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I didn’t want to read The Weird Sisters. I know, I asked for the review. It came and I glanced at the back and put it away. It didn’t call to me. I drug my heels. I finally decided that I had BETTER read it because the review was coming due.

I picked it up and within pages I was hooked. Actually page 7 marked the point when I knew it was a keeper.

That struck me just because a friend of mine and I had been talking about that very thing earlier in the day.

Then there are the sisters themselves. I am a middle daughter or an oldest daughter depending on who you want to consult. My older sister is 13 years older than I am. My younger sister is three years younger. Our blended family has four girls and two boys. (G, B, G, B, G, G) I know sisters and sister relationships. These are complicated, crazy, wonderful, and horrible. In The Weird Sisters, the same holds true.

I’ve inhaled enough Shakespeare over the years to not be thrown by the pure Shakespeare-ness of the book, but I do have to warn you that you might want to have a passing familiarity with the major works in order to not have to stop and look something up. (and you may still want to stop to ponder or re-read or something even if you know Shakespeare. Of course, that is always the way with him.) There were points where it did bug me that they would quote Shakespeare instead of spitting something out.

I also loved the family who reads, the girls parading to the library with their wagons to be filled with books. I read like that. I’ve been known to peer at people suspiciously when they say they don’t have time to read.

Then there is the omniscient first person plural narration. That’s just plain…weird. On the other hand, I think it helped in that it kept me safely away from falling into being one of the three sisters. It gave you the point of view of an audience at the theater perhaps.

In any case, I fell in love with the sisters, the family, and the book. Read it. Don’t drag your feet like I did.

This is a paid review for BlogHer Book Club but the opinions expressed are (very, very, very much) my own.

Most people would think that the Life Well Lived question this time around would be right up my alley:
How do you practice self-acceptance and find unconditional love for yourself? How does practicing love first help you attract more love and happiness in your life?

If you looked at me today, you would know there is serious room for improvement. I have hair that needs a fresh cut in a serious, yes, it drags me down way. (I am aware that this happens to me so at least that’s a plus. I need to make a doctor’s appointment, yet stumble every time I try to move forward with getting through the maze of in-network vs not in-network. I have a broken crown and a bunch of neglected dental work. The hair though–that’s the key to knowing not all is good in my world. It’s the outward sign that I am flunking the “Love yourself and the world will love you” mantra that I live by. Yes, I really do.

I try to think loving thoughts for everyone. Yes, EVERYONE. I forgive easily. I move on.

The calendar in our bathroom has a monthly theme of affirmation. Each day I change my status update on Google Talk to a different affirmation about loving myself, my world, and all the good in it. I rock at that.

I let the past go and move forward. I don’t endlessly rehash the “time machine” questions anymore. Every negative thing has brought positive things. Wishing to fix those negatives would mean a different life, one not filled with the joys that surround me.

I stop myself (and other people, much to their annoyance) when the words come out saying or even thoughts “I’m stupid,” “I’m lazy” and “I’m ugly/fat/old.” Those words, even when referring to a momentarily mistake get ingrained into a pattern of criticism. Short-circuit that pattern. That criticism dialogue builds up inside you and around you and becomes something real.

It works. I am particularly good at the parts most people find challenging. I know deep down that I am worthy, creative, appreciated and loved. That brings more love. A happy, confident, appreciative woman creates an atmosphere where her family, co-workers, and the world around feel more comfortable expressing their love and appreciation.

It makes me a happier person. It keeps me on the right track. In the case of my status updates, a number of people have buzzed me to say that it helps them too. You know what that means? The people who I talk to on a regular basis get that reflected work toward self-acceptance and they have more love in their life. In any case, it is external reinforcement.

But, as I said at the beginning, I have room for improvement. The hair cut. I must make time for that bit of self-care. Once I do, believe it or not, the rest of the weight on my shoulders will lift as well. I will stop fretting about things I shoulda, coulda, woulda done. I stop dwelling on those things I can’t change.

