I caught The Birdcage last night on AMC. The stupid channel trivia said that during the filming, Mike Nichols wore a blanket over himself because he was laughing so hard. I can sympathize. Except I'm not paid millions to point a camera at Hank Azaria in hot pants.

Living with both children at college, my parents spend most of their free nights eating out and discovering new restaurants. They're getting pretty high class in their taste, which is tempered by their new infatuation with that competitive cooking show. Now they go out to an expensive place and gossip about the sous-chef. But while they play seasoned food critics, I'm starting to feel awkward. Why? I realized this week that I'm essentially the same age as most of those twentysomething waiters that make up the service portion of the restaurant industry. So I feel conspicuous when they bring me a little steak that costs so much they don't put a "$" next to the price in the menu. "What did you do to earn this luxury?" they seem to demand with their eyes. "How many tables did you wait?" I guess if you've got money, you're entitled to feel superior to the help. I feel like a fraud waiting to be exposed.

I'm going back to Chicago tomorrow. I delayed it a day, but now I have to go put together the orientation show for next Wednesday. I remember in September of 2002 I didn't feel like I was going to get anything out of my senior year of high school, and I ended up being completely wrong. Here's to being wrong again.