Rose: Hey, we've all got our sad stories.
Blanche: What?
Rose: Look, Blanche, we've practiced for six weeks. We've paid for our costumes, we told everybody we'd be there! You're not gonna wimp out on me. You're gonna go to that recital. If you end up in a puddle tonight, well, you'd just better break into "Singin' in the Rain"!

Blanche: Rose, I have a confession to make. Flying isn't the only thing I'm afraid of. I also have a fear of performing. In front of groups, that is.

Dorothy: I know what she means, Ma. I just don't need to hear it the night before surgery!
Sophia: Come on, don't be such a baby! I had my appendix out in a hospital in Sicily. That was rough!
Rose: Why?
Sophia: They didn't believe in anesthesia back then. They had a nurse hold a pillow over your face so the other patients couldn't hear your screams. You had to pay extra for that. Sicily, love it or leave it.

Dorothy: Ma, what is that you're knitting?
Sophia: A bottle cover for the sherry.
Dorothy: Why do we need to cover the sherry?
Sophia: Not the sherry here in the house. The sherry I take to the park. You drink out of a paper bag in the park and suddenly everybody's your friend.
Rose: Oh, Sophia, I don't think it's a good idea to drink in the park.
Sophia: Hey, I do it once a month with the girls from the Cloud Society.
Blanche: The Cloud Society?
Sophia: Yeah, we stake out a bench, knock a few sherries back, and discuss what we think the clouds look like. One afternoon, I thought I saw Pat Sajak riding sidesaddle on a dolphin.

Dorothy: I'm all right. I'm fine.
Blanche: No, you are not and I'm tired of watching you suffer!
Rose: That's what Daddy said to our horse, Old Toby, when he broke his leg. Then he shot him.
Dorothy: Your family was awfully tough on pets, weren't they, Rose?

Dorothy: It's not as bad as it looks. The doctor says I'm fine. I just have to take it a little easy for a few days, that's all.
Sophia: You're lying!
Rose: Oh, Sophia, Dorothy wouldn't lie!
Sophia: A mother knows when her child is lying, it's like bat radar. Now what did the doctor really say?
Sophia: He said I have to have surgery.
Rose: [gasps] Surgery? For what?
Dorothy: For kicks, Rose! No, I have a condition called Morton's Neuroma.
Blanche: Oh, I think I had that once. But how the heck did you ever catch it in your foot?

Sophia: Fine. Don't have the surgery. Let me suffer.
Dorothy: Ma, it's my foot.
Sophia: Your foot? My heart. Do you have any idea how much a mother suffers when she sees her child in pain?
Dorothy: Look, Ma, Ma, don't do this!
Sophia: I'll tell you how much. Worse than the 23 hours of labor it took to bring you into this world.
Dorothy: -bring you into this world.
Sophia and Dorothy: Worse than the burns I got working nights as a fry cook to help put you through college.
Sophia: Worse than the time-
Dorothy: All right, all right, Ma! I'll have the surgery! You win! You always win. But you don't play fair.
Sophia: That's why I always win.

Blanche: I don't know what you have been complaining about, Dorothy. I think this is a very good hospital and a perfectly lovely room. Isn't it a lovely room, Rose?
Rose: Very lovely. I just keep wondering how many people have never left this room.
Dorothy: Where are they, Rose? Hiding in the shower?
Sophia: She means a lot of people have probably croaked in here.

Dr. Ravel: Hello, Mrs. Zbornak, my name is Dr. Ravel.
Dorothy: Oh, hello.
Dr. Ravel: I'm here to tell you that Dr. Ashton won't be able to perform your surgery tomorrow. He's been subpoenaed in a malpractice suit.
Dorothy: You are kidding?
Dr. Ravel: I'm afraid not. He's a damn fine doctor, too. I wish I were half the doctor he is. By the way, I'll be performing your surgery tomorrow.
Dorothy: Look, couldn't this surgery wait until he gets back?
Dr. Ravel: Well, if he gets a hostile jury, you may have to wait three to five years. You'd be surprised how peeved people get nowadays over any little mix-up.
Dorothy: Mix-up?
Dr. Ravel: I didn't say mix-up and there's no one here to prove that I did.

Dorothy: What do you think you're doing?
The Priest: I'm giving you the last rites, Mr. Ferguson.
Dorothy: I'm not Mr. Ferguson!
The Priest: Then what are you doing in bed with him? The man's dying, for God's sake!
Dorothy: Wait a minute! There is no Mr. Ferguson in this room!
The Priest: Isn't this room 203?
Dorothy: 303.
The Priest: Oh, boy, what a day. Since I'm here, do you need the last rites?
Dorothy: No, thank you.
The Priest: Have you had your operation yet?
Dorothy: No, tomorrow morning.
The Priest: Well, good luck. I'm sure everything will be fine. But just to be on the safe side, I'll swing by here tomorrow afternoon.