Marion Smith: Lydia, the man of your dreams is sitting out there right now waiting to hear from you. Speak to him.
Lydia Martin: I don’t think the perfect man is gonna want to hear what I have to say.
Marion Smith: Sure he does, Sweetie. Speak to him. Go on.
Lydia Martin: I’m sorry, Mr. Perfect, but if you’re waiting for me, it’s gonna be a hell of a long wait. See, I’ve had it with men like you. I think it’s terrific that you have a great job, and you’re sensitive to the needs of others, and you jog three times a week to keep the belly at bay. But the second some silicon-breasted, butt-kissing, airhead climber half your age comes along, you can’t keep your pants zipped. Well, fuck you! That’s right, Mr. Middle-age, think-you’re-a-big-shot, phony asshole. You ain’t gettin’ any from me.