Sophia: This is no coincidence. Everything I have, you try to steal. May the bags under your eyes grow so large your head falls in 'em.
Angela: May your shampoo get mixed up with your Preparation H and shrink your head to the size of mushroom.

Marguerite: What is she talking about?
Sophia: Don't play dumb with me. I've been known to cast a curse myself. Do you think Shelley Long was really tired of playing in Cheers? Wrong, baby. I was tired of her!

Dorothy: Oh, morning, Ma. You sleep OK?
Sophia: No. I got up in the middle of the night and there was a puddle in my bed. Do you know how relieved I was to find out the roof was leaking?

Sophia: May the hair on your lip grow in the opposite direction and get tangled in the hair coming down from your nose.
Angela: May you take a diuretic and not be able to get your pantyhose off.

Sophia: Let me tell you a story, Dorothy. Picture it: Sicily, 1920. Two young girls pack their bags and leave their tiny village to seek fame and fortune and a meal cooked without oregano. Their journey takes them to a seaside town where a ship prepares to depart for the New World. They're just-
Dorothy: The New World?
Sophia: Hey, anybody can say Baltimore. There's an art to telling these stories.
Dorothy: Sorry.
Sophia: Where was I?
Dorothy: Departing for the New World.
Sophia: Oh, right. Anyway, the price of steerage turns out to be 900,000 lire. Or approximately a buck and a quarter. Which is exactly the amount of each girl's life savings.
Dorothy: Exactly?
Sophia: That's why this is a story instead of an immigration report. May I continue? One girl chooses to spend her money and take a chance on adventure. The other plays it cautiously and books only a ferry to Sardinia, saving the rest of her money for a rainy day.
Dorothy: Lemme guess, Ma. You were the one who chose adventure.
Sophia: You also would've said Baltimore instead of the New World. You're no good at this, Dorothy. I'm the girl who played it safe. Maybe if I'd made the other choice, I'd have been prime minister of Israel instead of my good friend Golda Meir.
Dorothy: Ma, you never met Golda Meir!
Sophia: Please! I almost married her husband, the man who perfected the hot dog.
Dorothy & Sophia: Oscar Meyer.

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.

Sophia: I wouldn't be so sure if I were Blanche. Sometimes these things aren't meant to be. Like me and Fabrizio Ribeno. We were on the verge of a passionate love affair when Destiny intervened.
Dorothy: Don't tell me. His wife, Destiny Ribeno?
Sophia: Right. Boy, did she have a temper. She dragged him away by the hair on his back, smashed his skull with a ravioli crank, and threw his limp body in the river. That's a Sicily you don't see on postcards.

Blanche: It's easier for you to say that, Sophia. It's not your brother who's getting married to a man.
Sophia: Hey, it's not like the guys in my family never kissed a man. Of course, that was business. Although there was that one hit man who always had to have a flower in his lapel and would hold the kiss of death a little longer than he had to.
Blanche: Oh, look, I can accept the fact that he's gay, but why does he have to slip a ring on this guy's finger so the whole world will know?
Sophia: Why did you marry George?
Blanche: We loved each other. We wanted to make a lifetime commitment. Wanted everybody to know.
Sophia: That's what Doug and Clayton want, too. Everyone wants someone to grow old with. And shouldn't everyone have that chance?

Mr. Pfeiffer: Come this way. Now, this is our slumber chamber. Oh, and here's my card. How may I be of service to you?
Dorothy: Uh, well, Mr. Pfeiffer.
Mr. Pfeiffer: That's Pfeiffer, the P is not silent.
Dorothy: Well, Mr. Pfeiffer. We're interested in arranging a funeral.
Mr. Pfeiffer: Isn't that lovely? The three of you planning for Mother.
Sophia: Hey, Pfeiffer, how would you like a punch in your p-face?

Blanche: You know, Sophia, this birthday thing kinda has me depressed as well. You think you could help me, too?
Sophia: Sure. No matter how bad things get, remember these sage words - you're old, you sag, get over it.
Blanche: Sophia!
Sophia: So what if you knew Jesus personally? Wake up and smell the coffee, you fossil.