Papa Prudy knocks on Susan's door, and she greets him with a huge smile: "You came!" Papa Prudy: "Did I have a choice?" Susan laughs like she thinks he was kidding. PP clarifies: "Because at the hospital, you sounded like you were fully prepared to blackmail me into having some kind of a relationship with you." Susan shrugs her hospital behavior off as "the heat of the moment," and tells PP that once he gets to know her, he'll realize that she is totally not capable of blackmail. PP: "I wish you'd made that clear in the hospital; could have saved me a trip." Susan stands there awkwardly, like "perhaps he kids me not?," and then asks if he's going to come inside. PP says sure, seeing as how he has a lunch hour to kill.
Cut to Susan and PP sitting the kitchen table, completely surrounded by Susan memorabilia: teddy bears, red and blue ribbons, photos, all the stuff from her childhood. Susan holds up a photo from when she was two years old and makes PP guess what Halloween costume she's wearing. He guesses, "Homeless person?" and Susan scolds him: she was dressed as a chicken! She points out the feathers, which he tells her he thought were "supposed to be trash." PP heaves a big sigh and then asks if they're done yet, since he has to get back to work. Susan stands up with him and disappointedly points out that they haven't even finished with her high-school years. She holds up a photo from the "Father-Daughter" dance (which seems like an unlikely high-school event...certainly, we never had one at my high school), to which, she tells him forlornly, her "mother's hair stylist" escorted her. PP, bored and exasperated: "What do you want from me, Susan?" Susan says something about how she was hoping they could share more than just DNA, and then she asks him, in a sad and small Susan™ voice, if he really finds her collection of junk so very meaningless? So, at last, PP volunteers to take the "hobo picture" with him, which makes me laugh, mostly just because I'm such a fan of the word "hobo," which is as good as "panties" is repugnant.
Lynette is in boss Ed's office. She is wearing a weird and tight and little black dress that's covered in a pattern of white flecks that, at first glance, looks like sequins. A matching belt is also involved. Lynette plunks a fat stack of papers down on Ed's desk, and Ed asks what it is. Lynette tells him it's their company's insurance policy, and asks him if he's "ever bothered to read it." Ed: "I'm going to say no, but don't tell." Lynette informs him that their insurance covers daycare. And while I'm no HR expert, I don't think daycare is really something insurance covers. Isn't it just a benefit that a company chooses to provide or not provide? Anyway, as Lynette points out, ever since they fired half the staff, Ed and Lynette have "barely left the building," and Lynette's kids hardly recognize her. Ed concurs: he himself has a seventeen-month-old baby he hasn't "seen awake in weeks." Lynette tells him that all they need is sixteen kids to qualify for this mysterious insurance daycare program. She counts off her four kids, plus Ed's one, plus some random kids from other random employees; then, she says, "we hit the motherlode with the Mormon receptionist: she just popped out #6" (though from what I recall of New Receptionist Pat, she looks pretty post-menopausal to me, but okay). Altogether, Lynette's kid-list adds up to? Sixteen! Except that, as Ed tells her, his wife won't go for it: "Fran won't even let anyone else hold the baby." But surely, Lynette counters, Fran would love a few hours to herself? Ed: "If I hadn't cut that umbilical cord with my own two hands, I swear they would still be attached." But he tells Lynette that if she wants to talk to Fran herself, she can knock herself out. And let the meddling begin!