of Latino flavor there. This was later confirmed when he referred to us as "amigos." Busted, uomo (that's "man" in Italian, I heart Google).

We were also a little unclear if this particular restaurant was part of the local "family" or La Cosa Nostra which we heard was very present in the KC area (we all know the mafia loves a safe place to raise a family) so we had to be careful what we said in the restaurant for fear of ending up in cement booties in the bottom of the Missouri River. We let the Italian waiter charade continue unchecked and this is where I think we went wrong.

At the end of the meal, the waiter brought our check and thanked us for our patronage and just before he turned to leave our table, he bent over, placed his hand on my bulging abdomen and made two circular movements followed by two pats. I was stunned, horrified and rendered motionless and speechless all at the same time. I felt like one of those people on the Discovery channel who undergoes surgery completely awake but they can't talk or move so they feel everything. It was EXACTLY like that only in a restaurant. I am sure my face revealed every trace of the horror I was feeling but the cameriere smiled and went on his merry way. As soon as my temporary paralysis wore off, I quickly brushed off my belly with a napkin and realized my heart rate was dangerously high (even more so than when I walk the 15 feet from the sofa to the kitchen) and my breathing shallow. My hands were shaky and the rub-rub-pat-pat replayed in slow motion in my mind as if the first time wasn't damaging enough.

Seriously, I made it 8.75 months without one stranger moving in for the belly pat and with nary five weeks to go my streak ends. I know it was my fault: I let my guard down. I should have been wearing my typical "I don't want to be touched" face that I always put on in public places but I was among friends so I thought I was safe. I now know: you are never safe from the digital advances of a stranger. Plus, I'm thinking in Italy maybe it is a-okay to rub and pat a pregnant lady and the fake Italian waiter was just playing the part. I feel I am partly to blame for letting the waiter continue with his Italian waiter ruse. Lesson learned.

Shortly after the "incident" my friend's husband, Cyan, sheepishly admitted that he was guilty of accosting a pregnant person once in his life. His wife, Caslinn, shrieked in horror and demanded to know when and where said violation took place. Cyan said he realized as soon as his hand was extended toward the unsuspecting pregnant lady that what he was about to do was wrong but he couldn't stop what had been set in motion. Cyan's remorse over his own belly-breaching was palpable and he clearly realized the errors of his way immediately and I can appreciate all of that. It might take Caslinn a little longer to get over the fact that her husband, on one previous occasion, touched a pregnant lady's belly but at least he wasn't sporting a phony Italian accent at the time. Am I right, amigos?