Some words just roll together. There is a reason the phrase for "Grumpy Old Man" is about 500 times more common than the phrase "Grumpy Old Woman". It relates to the fact there are significantly more of them.
But we exist. In droves. I am entering the Queendom of Grumpy Old Womanhood - I can feel it in my bones. I know by the ridiculous number of things that have the ability to annoy. Fur animals on adults' head for example. Whoever thought furry animals as a fashion head accessory were the new little black dress should be made to wear one constantly for a week as punishment. At least Daniel Boone took the bloody heads off.
School holiday access to technology has also meant total absorption in virtual families which, seems so much more fun than quality time with the real grumpy thing. Apparently, it's way more fun to go and tell members of your virtual family to have a shower or relax and then measure how happy everyone is.
So much tidier and infinitely more annoying (to me) than real life.
Luckily, I discovered how to turn off the WiFi and then blame it on those annoying earthquakes in Wellington. But it's not safe to open my old school letterbox either.
It held letters from the National Party telling me how important I am to them. Or at least I think it's to us. Our names are almost spelt correctly.
Unfortunately lowering crime rates, which have been evident for many reasons other than the National Party being in power, were also attributed to their spinalicious marvellousness.
But there is hope. There will again be time when the evening dinner can be eaten safely without the constant screaming from pre-adolescent girls watching their idols in X Factor. X stands for the brands that wish to get as much easy traction among the only group with any disposable income left in peak viewing time. Next time, they should just call the whole show "Product Placement Time" and be done with it. Phenomenally annoying when you've done your best to give your kids an effective filter against TV advertising for McDonald's, Coke and general hyperbolic consumerism.
And then comes Ruby Frost. She is every pre-teen dream in one little silver-clad, pink-haired package. It's like Rainbow Fairy and My Little Pony had a love child and it was Ruby.
And there she is. With her McDonald's wrappers scattered nonchalantly and her super big cup of Coke always by her side, she is living proof that everything I've said about junk food and fizzy drink is a big fat lie. Olympically annoying. The jewellery. The clothes. The music equipment. All cleverly slipped in to make it look as though the necessary accoutrements to life for every 10-year-old are a never-ending supply of clothes, accessories and microphones where skipping ropes and skateboards used to be.
When I mutter this in my now habitual grumpy old woman voice, I am told I am wrong about the perceived reprieve.
X Factor is over but NZ's Got Talent is just around the corner. Shoot me. Shoot me now.