Disappointed that he won't have a chance to hang out with the Dutch Boy (if you know what I mean, et cetera), Jesse nevertheless hops to attention when Isabel reminds him, "My dad hates late." He grabs some golf clubs (oh, dads), and takes off. Michael waits less than a second after the door closes to report, "You know, you could have probably done this yourself." But Isabel's a sucker for realism, chiding, "Jesse's gonna let his wife paint the apartment all by herself." By which she means that he would not allow that to happen. Ooooh, sarcasm. "Writer" Ronald D. Moore, growing up right before our eyes! Max asks Isabel if she knows what color she wants, and she holds up two cards and compares, "Tucson ochre or New England brick red." She wants to see them both, so she gives Max and Michael each a color card and has them carry them to the wall. As the plucked strings of the familiar "Aliens Painting (Paint Paint Paint)" theme song kick up, Max and Michael retire to their respective portions of wall and give the color cards the consideration they deserve. They then put up a hand and turn the previously white wall two different colors. Michael quips that he is "exhausted" from the strain and retires to the couch. Max volunteers to Isabel that he "like[s] the ochre," and I briefly wish Jesse were there to offer his opinion on the garishness of the ochre, because Max's interior decorating skills (wink wink) are clearly not as honed as they should be. Not to mention the fact that those two colors are way too dark for that room, and that Isabel should consider going with a rose-tinted white that would turn a more pinkish hue when the light came in from the west-facing window, and…well, never mind. I'm just saying.

Michael hits the couch and turns on the TV, becoming awfully excited awfully quickly because "Nickelodeon is having a marathon of Bewitched! My weekend's set!" Isabel retorts with the never-clichéd "who are you and what have you done with 'X,'" cleverly inserting Michael's name in place of "X." Max explains that it's "the whole Maria thing," and Michael excitedly reports, "This is the one where Samantha turns Darrin into a goose." Max chides (so much chiding this week. That poor Ronald D. Moore must have had a very antagonistic childhood), "You need a hobby, man." Michael chides back, "You mean like golf? Riding around in some stupid cart?" Well, failing that, how about elegant plot development? Be a trailblazer. How does he know it's a marathon, anyway?