Manny: Michele, you are fat. Look at how fat you are. No wonder our marriage is terrible.
Manny: No wonder our daughter is so fat, when she has you to look up to. You big balloon. You whale.
Michele: So what if I’m a whale. You’re a barnacle. Barney.
Manny: But look at me! I’ve taken care of myself. I passed forty, and I’m in fact more boyishly handsome, fit, and tan, than I was when you met me.
Michele: And who paid for the tan and the chin reconstruction.
Manny: That’s beside the point. You have the means and the money to look your best, but you just whale around in the hot tub, listening to the Pointer Sisters and dreaming you were free like that crazy girl in the Breakfast Club.
Michele: You know, I’m only mildly overweight. I wouldn’t be out of place in a Dove ad.
Manny: What, are you going to roundhouse kick me for criticizing you. Again? Because that’s not exactly wifely. Or feminine.
Michele: I’m too comfortable right now.
Manny: Of course you are. I just want to know how you never have the energy to go to the gym with me, but if any of our family or the neighbors or the help or some random celebrity at the wrong place at the wrong time piss you off, you can cross Los Santos on foot in five minutes flat and kill fifteen people with your bare hands.
Michele: I got my priorities, honey. If a woman can’t be strong when she’s crossed, is she a woman at all?
Manny: Your priorities are why we want to smother you in your sleep.
Michele: You’d go down with me. Barnacle. Trophy husband. I made you. I sculpted you with my ill-gotten money. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be turning tricks for bored matrons in the outskirts, you prince of a nobody.
Manny: Whatever, Michele. I’m going to go spend some quality time with that tennis instructor you hired, the one under 25, you know, with the tight buttocks and the perfect tits, neither of which you have, you bloatmonster. Later.
Michele: I need comfort, but apologizing to Manny for breaking the dining room table again or for breaking his foot or for pissing away our savings on the stock market – that’d hurt my pride. I’ll go try to connect with my estranged daughter, instead.
Jamie (the daughter): (playing some splatty video game or the other, yelling at the screen) Hey hey! Want me to glue a strap on to your vagina and turn you into a little boy and then violate you, because I will.
Michele: Hey, Jamie, would you like to go on a jog or something? That’s what your father always wants to do when we’re on the outs.
Jamie: Jogging would require moving, and I think you’re being a crappy entitled mom trying to relive her glory days by asking me to move.
Michele: Have you been playing the same game for the past five years? I just noticed.
Jamie: No, Mom, duh, this is, like, the five-times-improved iteration of the same game. Can’t you see the resolution on the blood is much sharper? Can’t you actually see the creases in the soldier’s uniforms? Don’t you pay any attention to my hobbies at all? No wonder I hate you.
Michele: On second thought, I’m going to try to reconnect with my son instead. Look, Jamie, try doing – a sit up a day. In your bed, if you want.
Jamie: Screw off and stop wasting my time. I love me the way I am.
Tracer (the son): (through his closed door) Man, you aren’t half as attractive to the ladies as you think you are. You see the pinched up disgusted squints they get when you’re around?
(Michele barges in. Tracer is lying in his underwear on the bed, on the phone.)
Tracer: Mooom! (in the phone) Hang on, my psychotic sexually-suffocating Mom is in my room, I swear she’s never read Freud, I don’t think she can read. (tosses phone) Mooooom, I’m having private time in here.
Michele: Obviously. Why are you naked?
Tracer: I can’t believe you’re asking that! I have the right to be naked in any situation I like. I’m an adult! And I’m exceptionally skilled at exposure, so you have to stop holding me back! You have no idea how crazy the ladies get when I take off my shirt. I’ve got three thousand friends on Lifeinvader.
Michele: I’m sure you have other skills besides nudity. Don’t you? Right?
Tracer: Get out of my room, Mom. Go paint your toenails and make me hot chocolate like Moms are supposed to do. Support me. I love me the way I am.
Michele (departing, closing the door): Why does everyone in this house have only one trait? I have at least four traits. They might be all bad, but at least I have a few.