Something appears to be slowing up the line at the ice cream truck. Why, it's Susan's mom, flirting with the ice cream man so intensely that her body is actually undulating. The ice cream man, in addition to ice creaming, also teaches salsa at the community center, and, he adds with a leer, he teaches private lessons. Mom giggles, annoyingly oblivious to the long line of ice-cream-deprived kids squirming behind her. Susan jumps up from the hang-out bench and pulls her in-heat mother away. "Please do not flirt with the ice cream man," she scolds. "Why not?" Mom wonders. "Do you need a reason beyond the fact that he's the ice cream man?" Susan is kind of a snob. Other than a pancake-restaurant man, I can think of nothing better than having an ice cream man as a suitor. Susan can't believe how little her mother is mourning the end of her relationship with Morty. Mom thinks Susan is a stick in the mud, in need of some nightclubbing and some "hot guys." I'm trying to imagine my mother saying this to me, but I just can't, thankfully. "I'll say I'm 42," Mom glees, "and you can be 28." Susan shoots her an incredulous look. "Come on, you can pull it off," her mom says to Susan encouragingly. Zing!
Surprise, Mrs. McLandingham is back, so soon, from the hospital, alive and kicking at Lynette's door. "Turns out I ODed a little bit on my arthritis medication," she explains. I've always thought of ODing as one of those things that it's hard to do just a "little bit," like being "a little bit pregnant" or a "little bit country"? "One pill I can open a jar, four pills I'm face down, crawling for my life. Well," she says to Lynette, "you'll find out about that soon enough." Ha! Mrs. McLandingham offers Lynette a Tiffany lamp as a thank you for not leaving her to die out on the lawn. Lynette resists at first, but finally gives in and takes the lamp, prompting a fantastically awkward hug followed by a fantastically awkward silence. Lynette tries to wrap things up with an "I'd invite you in, but…" Mrs. McLandingham deliberately misreads her cue, pushing past Lynette into her house and launching right into a story about her "skin tag." Lynette's disgusted expression is the perfect mirror image of the one I, too, am wearing. Not only is a skin tag gross enough on its own -- like a sad, deflated mole -- but it sounds bad too, like something you'd yell at someone who cuts you off. "Eat dirt, skin tag!"
Gabby is lying on her bed, reading a magazine. Carlos walks in and, without looking up from her magazine, Gabby kicks out her foot and blocks him from getting in bed. But Carlos wants to stop sleeping in the den, he needs to sleep in a real bed. "Well then you might want to try a motel because you're not coming back in here," and with "here" she gives him a shove with her foot. Carlos wants to know how many times he has to say he's sorry. "Obviously a few times more." Carlos admits that he was way out of line. "You want to get back into this bed, you know what to do," Gabby says. But Carlos refuses to tear up the post-nup; it's the only way it can insure him that she'll be there when he gets out of jail. (Just when exactly IS he going to jail?) Gabby's all, well then, have fun at the motel! And Carlos is all, if Gabby won't give up the bed, he's going to take away her credit cards. And her ATM card! Maybe once she finds out how good she has it, she'll start socking a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T to him. Carlos's nipples are distractingly prominent in this scene, little raisins poking through his baby-blue cotton top all, "Wake up friend owl!" (See, I'm not just about the ladies' perkies. I am an equal opportunity nipple detective!) "You want respect, then tear up the post-nup," she roars. "Give me my pillow," he snips. Gabby knee-walks over to him at the side of the bed and gets right up in his face. "One more thing," she says in a menacing hush, "if you ever hurt me again, I will kill you." "If you ever leave me for another man," Carlos fires back, "I'll kill you. " Gabby shoves his pillow into his chest. "Boy," she says, her mouth inches away from his, "with all this passion, isn't it a shame we're not having sex?" They glare at each other steamily for a few beats, then he turns and leaves. Just another perfect marriage here on Hysteria Lane!