Betty feels very sad, and Hilda and Ignacio come and scream at her in Spanish for about a million years, making her feel ever more Mexican, and she takes them aside and tells them about what Marc said, and how she called YETI and they "didn't exactly deny it," and then Hilda -- God love her -- is like, "Who fucking cares how you got in?" Betty, of course, totally cares, which is what having feelings gets you, and Hilda's like, "Look. You get a certain amount of advantages no matter who you are, and you have to use them, because the negatives always outweigh the positives. Scorching-hot babydaddy? Gunned down for no reason, spent the month in bed with a ghost. Gay son on a date? One slight case of gay panic and those tickets are useless. Mom died, Dad sucks, last boyfriend married, latest boyfriend thinks plain white candles are the way to a woman's heart, my only friends are my fat loser sister and my tiny gay son, and I put in weaves for a living. That's my career. So yes. I dress like a whore when I go to the butcher shop, and if you don't understand what I mean when I say that, I will seriously get somebody in here to figure you out, because you need the talking cure." And she calls her breasts "the Pointer Sisters," which additionally rules.
Ignacio gives her the Young Immigrant story about how he was mistaken for a Puerto Rican and when he corrected him the guy said, "Mexican? Even worse." That's ... I don't even know if I'm supposed to laugh at that so I'm going to say I didn't. "If being Mexican helped this time? Fucking good." Betty replies to the one piece of good advice her father ever gave her with yet more pooh-pooh face, and it's not out of character, but I wish Ignacio had talked more, because that's the part I really have no way of understanding, but also I can't believe I just said that.