Decked out in an old dress of mine -- something from the 80s, no doubt -- Ramona trudged into the kitchen and sighed.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"You," she said accusingly, "don't know what it's like to have to spend every day going to a robot convention and wearing shoulder pads."
She turned around and left the room.
She's got me pegged. I don't have a clue.