Speaking of a complete and utter lack of dignity, Lucy and Mary have been circling the block for ages, trying to find Ruthie. You'd think one time around the block would have convinced them to look elsewhere, but no. They're still here, urgently discussing how important it is that they find Ruthie so they can learn about Dopey's activities before anyone else in the family does. It's sort of funny that even though they're moving along at a pretty good clip in Mary's convertible, their hair is barely being ruffled by the wind. Mary suggests that they concentrate their efforts on finding the man himself. Her rationale? "He's not as smart as Ruthie. We can get the information from him easier than we can get it from her." When Lucy asks where they can find Matt, Mary has no idea. Well, she does have one, actually. She suggests, "We should eat first. That'll help us think." Let's just say I don't have a whole lot of faith in that idea.

Dopey is sitting with his new in-laws in their kitchen. Nobody's looking very comfortable. Rabbi Richard starts to say something, but Laraine stops him, reminding him that they'd promised to wait until their daughter was with them before they said anything. Richard complains, "What's taking so long? Does she dress up now to have a conversation?" The fact that Laraine smiles at this leads me to the unsettling conclusion that it was meant to be funny. Oh, this is almost too sad to watch. I've always thought Richard Lewis seemed like an intelligent, funny guy, even though most of his comedy is not my cup of tea. To hear him spouting dialogue like this is just painful. At least he's got one thing right, though, when he says that Dopey "really know[s] nothing" about Plot Contrivance. Ah, here comes the little enigma now, and she's anxious to lead Dopey outside to talk to him alone. After the young lovebirds leave, Rabbi Richard and Laraine engage in some dialogue that is so mind-numbingly dull that I have to read a couple pages of the phone book to wake up enough that I can continue the recap.