In the HOJ (Halls of Justice: my fingers are tired of typing, people, you're going to have to deal), Amy gives her stamp of a approval to a couple who is attempting to adopt their foster child. The baby's mother has relinquished her rights, the father is unknown. Geezum, I wonder if we're going to have to revisit this case again this evening? Oh, how I wish I had some way of knowing!
At the Ranch, Amy is going through her cooking schedule for Thanksgiving Dinner, when to pop the string beans in the oven, when to truss the bird, yadda. Wacky hi-jinks ensue when she realizes she's forgotten the yams, and it just ain't Thanksgiving without yams covered in tiny burnt marshmallows, congealing at the end of the table, because no one can have more than a tablespoon without going into insulin shock. She's running out to pick up the tubers, when who appears on her front porch but Michael! Who'd a thunk it? Maxine clearly wishes she could stay and eavesdrop on her daughter and former son-in-law's confab, but out of respect for their privacy, excuses herself. To the basement. Where she claims to be hooking a rug.
Michael tells Amy that they "need to talk," so they retire to the porch -- yes, in November. In Connecticut. Without hats. The pair awkwardly converses. I'd tell you what they said, but Amy's hair is really poufy and distracting. It was something about making the divorce final. God, it took these two all freaking year to get divorced. I mean, I know it's a lengthy legal procedure, but come on! It's TV time; this shouldn't have taken more than a couple of episodes. Mixed Signals Michael concludes their little chat by drooling that Amy "looks great," and then says that he'll "find [his] way out." Yeah, that must hard when you're already outside, genius. Amy Brenneman tries to look like she's holding back tears, but it just looks like she's working on a really hard long division problem in her head.
Vincent has taken on a new job to help him make ends meet; he's modeling nude for a local community college art class every Tuesday. Posing on a small pedestal, and holding a large margarita in each hand, he turns into the light and -- sorry, I must have drifted off there. Ahem. Anyway, Thanksgiving morning, the entire clan, sans Vincent, loiters about the kitchen. Amy runs around, yammering about oven temperature, and giblets, as Gillian chops something and Peter yells at the football game on TV. Amy then proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that she is, in fact, the Devil Incarnate, by switching off the game. She tells Peter that they are not allowed to watch football, not in her "Thanksgiving Fantasy." "Fantasy is the operative word," Maxine sniffs. Amy snaps at Peter to open a bottle of wine. He rolls his eyes. I ask you, who the hell does Amy think she is, demanding that her family members conform to some fantastical idea she has of what the day will be like? As much as I hate Peter, why can't he watch football all the damn day long? Maybe that's his Thanksgiving Fantasy. Why does Amy's fantasy have to be everyone else's fantasy? God! I'm sorry, I know, that was vicious, but football is very important to me. I will defend anyone's right to watch football on Thanksgiving, to the death! At any rate, Peter stomps off, probably to turn the game on down in the basement, as Maxine tells Gillian that she's got some money they can borrow to fund their next round of in vitro. Of course, in the time-honored way of television drama everywhere, Peter stomps back in with the booze, just in time to hear the tail end of the conversation. Peter gets all snippy in Gillian's face, and they argue about the efficacy of the procedure. Amy butts in, again, to tell Gillian that she "has plenty to be thankful for." First, Amy, as a Harvard grad, you ought to know better than to end a sentence with a preposition that way. Second, how very much is Gillian's thankfulness none of your business? Gillian tells Amy that "that's easy to say when you have a child," and scurries off to cry over her barren womb. Amy looks a teensy bit sorry, as Peter excuses Gillian's behavior as "hormones." Maxine, who I hate to admit, I love more and more as I get weaker and weaker and this God damn show wears me down into submission to the Maxine Gray Way (more powerful than Scientology, I kid you not), snaps that it isn't hormones: Gillian is unhappy. She tells Peter to take his blanks-shooting, insensitive self over to check on his wife.