Busy beevers â€” Crutch is working her day job: barista at the Muff-In Beever Café. Emmy, the manager (the Big Beever, if you will), hands a customer her latte. Crutch compliments Emmy on her awesome foam-making skills. Emmy rolls her eyes and walks away. Smooth.
A hot, dreadlocked UPS driver arrives with a delivery for a "Caroline Michaels." Crutch quickly whispers, "No. Hey, hey. Crutch," and points to herself. Whatever, dude. Just sign here.
Crutch tells the Big Beever that this here is the Indigo Girls’ Amy Ray’s guitar, thank you very much. Emmy says grumpily, "Did I give you a raise I don’t know about?" and tells Crutch to keep her damn eBay transactions at home. Emmy is thoroughly unimpressed and directs Crutch to go bus a table. Aw, don’t be that way. There’s nothing more disappointing than a grumpy Beever.
Crutch can’t hear her, anyway, because she’s praying to Saint Amy, the Patron Saint of Hopelessly Untalented Musicians.
They call her Flipper, Flipper â€¦ â€” Sam is sitting in what appears to be a sweet-ass, cherry red Karmann Ghia in front of a house. There’s a For Sale sign on the lawn. This could be The One.
Sam immediately calls Jen to report she’s found the perfect investment property. On the other end of the line, Jennifer is highlighting passages in her recent purchase, Selling Sex: A Case Study, such as Chapter 3, Cleavage: How Much and How Often, and Chapter 6, Flattering Camera Angles for the Buttocks.
Jen is skeptical, but Sam gives her the simple steps toward real estate domination: Put down a little, rent it out for a while, and then sell high. Coincidentally, that’s also exactly how you should pick girlfriends. But Jen is talking about money here.
Jen’s "Financial Shaft" Rule states that since lesbians can’t marry, share insurance or get tax bennies, it’s every girl’s duty to cover her own ass, so plan accordingly. For real, please do this one. You know how I hate to worry about your retirement.
Inside the house, Sam tries to make an offer, but a tall, dark-haired woman swoops in and offers ten grand over the asking price, adding that her financing is also preapproved. Oh, snap. Sam’s head whips around. She’d be livid except for the fact that her rival is smoking hot. Becca? Becca who?
Hot wings â€” For their date, Kate takes Jennifer to a Hooters-type joint for dinner. She says it will help Jen with her research, but I think she just likes this place. A waitress with huge gazongas in a skin-tight, low-cut shirt walks by, prompting Jen to wonder if the staff feels exploited and why does she suddenly crave melon?
Kate calls Double D to their table and prods Jennifer to do some interviewing.
Jen: How do you feel about working here?
Double D: I love it. Best job I ever had. The money’s fantastic, and the customers are polite.
Jen: Polite? Every guy in here is undressing you with his eyes.
Double D: [snorts knowingly] Why do you think they tip so well? What do I care what they do with their eyes?
Jen: So it’s not exploitation?
Double D: Sure it is. I exploit every guy that comes in here. Plus, I’m pre-med and the schedule’s flexible.
All I heard was "flexible."
Pre-med? Really? I thought strippers were pre-med and Hooters girls were pre-law. My mistake.
Kate comments that a flexible schedule is a "Godsend for single mothers," and maybe that’s just the ticket for herself. Uh, what? Jen doesn’t have a rule for this sitch because her brain is kakking on the words "single mother."
Here’s a rule: The First Date Full Disclosure Rule states that you should tell your date up front if you have a kid, you’re not quite single yet, or you’ve been between jobs for more than eight months. Your date has a right to make informed decisions about her next move. There is no good way, however, to reveal you have three different anti-psychotic prescriptions. You should probably keep that to yourself.