Gabrielle throws a fit over all the past-due notices she and Carlos are getting from bill collectors. Carlos is calmly eating a sandwich, which is a fine, fine thing to do in a time of crisis. I'm serious. There is a sandwich from my youth -- specifically, from a shop in Houston called Antone's -- that I dream about to this day, and which I cannot get in L.A., and which I yearn first to cradle and then to devour. And that sandwich is for times of stress. And times of joy. And times of any meal at all. Double ham, double provolone, double salami, and Secret Tangy Topping Thing of Heaven's Most Delicious Angel. But, I digress. Carlos wants to eat; Gabrielle wants to rant about their checking account. My, how their roles have reversed, except that you would replace "eat" with "do yoga and boff the gardener." She thinks they're totally screwed, a sensation of which she would certainly have in-depth knowledge, and can't believe that Carlos isn't more alarmed. He believes things will turn around. Just as he's waxing rhapsodic about luck, Gabrielle hears a lawn mower, and her clitoral radar goes, "Ping!"

Ah, but it's not Miguel revving that familiar engine -- it's Justin, who wangled an invite to mow their lawn for free from a clueless Carlos. Seriously, the kid is out there shirtless pushing a mower in the heat FOR FREE, and you don't question his motives? At all? Weird, since Carlos used to be a jealous and suspicious sort. Also, where do they live? Even in California it's not always hot enough around now to be hanging out with no shirt on...ack. Gabrielle is irritated as Carlos soaks in blissful ignorance.