Moaning Mondays: Mrs Two Poops.

Ok so she’s actually called Mrs Two-Shits (it’s her actual name, I didn’t decide it), but there are respected elders reading this and I’m scared of getting the slipper.

In the spirit of being a grumpy and a stressed cow-bag on Monday mornings I made the novel decision to embrace the rage.  So sometimes on a Monday I’ll be having a bit of a rant about something that really irks me, for absolutely no other reason than to just let it out.  And maybe make some of you feel a little less crazy if it’s something that really grinds your gears too.  Solidarity in common irritations.

My very funny friend at work told me about Mrs T-S.  What’s interesting is that once she described this character I realised I actually already knew quite a lot of them.  You know them too.  In fact they’re everywhere.  And don’t be misled, there’s a Mr T-S as well.

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Mrs T-S earned her name because if you tell her you just did a poop then she’ll be quick to inform you that she just did two.  If recounting how you broke your leg during your recent skiing holiday she’ll tell the tale of when she tumbled off the side of Kilimajaro and was in a full body cast for 3 years.  After coming out of a medically induced coma.

I remember when I got engaged and was chatting to a few women I knew about it.  They gathered around making the noises women make when good news descends, and holding my left hand to appreciate my ring.  Within five seconds one woman compared my ring to hers and embarked on a long and tedious monologue about her own proposal.  Eventually, after various awkward exchanged glances one of the other women cut her off and re-established the cooing and ahhing.

Why do they do it? Why? WHY?!

Mr and Mrs T-S didn’t get the memo about common courtesy in two-way dialogue.  To them a conversation is the stage for their one-man (woman) show.  It’s not an intelligence thing because I’ve known some incredibly smart people become the biggest Mrs T-S when you get chatting to them.

And one of my biggest bugbears is when Mr and Mrs T-S go to town on social media.  It drives me mad.  An exhausted new mum might post something on Facebook about her 90 minutes of sleep the night before.  She’s at her wits end and feeling desperate.  There’ll be a couple of sympathetic comments telling her she’s doing a great job.  Then in swoops Mrs T-S.  She didn’t sleep at all for three years after having her darling baby.  And in that time she looked after her sick mother, singlehandedly built an orphanage in Botswana and finished her PHD in child psychology.  Yep, that input is really going to help.

I guess what is entertaining is watching two Mrs T-Ss interact with each other.  It’s less a conversation and more a tennis match of personal statements.  You can guarantee it will border on the ridiculous.

Oh hi there, fancy seeing you here.  I’ve not seen you since I got back from my long weekend away. Did you hear the mister booked us in for a break in a real castle?

Oh it’s that small one up the motorway isn’t it? If you want to see a real castle then I can give you the details of the one I stayed at last year.  Up in the Highlands it was and very impressive. 

Scotland? That reminds me of the time I swam with dolphins off the North East coast, it was magical!

It’s great isn’t it? We had a blast when we did it in America, one dolphin even sang to me.

That’s cute… Of course not quite as cute as when a choir of Kenyan children personally serenaded us that time on Safari.

I held a baby Lion once-

I held a fully grown one!


So I appeal to all the Mr and Mrs T-S out there; please shut up.  It is not a contest.  It does not have to be all about you.  And the thing is, there’s still hope.  You can change your name, it’s dead easy.  Just ask people about their day.  Be genuinely interested in what they have to say.  You might even find it liberating not having to win the conversation competition.  All the damn time.

Ahhhhh. I knew this ranting malarkey would be cathartic in bidding farewell to the weekend.  But now to make the most of the week.

How many Mrs T-S do you know? Does it push your buttons or is it just me?  Go on, blow off some steam!

Mrs C x


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