Nick overhears this and deems it mean. "It's not mean!" she insists. "What are you looking at his thumb for?" Nick asks, laughing, blissfully unaware of his wife's thumb-war fetish and her former virginal curiosity about the old adage, "You know what they say about the size of a man's hands…" To her, no thumb probably means no wang. "It's all I can look at," she says, likening it to when someone has a giant zit and it's impossible to look away. If you were raised in a barn, which, with her horsy looks, might be more on point than I realize. "I love him, though," Jessica lies. "I feel awful." Nick shakes his head and asks her what to do about the dry cleaning. "Ohhhhh," Jessica breathes, with no idea what he's talking about. Nick cracks that they can't go to that cleaner any more because he heard a rumor that she only has one toe. Ah, I see. He sets them up…and then he knocks them down for himself, too, because his wife is too lazy and stupid to do any of it. Jessica hunches over, laughing and blushing. Nick smiles. Pay attention, because that's not going to happen again.

Jessica goes to a hair salon that stayed open just for her. She needs highlights for her photo shoot, and she once again explains the perfume line. "You can lick it," Jessica says. "No! That's HOT!" the hairdresser says. Can't you technically always lick your skin after you've put perfume on? It's not going to taste great, but there's nothing stopping your tongue if that's where it wants to go. Boy, did Nick learn that the hard way. Jessica adds that Dessert has a line of lip glosses and body butters and the like, thereby making it demonstrably not just a perfume line, but whatever -- at least, for once, she's partly correct. Then she whines that she's hungry and starts dropping outrageous hints to Nick about him going to get her some food. Nick's ignoring her, though. He's fascinated by his chair. "My nuts are vibrating!" he gasps. He starts feeling around his pants, as if he's honestly wondering if he left his cell phone in his Hanes, and if not, checking to see if it might fit there for all eternity. He asks if trains pass underneath Madison Ave., and the hairdresser claims they do not; I can't speak to that because I don't live in New York. ["It depends on the cross street, but generally, no, they don't." -- Sars] Regardless, Nick sits back down, thrilled with the nut-buzzing chair. I'm a little surprised Jessica didn't get up and sit on one and demand that her hair be completed while she has a nice little massage with release.