Sophia: Okay. That's it. When she gets off the phone, we're going for lunch. I'm tired of listening to these lousy Mother's Day stories.
Rose: Sophia, don't you have a Mother's Day story?
Sophia: I said I was tired of listening to lousy Mother's Day stories. I wouldn't mind telling a good one. Picture it: Brooklyn, 1957, the second Sunday in May. Dorothy had gone to pick up my mother and I was getting the house ready which mostly meant trying to get my Salvadore into a shirt with sleeves.