Sick props to Jessica, who simultaneously saved and cracked up my shit lo these last few weeks. Thanks, Jessica. And props to Wing. And Sars. And all my other peeps kickin' it down in the TWoP-osphere. Holla!
Sorry about that. An hour of strictly white people ought to cure me of this sudden, spontaneous dash of urbanism.
Inside the Cohen kitchen, Ryan "The Great G-" Atwood pours himself some cereal and stands among enough bouquets of roses to cloud our view of the main character, clog the sinuses of any allergy sufferers in a fifty-mile radius, and ensure that the third most popular Outkast song of last year will never, ever, ever leave your head, ever again. He pours his Plot-Develop-I-Os into a large bowl, just in time for "Sideshow" Seth Cohen to enter, note the flowers, and take a big, heaping spoonful of the aforementioned cereal, kicking things off, "Ryan, I had no idea you felt this way." Awwww. We did! But Ryan, eager to keep the Oxford English Dictionary definition of HoYay from growing even more entry longer (for which we thank him, because I still don't know about that word), disavows his feelings for Seth with a cutting, "Don't look at me. They were here when I came in." Just at that moment, Sandy enters the room, looking harried and toting two more bouquets. As he puts them down on the table and thinks about how his wife had better not be allergic to flowers or transparent overcompensation, Seth reminds him, "You do realize Valentine's Day is tomorrow, right?" Well, I hadn't, Seth, but since it would have taken us out of time and space to be even more literal about the purpose of this hour by saying, "You do realize this is the episode that ends with the lesbian kiss sweeps stunt, right?" I guess they could have done worse with the early-episode exposition. Sandy retorts that they'll be "starting a little earlier this year," adding, "Your mother deserves an extra-long holiday." He mentions the fact that her father has been in the hospital, and Seth piles on that Sandy has been "burning the midnight oil," which simultaneously implicates his father in Kirsten's long, slow descent into madness, but in the process at least swaps out Outkast in favor of "Beds Are Burning" for a while, so at least there's that.
Sandy drags the boys out to the car and says there are more flowers to collect, Seth warning him, "There's such a thing as overkill." But it's no use, as Sandy is already out the door, leaving Ryan to wryly comment, "Man, your parents are pretty hardcore about Valentine's Day." Seth hopes merely to "survive this hateful holiday," and the two of them start the walk-and-talk toward the car as Ryan asks, "Still broken up over the Alex breakup?" Seth registers this look that's all, "We used to DATE? I thought I dreamed that" before explaining that his Alex dalliance was "emotional child's play compared to what we're dealing with now." Dodging yet another bullet by not asking, "Well then, I guess that means that you too are feeling the HoYay," Ryan waits patiently for Seth to explain, "Summer's back." Ryan actually deigns to express surprise at this shockingly non-shocking development, Seth telling Ryan that he hadn't expected this to happen, but apparently, "the universe had other plans." Finally, FINALLY reaching the front door of the house -- because apparently those shady contractors from early on in the season built a whole addition and then completely forgot to add back in any spatial logic, those crooks -- Seth vamps on that this is the one-year anniversary of Seth and Summer's "sexual tête-à-tête." It's been a year since their sexual two-seater sofa? Hot. Hot AND couch-y. Picking up on the bastardized French timbre of their chat, Ryan warns that it had better not become "a ménage a trois," reminding Seth that he'll actually be the roué de troisième (or "wheel of third," an expression that works equally badly in English and in French) on their upcoming trip to San Diego. Seth agrees, carrying an armload of flowers back into the house and saying he doesn't even want to go to San Diego or, in fact, be anywhere near Summer whatsoever. But the universe intercedes. The stupid, stupid universe.