Tilda was on her high horse at a family dinner at Carrabba's Italian Grill this evening, complaining that it's impossible to find new songs with both (a) a good beat to exercise to and (b) no offensive lyrics.
The youngest member of the family gave his patented world-weary sigh and told me that obviously I don't belong in the 21st century.
"Oh yeah? So what century DO I belong in, Mr. Smarty-Pants?" I asked.
"The 16th or 17th," he replied without missing a beat. "Maybe."
His grandmother jumped to my defense, asking if he knew what it was really like to live back then.
"Mimi," he explained patiently to her. "She runs Microsoft Word 2003."
Game, set and match, Master Tally-ho.
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