"A dinner party?" Carlos thinks he might have to work late. Gabrielle pouts that he promised to be home every night that week. "This is business," Carlos tells her. "Said the prince as he rides off into the sunset. Boy, did the movies ever get that wrong," Gabrielle says petulantly. Carlos gives her a pleading look and then informs her that she's just "too tense." He thinks she should go to the spa, or do some shopping. "Find a way to relax!" he says, as he leaves.
Of course, Gabrielle immediately calls Miguel. "Where are you?" He's in Algebra. Algebra, my old nemesis. So we meet again! Is he free at 4? He's got track at 4. Gabrielle coos that her husband told her she needed to relax. "Want me to keep my gym clothes on like last time?" Miguel asks. "If you would, please," Gabrielle coos. Because girls love sweaty jockstraps! Make a note, lovers.
"A dinner party?" Gay Matt hasn't even unpacked yet! He just wants to stay home and chill! "Oh, [Gay Matt]. There will be liquor. And hors d'oeuvres. And grownups without children. And silverware. Remember silverware?" Lynette asks, as she takes sock after sock out of the dryer. Gay Matt is just wiped out. "I just want to hang out with my best gal," he says and kisses her. I have to say, I am partial to men who call me their best gal -- although I don't like it when they call me "lady" -- but Lynette just looks disappointed. "I was looking so forward to a night out," she whines. Gay Matt apologizes, but sighs that he's beat. "Do you remember what it's like to work a sixty-hour week?" he asks, as he tosses something into her laundry basket. Lynette glares at him. Gay Matt, do you remember what it's like to sleep on the sofa? I suspect you might be in for a refresher course.
"A dinner party?" Rex wonders if he has to go. KimberBree says she thinks so, especially since they're hosting. She packs his lunch, and then announces that he won't be drinking at this party: "Because when you drink you get chatty. No one needs to know that we're seeing Dr. Goldfine." Rex snips that maybe they'd be making more progress in the counseling if KimberBree spent as much time working on their problems as she did covering them up. "Not a drop," is KimberBree's response. Rex sputters that the whole cover-up is ridiculous: "This whole thing about us taking tennis lessons." KimberBree points out that the nurses at Rex's office might wonder where's he's going off to three times a week, and "tennis lessons are a plausible alibi." Rex just turns to go, wondering sarcastically how their fictional tennis game is reacting. "My backhand has improved immensely, but you're still having problems with your serve," KimberBree rattles off easily. Rex takes his lunch and grouses his way out the door.