I had the strangest dream.  I was out to dinner with my parents and someone else that I don't remember.  We were sitting at a very nice table on the back patio of a house that I could imagine Paula Deen living in.  Katy Shay was a waitress, but not ours.  I'm not sure we had one.  My dad was getting impatient so I got up and went into the house through the doors that were on the patio.  They had stretchy, frilly, floor length curtains on them and led into a bedroom.  All the furniture in the room was made of heavy, dark wood.  There was a huge bed that had bedding straight out of a Sear's catalog.  I started rifling through the drawers of a dresser and found some menus.  I leaned out the door and handed them to my dad, then went back into the room.  The interior door busted open and a frantic looking man asked me what the hell I was doing.  "It's really busy out here, come on!"  I looked around like he was talking to someone else.  He raised his eyebrows at me in disbelief and threw his hands in the air, slamming the door behind him.  I peeked out the door that he came through and saw a bustling, commercial kitchen.  I was now wearing a formal type server outfit, complete with a bow tie.  Caramelized onions and garlic were heavy in the air, it smelled delicious.  I picked up a large tray of food and headed toward the swinging doors, that I assumed led to the dining area.  I didn't really think I was supposed to be doing any of this, I was just kinda going with the flow.  What happened to the quaint, country style backyard that I was sitting in?  Where was my table?  Did I work here?  Was I supposed to be our waitress?! A door slammed.  I woke up.

I stare at whiny, bratty kids that are begging their parents to buy them something, waiting for them to catch my eye contact.  And sometimes, when they do, I can see the heat of embarrassment spread across their little faces.  It's almost like they've had a serious, grown up, moment of clarity.  A moment of realization: Holy shit, I'm acting like such an asshole right now.  What is wrong with me?  And then, as if it were never there, it fades away.  They bury their shame into their mother's pant leg and move on to the next object of desire, never quite getting back to that original state of bratty hysteria. 

I also stare at crying babies in their strollers and try to coax them into distraction with stranger smiles.  It works, give it a go!