At Valium Villa, poor baby Greene is screaming because her dose is long overdue. Metal music blares from behind Rachel's closed door; alarmed, Elizabeth rushes upstairs to calm the baby. "It's okay, honey," she coos, cuddling her daughter. "I know. Oh, it's all right, darling." Wow. A maternal instinct. It dissipates once she remembers that Rachel is an evil little troll. Elizabeth marches downstairs into the hell-child's room and screams for her to get off the phone and switch off the infernal racket. "Two seconds," Rachel waves her off. Elizabeth smacks down the stereo volume, so Rachel obnoxiously informs her telephone pal, "My dad's wife is freaking," and hangs up. "What's wrong?" she asks obliviously. "You're supposed to be babysitting," rants Elizabeth. "I am," Rachel says, painting her toenails in a marked display of disrespect. She doesn't much care that Ella was screaming loud enough to wake Elizabeth's dead patients. Of course, Rachel hasn't fed the tyke, but tantrums her way into the kitchen in a grandiose display of oxymoronic defiant-obedience. Elizabeth commences a very rational lecture about responsibility and selflessness. "I didn't hear her crying," brats Rachel. "You weren't listening," insists Elizabeth. "You were listening to that crap and talking to your friend!" Rachel shrieks that if Elizabeth is so worried about Ella, she should bloody well stay at home and care for her. Elizabeth retorts that she made the mistake of trusting Rachel to be responsible and handle it for an hour or two every now and again. Elizabeth: "Warm up that milk." Rachel: "No." Elizabeth: "Now!" Rachel: "She's your kid." Elizabeth: "You're living in my house." Edson: "Catfight pending!" So many shiny silver clips hold back Rachel's gnarled mane that her skull looks made of metal. Elizabeth should polarize the brat and hang her from the fridge like a magnet. Rachel refuses to be ordered around, despite the obvious seniority of her stepmother. "Boy, my Dad sure can pick 'em!" Rachel snarls maliciously. Elizabeth exhibits uncharacteristic control, heaving, "Rachel, you do not want to battle with me. You'll lose. I guarantee it." The Brat from Satan's Pustules storms out of the house to infect someone else's life.