Dick: Why don't you tell your mother how you feel?
Mary: Oh, I can't. How can you tell your mother she's a terrible mother?
Martha Albright: [returns] This is a perfectly lovely restaurant you picked out, Mary Margaret. Thank you. Nice woman in the ladies room gave me this comb. There you go. Put it to good use.
Dick: So, Mary, first a toast to Martha. You are a terrible mother!
Martha Albright: What was that?
Dick: I'm sorry, that didn't come out quite right. To Martha, the worst mother in all the world.
Mary: Dick!
Dick: It's okay, I found a way to tell her. [silently] The toast.
Martha Albright: How dare you? I mean, really. How dare you? If this drink wasn't so bloody good, I'd toss it in your face.
Dick: Well, bring it on!

Dick: So, Martha, how are you enjoying your visit with our Mary?
Martha Albright: It's terrif. Quite a hostess, my little Mary Margaret.
Mary: Thank you, Mother.
Martha Albright: It's not every day you get to sleep on a mildewed metal cot.
Mary: I did offer you my bed.
Martha Albright: I know, I know, but it just didn't seem right. Little bit too much history there. Pumpkin, don't lean over your plate. This is a restaurant. You're not in a federal prison.
Mary: I could be. Real soon.
Martha Albright: Would you two excuse me for a minute? I'll be right back. Those Cape Cods go right through you.

Mary: I am in hell!
Dick: Oh, my poor Mary, I can't stand to see you like this, all miserable and freckled with breadcrumbs.
Mary: Oh. I dread these visits. It's psychological torture. I mean, this is the reason I was fat when I was a child. Food was my only friend.
Dick: Well, it's good to see you two have stayed in touch.