Cut to Ephram in front of the giant application calendar. He voice-overs, "Plans are like candy to the Fates. The only thing you can ever be sure of is, nothing ever goes the way you imagined. I should probably be used to that by now." Not as good as Irv, but nice. Credits.
Speak of the devil. We come back to Edna and Irv's house, for what is probably the first time this season. Edna walks downstairs to find Irv cooking a super-fantastic breakfast. "What are you doing, and why are you still here?" Edna demands. Irv says he's fixing her breakfast -- waffles, muffins, and brownies, too. It pleases me to hear that Irv pronounces the word "waffles" just like some of us do in the South: "wawfuls." Edna looks not happy, and asks why he's not driving a bus full of schoolchildren. Irv says he's not today. Edna: "What's the matter, you sick?" Gah. Shut up, Edna. Eat your waffles, Edna. Irv says he's not sick, but he did quit. "I told them I wanted to retire and they said okay. No more bus, no more driving, I'm done." He tells Edna that they're having wawfuls of celebration. Edna still ain't happy. She asks Irv since when they make life decisions without a consult. Irv says it was just a spur-of-the-moment thing, and it felt right. Edna: "So that's the end of it?" Irv: "Be happy for me, Edna. Have a [wawful]." Hee. Edna says she can't, because "some of us" still have a job to go to.
To: AB Chao
I say that so you can ban me when I correct you. It's "baby-sized pussy." I only correct you because it's much grosser than Tiny Baby Pussy, which sounds cute and kitten like. Baby-Sized Pussy sexualizes a baby's vagina, and is so much more wrong and horrible and CELESTIA!
As in: "I had herpes on my baby-sized pussy and you didn't do anything about it?"
sadly, direct quote. I think you would love a copy of the book for future recaps. I agree she's awesome on the show. That's because she's a fantastic actress. The crazy ones always are. But fucking balls out batshit crazy, man.
Thank you, Pam, for the correction. It seems I have made a grievous error. Now go and wonder-kill something else.
Baby-Sized Pussy! Treat walks over to his desk with a giant stack of CDs. Amanda points to the papers covering Treat's desk, and says, "Please don't tell me you read all of this just for us. You need to get out more. Maybe...join Netflix." Hee. Treat geeks that research is half the fun of the job, and he's amazed at the depth of material about stroke recovery, especially patients with long-term aphasia like John. He asks Amanda if anyone's ever mentioned music therapy. Amanda says she doesn't think so. Treat says he'd like to give it a try -- to build a structured music plan in her home. Amanda's like, "Music plan?" Treat explains that they load up her CD changer, and keep the music playing at regular intervals, because consistent stimulation is the way to go, and music is the best kind. Amanda is still like, "Music plan?" She looks at the CDs. They're all classical. "No Skynyrd, huh?" Amanda quips. Treat doesn't even laugh, because he's too impressed with his own self to do anything but keep explaining how awesome it is that he's totally going to cure John with music therapy. Amanda is skeptical; she says she's had false starts a hundred times before. Treat says he understands that, but he wouldn't do this if he didn't think it was a good thing. The worst thing that could happen, he says, is that she could load up on her CD collection. Amanda smiles a little at this, and asks Treat, "Why do I get the feeling you're going to keep asking me until I say yes?" Treat: "Because you're getting to know me." If I didn't know any better, I'd think these two were giving each other bedroom eyes.