Casa Kravitz. Mrs. Kravitz is packing. Sister, where you're going, you don't need any luggage. Enter Edie. They have a spat about an alleged forty bucks that Mrs. Kravitz allegedly stole from Edie's bag. Or something --- I am very distracted by Nicolette Sheridan's sternum. Mrs. Kravitz suggests that if Edie is missing money, she should ask "one of those strange men [she's] always parading through [Mrs. Kravitz's house] at all hours." Edie snaps that she won't apologize for her healthy sex life. "'Healthy'?" snits Mrs. Kravitz snits. "I have to burn every sheet you've touched." Edie just wants her money. "And I want those non-fat peach yogurts," Mrs. Kravitz retorts. "They didn't just walk out of the fridge by themselves." Edie says Mrs. Kravitz can deduct it from the forty bucks she owes Edie. And she knows Mrs. Kravitz has financial problems: "I can hear you bitching on the phone to your bank." What does one say to the bank in that case? "Hello, Bank? May I please have some more money in my account? Thank you!" Mrs. Kravitz works herself into a righteous lather and snaps that she can put up with Edie's debauchery and food theft, but she simply can not tolerate spying! And so she kicks Edie out of the house: "I'm leaving tomorrow to visit my sister for a few days. I want you gone by the time I get back." Edie responds that she will leave right now, and storms out! As soon as she's gone, Mrs. Kravitz takes two twenties out of her bra and sneaks them into her purse.
Across town, Lynette is getting acupuncture, explaining that her "sleep cycle is all out of whack." She's up all night and dozing off during the day. Sadly, all the needles never get a chance to work, as Pop, Pip, and Pap are all screaming and yelling in the waiting room. And I guess this is supposed to make me bad for Lynette, but I mostly feel for the other patients. I would be LIVID if I was at the acupuncturist and some hellions were running around screaming while I was having needles stuck in my face. "Just sit there and color," Lynette calls to them. Instead, the kids come dashing into the room. One of them is dragging a potted plant. Lynette sits up and starts screaming at them, needles akimbo. I can't even take this anymore. Don't take your kids with you to acupuncture if you know they're terrible hellions. Leave them with a babysitter. Or go when they're all at fucking school and you only have to deal with the baby, you giant idiot. Lynette finally settles back down and tells the doctor that she's going to level with her: "I screwed up my entire system by taking my kid's ADD medication." Her acupuncturist is clearly wondering why she wasn't giving the drugs to her terrible horrible children. Lynette swears she just needs to sleep, but explains that she needs something stronger than a needle. So the doctor gives her some herbs. More drugs for the drug addict. Great. "It's a very powerful herbal remedy," says the acupuncturist. "Promise me you're going to use it judiciously." "Sure, whatever," says Lynette; she takes it and goes. Needles still sticking out of her head. I hate this plotline. I hate Lynette. I hate the acupuncturist. I hate those children. All this hate has been brought to you by the letter P.