Sophia: Wait, McCracken. Before you begin, I wanna tell you something. I'm no novice when it comes to negotiations.
Mr. McCracken: Oh, really?
Sophia: Let me tell you a story. Picture it: Sicily, 1922. An attractive peasant girl, who has saved her lira, embarks on a glorious vacation to a Crimean resort on the Black Sea. For weeks, she frolics at the seaside resort and enjoys the company of many young men, all of whom adore her.
Edna: All of them?
Sophia: Shut up, Edna. I work alone. All of them. When it's time to return to Sicily, three different suitors beg her to stay. But she can't decide who to choose, so she chooses none of them. But she agrees to meet with them at the same resort many years later. To her trio of suitors, that eventful gathering was referred to as "Rendezvous With Sophia." But to the rest of the world, it was better known as the Yalta Conference.

Rose: Boy, I remember when I was a little girl when we'd get depressed. Grandma could always cheer us up. She'd take out her dentures and she'd take a healthy swig from the aquarium, and then she'd put a flashlight under her chin and we could watch the goldfish swim from cheek to cheek. We could've watched it all day. But visiting hours were only from 10 to 4.

Sophia: Now I understand why she's sleeping in Blanche's bed. We know it can support the weight of an average female and two Venezuelan soccer players.

Blanche: Are you tellin' me Rebecca and Jeremy are plannin' to get married?
Sophia: Yeah. I overheard them talking.
Dorothy: Maybe you misunderstood.
Sophia: Please. Me misunderstand? My bladder may be weak, my eyesight may be failing, my bones may be brittle... I see your point. Maybe you better double-check.

Blanche: Why can't kids understand that we're just tryin' to do what's best for 'em?
Sophia: Because they're kids. Eventually, when they become mothers, they know better. Right, Dorothy?
Dorothy: Right, Ma. Gee, I remember you used to make me bring my dates into the house to meet you and Pop. Oh, I always hated that.
Sophia: Boy, what an inconvenience. Between the ages of 12 and 19, I met two guys.

Sophia: Oh, boy. What a day.
Dorothy: What happened, Ma? Butch and Sundance steal your seat on the bus?
Sophia: I had a miserable day at work. That stupid manager docked me a half day's pay because I said hello to the customers.
Rose: You're not allowed to say hello?
Sophia: Not at Pecos Pete's Chow Wagon. You have to say howdy. As a matter of fact, you have to say, "Howdy, partner? How about a saddlebag of fries with that ranch house burger?" I don't know why it doesn't trip naturally off my tongue.
Rose: Sophia, they took half your day's pay just for that?
Sophia: This manager is a shark. He's buckin' for supervisor. He told Mildred and Edna they could only take ten-minute bathroom breaks.
Dorothy: Well, Ma, that's not unreasonable.
Sophia: Please! They're 85. It takes Mildred ten minutes to roll down her stockings.

Rose: I remember my mother making me practice the tuba. Three hours a day, seven days a week, for ten years. I hated it. But it finally paid off.
Blanche: I didn't know you played the tuba.
Rose: Oh, I don't. No, I gave it up. But I can blow 32 pounds of air into a tire in less than a minute.

Dorothy: When is she coming, Blanche?
Blanche: She says in two weeks. Look. She signs it "Love, Rebecca." I guess that means she's forgiven me.
Sophia: Forgiven you for what?
Blanche: Oh, it's always been too difficult to talk about. It all started when she wanted to leave school to become a fashion model.
Rose: You're daughter's a fashion model?
Blanche: She's just beautiful. Always has been. Gorgeous blonde hair, sparklin' blue eyes, a figure men would mortgage a house for. We were always so much alike. And so close, just like Siamese twins.
Sophia: It's a shame when they separated you, you got both butts.

Sophia: [on the phone] Uh-huh. Yeah. Right. 6:00 at Mildred's. We're putting together a list of demands to present to that scuzzball, McCracken. Good. Oh, and, Edna, bring some sherry. Nobody bought that glaucoma story when you whipped out that reefer last time. No. No, you can't put it in brownies. I said no reefers. Okay? Good-bye.
Rose: You know, Sophia, the problems you're having at work remind me of something that happened in St. Olaf.
Sophia: Please, dust reminds you of something in St. Olaf. I got work to do.

Rose: Hi, Sophia. How was your meeting?
Sophia: Terrible. That weasel of a manager wouldn't budge an inch. He pushed us to the wall. Now it's all-out war.
Dorothy: What do you mean, Ma?
Sophia: Tomorrow morning, all Chow Wagon employees over the age of 70 are officially out on strike.
Rose: You're gonna picket the restaurant?
Sophia: No. Rose. We're gonna put on war paint and shoot flaming arrows at the covered wagon out front.
Rose: Gee, that might even get you on the 6:00 news.