Sophia: Dorothy, let me tell you a story. Picture it. Sicily, 1922. A young military officer stationed far from home. He wanders the streets seeking a friendly face and a glass of Chianti. Finally, he happens into a dusty little cafe where he finds both. The man laughs for the first time in months. And finds inspiration in a beautiful peasant girl, wise beyond her years. When the cafe is closed, she takes him home with her. Three glorious days, they make love and drink wine. He returns to his command prepared to lead his people through whatever battles need to be fought. Dorothy, that young peasant girl was me. And that young man was Winston Churchill.
Dorothy: Ma, you made that whole thing up. Now what is your point?
Sophia: That I made it up. It was a little lie that gave me a lot of pleasure. If Rose is happy, and there was no harm done, let her have that.

Sophia: Reminds me of the place I met Charles de Gaulle. We were lovers, you know.
Raymond: Really?
Dorothy: Ma, that's a lie.
Sophia: Who asked you?
Sophia: Picture it: Sicily, 1921. A beautiful young peasant girl saves her lira and takes a trip to Paris, the city of lights, also the only place a guy can wear a cape without getting a lot of funny looks. She wanders into a restaurant and ends up sharing a table with a dashing young Frenchman. They drink, they talk, they burn a cork and draw mustaches on each other.
Raymond: What?
Sophia: Just wanted to see if you were listening. Anyway, the next thing she knows, it's hours later, the place is empty, and the Frenchman's got his schnoz down her blouse. This begins a beautiful love affair. Kids, I was that peasant girl, and the schnoz was Charles the Mole.
Raymond: Charles the Mole?
Sophia: Yeah, Charles the Mole. He was the wheel man for Louie the Ice Pick.
Dorothy: Ma, you said Charles de Gaulle.
Sophia: Yeah, right! I slept with Charles de Gaulle. I could've been the first lady of France, but I married your father instead. A man who cleans his toenails with a shrimp fork.

Rose: I don't know what to do. I'm gonna have to sleep on it.
Sophia: "Sleep on it." Men. Sex. All I do is listen to your sexual problems. How about my sexual problems?
Dorothy: Ma, what is your sexual problem?
Sophia: I don't get any. And I read in a magazine where a woman is at her sexual peak at 83.
Blanche: Sophia, I read that same article. Honey, it was 33.
Sophia: Really? Then all those feelings I've been having lately must be colitis.

Blanche: Dorothy, that was the last contractor in the book.
Dorothy: Oh, I just don't care. I am so fed up with all of these people, I'm ready to give up.
Blanche: Dorothy, you can't give up. You're no quitter. Why just think of the many times you have been dumped by a man. Did you quit dating? No, ma'am. You sank even lower, scraping the bottom of the barrel, facing certain humiliation. And why?
Dorothy: Thanks, Blanche. I get the point.
Blanche: No, I mean it, Dorothy. Why?

Dorothy: Oh, for crying out loud, where is he now? This remodeling job is never going to be finished.
Blanche: Dorothy, relax. He'll be back.
Sophia: Who wants him back? The man's a thief. I haven't seen a crime like this in a garage since the St.
Valentine's Day Massacre.
Dorothy: Ma, you did not see the St. Valentine's Day Massacre.
Sophia: Oh, yeah, right. I was at the movies that day. All day.