I’m sorry Y’all…
I’m publishing my first book!
“One Happy Divorce – Hold the Bullshit!”
Finally, it’s really happening. My very first book. It is real, I did it. Well, I’m doing it. I have the most incredible group of women working in my corner…they are sharp, and smart. All helping me get it done. It’s going to be dropping soon and I’m excited. Excited, and scared. Nervous! But above all else, I am proud.
I am proud of me.
And at (almost) forty-five years old I can finally say a big, huge FUCK YOU to all the assholes who have been doubting me all this time. I wish I could publish this book without feeling so angry, and bitter. So filled with resentment. Launch this book with only happiness in my heart knowing that everyone is cheering me on wholeheartedly; not talking shit behind my back, laughing and snickering. Have faith that all my friends that I’ve supported over the years will show up at my event…or at least buy the dang thing.
But I can’t.
And it hurts that people are still saying things like,”A book tour? Really, C’mon. You do realize it’s only your first book, right?” Or,”Self-publishing? Don’t you have a book deal? You’ll never make a dime.” Don’t they realize I’m just doing the best I can? That 99% of the population have never published a fucking book. That I’m only trying to make my kids proud, and teach them to never give up on a dream.
Good thing I’m not a sensitive girl.
Good thing I don’t take things personally.
Ya, good thing.
You’d think that turning forty-five next month would give me a little extra chutzpah to handle myself when confronted with shit like that. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned in 45 years:
- People Who Need People. People. In my forty-five years, I’ve met a shit-ton of people. I’ve met good peeps, and not so good peeps. Some have stayed in my life for a long time…and others, have come and gone. And if you take a look at my Facebook page, you’ll see that I’m a sucker for making a “friend”. And if you ask me if I know someone, I’ll probably say,”Yes! She’s my good friend!” But truth be told, while I have a gazillion “friends” I only have a handful of real friends. Friends that mean more to me than the ones whose pictures I “like” on FB. And recently, I learned that not everyone is your PEOPLE. Not everyone has to be my friend; this was a big DUH for me. In fact, it took going to Campowerment last year for me to fully grasp the concept. I met this woman, Andrea Quinn, who taught me that not all people are in fact “my people”. And I am not everyone’s person! It’s true! Not everyone has to like ME! Ha. Some people just are not meant to be friends. Look her up, she’s worth the read. I did some deep soul-searching and decided to spend my time with people who deserve my time, and that is, in fact, healthy for my soul. I wish it didn’t take 44 years to learn. But shit, better late than never. Thank you, AQ. And thank you, Campowerment.
- Mother Knows Best. I am my Mother. Yesterday, Jonah called me “Trish”. He did. He looked at me and said,”You’re acting just like Grandma.” Wow. I only asked you if you wanted more grapes, you little shit. I’m sorry, excuse me for asking twice. I now know why she used to say,”I only hope you have 4 exactly like you!” Parenting teenagers is a rollercoaster that I’d like to jump off of at the highest hill. I don’t know how she did it; How she survived. My mom is a rock star. Nothing would’ve prepared me for this emotional hell I’m in. And I’m not talking about mine, although at forty-five my hormones are also in flux. Can anyone tell me why one minute I’m sweating like a fucking pig, and the next I’m crying in my car picturing my own funeral? Hell. I am in emotional hell.
- Brainy-Act. Wait, I am how old? Ok, so my brain knows it’s 45…but it’s acting like a 23-year-old!! I really feel and think I’m twenty-fucking-three! What is happening here? I see my boys going to high school but wasn’t I just there? I know Jonah is taking driver’s ed, but no! It was me, I swear it was just me. I feel like I’m so young, why is my brain playing these awful games with my body? My heart. My head. I go to the bar with my friends, and I act like a college freshman, and then I can’t understand why I’m flat-out the next day! I only had 2 glasses of wine. Ugh. Fuck you body, you are ruining everything. I look in the mirror, the lines…my skin. My hair. My kids tell me that all their friends think I’m the “coolest mom” because I act so young. Hmmmm. Act so young? Not so sure that’s the goal. LOOK so young, YES!
- Talk about SEX. One thing got better with age. I feel like a fine wine, Y’all. Ha. Now, not to embarrass anyone (like my boyfriend) but how good is the sex in our 40’s? Well, I mean if you’re having it. And you should be having it, people. Women, you are in your prime! Sex is so much better for me now than when I was younger. I feel more confident, and secure with who I am. I like myself, my insides. I want the lights on, and I want to be wanted. Oh, and I want to give. It’s a two-way-sex street. But I expect more, too. I like more mature sexual relationships now, with meaning. I actually want to make love; be made love to! Look at me, I’m all grown up.
- Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door. Am I dead yet? Fuck. I’m scared to death of death. Like horrified of it. I think about it all the time. My death, my kid’s deaths…my parent’s deaths. Leaving my kid’s alone, without a mom. Death. I think it’s normal at this age, thinking about dying. But then is it really? I walk into the boy’s rooms in the middle of the night, to make sure they’re breathing like when they were babies. Do I need meds? Rhetorical. Hold on, I need to go text my kid’s at school and make sure they’re alive. One might have died walking from science to band. #poopoo
- I Don’t Care. Ok, maybe I do…Nah, I really don’t. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t care if you like me. I don’t care if you like my blog. I don’t care if you like my shoes or clothes. And I sure as shit don’t care if you like my Career du Jour. But I do care if you don’t treat me, and my boys with respect and kindness. And I do care enough to tell you how I feel. Which also came with age, I found my mouth…. And started to use it. At this point in my life, I care less about what others think of me, and more about what I think of myself: Am I a good person? Do I give back to my community? Am I setting a good example for my boys? Does my ass look big? 😉
- You Don’t Own Me. Own it, and own it I do. At forty-five I can own it my shit, and it’s so much healthier. I was never able to do it in my younger years. Being right was so dang important, like saying “sorry” made me a failure. I couldn’t own my shit in my marriage, my past relationships…or with my family. It came with maturity and a whole lot of self-reflection. Now, I am fully capable of admitting when I’m wrong, or when I have hurt someone’s feelings. I can say I’m sorry and mean it. I am self-reflective. I take pride in saying,”Hey, I fucked up, and I will be better. I hurt you, and I will fix it.” #ownyourshit
The Big Forty-five in just a few weeks, and my first book in a couple of months. Crazy, right? I feel overwhelmed. Emotionally exhausted, and totally freaked! But I’m in a great place, with good peeps supporting me. I probably won’t be back here very often though, and I’m sorry for that. But look for my book soon, “One Happy Divorce- Hold the Bullshit!” all over Amazon, and on shelves by Christmas. Love you all, and I’ll be blogging again soon. Cross my heart, and hope to…omg. DIE! 😉