“Beti (“daughter”), why do you want to share all your dirty laundry in public?”

Because I’m a chronic over-sharer.  To me, there seems to be two types of people when it comes to feeeeelings: those who don’t want to talk about them and those who can’t stop talking about them. The former (as Sista Bear tells me) want to knuckle down – focusing on the positive, letting everything bounce off them like bullets ricocheting off Arnie in Commando (a Sloth family classic). And then there are people like me who want to share their feelings all the time with everyone; people like me who are so used to opening up about every passing sadness, grief, joy, shame and event that they have completely lost their filter, which drives them to say things that are completely inappropriate and cause them ongoing problems.  For example, I once told my then nine-year-old over a second glass of wine – mine, not his – that I might possibly be bisexual. I then found myself confronted with those words at the school gates (a little embarrassing in front of the parents who I’m only just getting to know).  Not that it’s embarrassing to be bisexual: I would say I’m a theoretical bisexual, newly separated and don’t know what’s on the horizon. But locally I’m seen as the new mum on the block who’s married (to a man), so it’s a strange conversation to be having with your cub at the school gates when you’re trying to fit in as it just confuses people (and let’s face it, many kids still don’t get told about gay rights these days so they are confused, too). My cub has now started pronouncing that he thinks he’s bisexual too which just makes me love him even more and stand by my drunken life choices.

I don’t mean to, I just have no sense of “normal” sharing anymore. It’s great when I meet others who share and share alike, but otherwise most interactions probably end with the people I meet avoiding me at social gatherings to talk to the “fun” people who are coming up with farm-related puns or discussing the latest TV shows (not that I don’t love those conversations, too – but I can’t get there till I’ve offloaded all the emotional bile).   Emotional vomit is like my foreplay for the frivolous banter others can jump straight into – yes, this is not recommended in The Joy of Sex.

Isn’t this a big fat waste of time and overly self-indulgent?

Yes and yes. But let’s face it, if I’m doing this then I’m not crying into the furry unsuspecting neck of my poor harassed dog or downing another bottle of Campo de Viejo white rioja (it really is delicious) while crying and dancing around my kitchen to Malibu by Miley Cyrus. Yes, I’ve become a Miley Cyrus fan – shoot me now.

I also like to think I’m performing a great public service. First, my poor long-suffering friends who receive daily updates on my Ovary Watch WhatsApp group* may see a little less traffic now this blog is in place. They can now catch up with my blog when they see me coming, rather than having to deal with my endless stream of consciousness punctuated by emojis and dancing gifs (fucking love gifs) in an endless drip-drip WhatsApp fashion.

As there are quite a few calamities in my life, reading this blog may do for the public what EastEnders did for me in my 20s by making them feel royally smug and happy that their life is slightly better than that car crash of a TV show, to which I was a loyal devotee for most of my adolescence.

Also, it might just be that some of the shit that happens in my life might connect with someone else out there: wouldn’t that be fucking lovely and warm and fuzzy for both of us?

Isn’t it depressing to hear about all your shit?

Personally, and I have it on the authority of some really quite excellent A-grade friends, the shit in life is where all the real comedy gold is waiting to be unearthed, shined up and laid out for your future amusement. If I can’t laugh at my shit, then I’m fucked.  So, I’m gonna laugh and hope it makes someone else laugh, too – though if it doesn’t, fuck it, my friends will pretend it was funny anyway. My family will probably give me some unconstructive criticism, which I’ll pretend to ignore and then rant and cry about later like a sore loser.

“Beti, why so much swearing and bad language?”

OK, so this blog is not going to be clean, it’s going to sound like the inside of my head. That’s the point. I’m sorry Mama/Papa Bear in advance for any offence this causes. That said, Mama Bear does dabble in the occasional “shit” these days and I have it on good authority that Papa Bear swears like a sailor after a few drinks and in the right company, so I’m not going to feel too guilty about this. However, my lovely, lovely parents, I might occasionally brave topics that might make you wince a little, like sex (discussing it, at least).  Yes, SEX. I said it out loud!  In which case, when this happens, I will put out a full alert, with sirens and TV announcements, so you know which posts to avoid.

 *This whatsapp group is now called Girls and Puppies (nothing to do with boobs). It was previously entitled Ovary Watch (everything to do with ovaries, roll up, roll up, they are lovely when they’re hot), until one friend** changed the name as she was worried that her boss might think she was trying to get pregnant and planning for her maternity leave (equality isn’t there yet, people).

**Said friend then decided to leave the group as she was getting too many WhatsApp messages*** and affirmed that she can get updates from me separately. As she has caused me more bother, she’s now working her way back into my good books slowly, though as punishment I’m now spamming her with every incessant thought I have. 

*** Who doesn’t want to belong to lots of WhatsApp groups? I do understand that some people find the sight of hundreds of unread messages alarming and stressful, so they duck out of WhatsApp groups regularly, which I have to respect (otherwise I would lose a lot of dear friends). Personally I love the sight of messages popping up on my phone, it’s validation that I’m loved.