Interested in reading more about self-acceptance? Visit Blogher’s Life Well Lived – Getting Happy. Enter the current Life Well Lived Sweepstakes and you could (think “I WILL win”) a Kindle Fire and a $50.00 Amazon gift certificate to go with it.

Last night’s dinner wasn’t a resounding success. It was fine–just too spicy and a bit suspect from the point of view of other family members. I made a tomato sauce in the vitamix and didn’t take into account that the spices getting pulverized would accentuate the spice level.

Instead I will talk about date night on Tuesday night. I finally asked my love out on a date. Yes, we live together and have for over a decade. Yes, she took me on a date about two years ago. Most things we do together aren’t official “dates.” We run errands, have a meal out while doing so from time to time, but not dates. We should.

I’ve been working on being more thoughtful toward my love. I think it is the new quilt. It started while I was finishing it up. I remembered how I felt making the first quilt in those early years. I remembered the amusement as everyone watched the grand plan. I don’t really sew well. I love well, but I don’t sew well. I remembered making her lunches of cherry tomatoes and cheese. I remembered dogs who no longer share our lives, but have hair sewn in to the last quilt. I remembered little kids, one of which was so impressed with the quilt, she wanted a dress made. I made a dress. She wore it and loved it. I remembered kids I thought were big, but weren’t. More than that I remembered all the love shown in all sorts of little ways as I worked on an insane project. I stitched the final stitches of the new quilt, thinking that the foot dragging on finishing it and foot dragging from my love on actually replacing the well-loved, worn to death quilt meant the love in the quilt wasn’t quite right. Not ready. New quilt is too big. Too bright. Was the old quilt ever this bright? She loves the old quilt.

Then something else happened, I realized I missed those little things that I had stopped doing in years of sickness, health, moves, growing children, caregiving, and work. I could point to the big things easily and had often over the years. I knew that I still loved and was in love with the woman who shares my life. I just had stopped showing I was besotted with her, I cared, I appreciated, I wanted her. Sure, she still caught me smiling as she brushed her hair, as I watched her change, as she drove or worked. Yes, I still would look at her to-do list and try to do some of it…sometimes. I did work on thinking up gifts. I’d send her a poem when she traveled. I made the bed.

I didn’t do the wee little things anymore. I didn’t keep the coffee pot filled. I didn’t send a poem just because I thought of her. I grumbled through meal prep and served my mother lunch without asking if my love wanted something. No flirting.

So, I started doing the little things. A flirty note, a poem, a fresh pot of coffee, refilling her cup, a request for time with undivided attention, a kiss, a cuddle, a bed made with love and turned down properly so the quilt/sheet ratio is correct. I also asked her on a date.

Yes, a date.

I know you are breathless wanting to know where we went. We went to Chick-Fil-A. As midwesterners know and people of the south may not know–Chick-Fil-A is scarcer than hen’s teeth. We had one open about 12 miles from here in September. I noted it and forgot it. Then on Monday there was discussion. I looked it up. I asked her on a date. I showered and dressed up in jeans and a new sweater.  I opened doors for her. I smiled. I looked at her. Really looked at her.

There were flowers and everything:

We had a lovely time.

In my what now seems to be an ongoing Tarrant Makes Dinner from a myriad of random foods and it didn’t get horrible faces series, comes the latest installment.

Meatball Casserole
1 bag/box frozen meatballs
1 small bag new potatoes (the really small new potatoes)
1 can tomato paste
1 cup sour cream
2 cups shredded mozzarella
1 heaping teaspoon minced garlic

Quarter the potatoes. Spray a casserole dish with nonstick spray. (I didn’t do that part. Denise may throw away the dish.) Mix together. Bake a long time at 350–longer than the 45 minutes I originally try because the potatoes didn’t cook thoroughly for the first few people to eat dinner.