KimberBree slips into Danielle's room, where her daughter is still very upset that The Great Condom Caper of 2005 has unspoiled, and yet the offending condom itself remains pitifully rolled-up and wrapped. KimberBree has changed into her nicest violet top for this discussion, but Danielle isn't interested and tries to dismiss her with the confirmation that, yes, she is still a virgin. KimberBree rather densely wonders why Danielle would need a condom, then. Well, it's like this, KimberBree: when you lose your virginity, it's not just because you lost track of it one day while you were walking from Calculus class to Biology. You have to actually leave it somewhere, hopefully on the business end of a nice, sperm-thwarting condom. Danielle says as much, admitting that she wants to have sex one day and doesn't want a Van De Kamplet in her womb. "Danielle, you are president of the Abstinence Club!" KimberBree gasps. I wonder what their fundraisers are like. Bake sales with hormone suppressants in the brownies? Danielle snits in a funny line that she wasn't planning on running for a second term, and says when pressed that her beef stick of choice is affixed to one Miguel the Gardener, whom you might remember from all the times he -- to use the tired metaphor -- tilled Gabrielle's soil. Danielle exposits that Miguel dumped her because she wouldn't have sex, and so she figures the thing to do is change her beliefs completely. KimberBree sympathetically points out that this isn't the best idea, especially because sex doesn't always lead to love. "I understand what it's like to be young, and feel...urges," KimberBree attempts. "But I waited until I got married, as did your father" -- Really? With the way he was talking earlier? Oookay -- "and it was so much better." Danielle points out that Rex ended up cheating on KimberBree, and that they're both miserable now: "The walls between our rooms are paper-thin and I hear more than I should." KimberBree is winded. Danielle gives her a peck on the cheek and sighs that her mother is the last person in the world to be doling out sex advice. KimberBree says nothing. Oh, I would be in such a rage over that. And Kimberly Shaw would put on a blonde wig and run over that young whippersnapper in a stolen Volkswagen.
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!"