Scene:  12th Street YMCA, noonish.  I am putting on make-up after doing another kill-yourself-in-forty-minutes noon workout.  This is my new thing - I HATE getting up early and will do anything to avoid it, especially when the little angel wakes up at night, which she still does sometimes. 

Two frumpy-looking office workers in their forties are busy arranging mall bangs and pulling up their seersucker pants.  They are apparently going on a trip this weekend together to somewhere they have to bring their own food. 

Frumpy One:  "Well, I'm going to bring the pork chops and breakfast for Saturday.  No-cooky stuff, like maybe bagels."

Frumpy Two:  "Oh, I think you should get doughnuts. Screw the bagels.  I'm making my famous Mexican dip for Saturday afternoon.  June's going to bring her strudel, too."

Frumpy One:  "Do we have chicken tenders for the kids?"

Frump Two:  "Yeah, and Kool-Aid.  Speaking of that, who's bringing the Jello shots?"

At this point, I dropped my hairdryer on my foot.  Crazy redneck party people disguised as government workers have taken over the women's dressing room at the 12th Street Y.  Watch out, world.