Kyle: Your mother? Again? I thought she was dead.
Sydney: She is, she is. She just occasionally pops into my dreams to criticize the living. It's like a dysfunctional Our Town.
Robbie: He's had a few drinks, I don't think he should drive.
Joanie: So make up an excuse to drive him home.
Robbie: What kind of an excuse?
Joanie: Robbie, you con the man out of several thousand dollars a year, I'm sure you can come up with something.
Sydney: Then I think about Kyle. He may not pull down six figures, or wear power-ties, but he's something I never encountered in L.A.: a real man, a hundred-percent grade A guy, a T-bone amongst the mixed vegetable plates.
Lynda: Can't sleep?
Syd: Technically I AM asleep, aren't I?
Syd: We are doctors, mother.
Lynda: Oh, that's just a fancy name for mechanics!
Sydney: She just occasionally pops into my dreams to criticize the living. It's like a dysfunctional Our Town.
Our Town is a play by Thornton Wilder.