Samara O'Shea

Archive for February, 2009

Things I Like About President Obama: A List

Tuesday, February 17th, 2009

1. He isn’t afraid to say, “I screwed up.” The ability to admit when you’re wrong is huge. It’s a quality you want from your leaders. It’s a quality you want from pretty much any person you know—yourself included. Have you ever met someone who blames every problem (even little ones) on everyone else? It’s unbearable.

2. He openly admitted that he was routing for the Steelers. I like that he routed for the Steelers because I went to college in Pittsburgh. Aside from that, however, it’s nice to see a politician pick a side. More often than not they refuse to do so. They’re afraid of offending the other team’s fans. It’s lip service when they do that. It’s nonsense!

3. He holds hands with and kisses his wife in public, and not in the “just for show” way. (Or seemingly so anyway. I guess you can never tell what’s on someone’s mind).

4. This just went up today: Recovery.gov. We’re encourage to track the stimulus and there’s even a section when we can weigh in and say whether or not the stimulus is working for us. Another thing we want from a leader—a willingness to be held accountable.

5. He’s an inspirational public speaker. Yes, this is important. No, it’s not everything. But you can’t be the football coach if you can’t get your players riled up and excited.

6. His weekly radio address appears on YouTube.

I didn’t expect a perfect president. He’s made mistakes and he’ll make more. BUT he’s the first person who’ll admit that, which is more than I’ve seen from a politician in a long time. I am continually happy with my decision to have voted for him. I hope you are (those of you that did), too!

Valentine’s Day Success

Tuesday, February 17th, 2009

I hope you all had a glorious Valentine’s Day. I certainly did! And I continued my winning streak of having awesome V-Days as a single girl. Friday night I headed up to Manhattan and went out to dinner with my friend Mickey. We talked and laughed until about 12:30 a.m. When we parted ways he called me and said, “I completely forgot. Happy Valentine’s Day!” That was great way to ring it in. On Saturday, I spent the day with a good friend who was in town from Chicago—we had a blast catching up. We met another friend for brunch and the three of us giggled and gossiped like little girls for two hours. Afterwards, we walked by Union Square and received three free hugs (I’m not kidding. There were six people standing around with signs that said “Free hugs.”) I also participated in some “Love Research.” A lovely woman named Karen had a table set up and was asking people all types of questions about love for a book she’s working on. She gave me a red rose when I walked away. Before we left the square I had some hot apple cider, which I love. It put me in an even better mood than I was already in. Saturday night my Chicago friend and I went to a group dinner—more laughing and catching up with old friends—and then ended up at club called Bijoux. From beginning to end, I spent the day with people I love and strangers that I wish well. What did you do?

M is for Melodramatic

Friday, February 13th, 2009

And few people are more melodramatic than Zelda Fitzgerald. This is one of many adoring and completely overwhelming letters that she wrote to her husband (or husband-to-be as this letter states) famous author F. Scott Fitzgerald. I’m not sure if I should admit this or not, but I know how she feels. I know what it’s like to be completely taken over by your love for someone. It’s an extraordinary out-of-body experience. It’s also very scary. I suppose I’ve tried to suppress feelings such as these for having been hurt by them too many times. But I know that’s no way to live. I’ll have to dive in head first again someday. Way to put it all out there Zelda!

Spring 1919

Sweetheart,

Please, please don’t be so depressed – We’ll be married soon, and then these lonesome nights will be over forever – and until we are, I am loving, loving every tiny minute of the day and night – Maybe you won’t understand this, but sometimes when I miss you most, it’s hardest to write – and you always know when I make myself – Just the ache of it all – and I can’t tell you. If we were together, you’d feel how strong it is – you’re so sweet when you’re melancholy. I love your sad tenderness – when I’ve hurt you – That’s one of the reasons I could never be sorry for our quarrels – and they bothered you so – Those dear, dear little fusses, when I always tried so hard to make you kiss and forget –

Scott — there’s nothing in all the world I want but you – and your precious love – All the material things are nothing. I’d just hate to live a sordid, colorless existence – because you’d soon love me less – and less – and I’d do anything – anything – to keep your heart for my own – I don’t want to live – I want to love first, and live incidentally – Why don’t you feel that I’m waiting – I’ll come to you, Lover, when you’re ready – Don’t don’t ever think of the things you can’t give me – You’ve trusted me with the dearest heart of all – and it’s so damn much more than anybody else in all the world has ever had –

How can you think deliberately of life without me – If you should die – O Darling – darling Scott – It’d be like going blind. I know I would, too, I’d have no purpose in life – just a pretty – decoration. Don’t you think I was made for you? I feel like you had me ordered – and I was delivered to you – to be worn – I want you to wear me, like a watch – charm or a button hole boquet – to the world. And then, when we’re alone, I want to help – to know that you can’t do anything without me.

Keepin it Real

Thursday, February 12th, 2009

I post this letter—even though it’s more of an apology than a love letter—because its so raw. It’s existence is a testament to the fact that love is not always perfect. Often times it’s frustrating and disappointing, and it’s fine to acknowledge that in your letters. It’s honest and it’ll help you get to the heart of your problems faster.

Here, writer Katherine Mansfield pens a letter to her husband, John Middleton Murry. The two had lived together for little over a year when this letter was written, and it seems that was about the time when the romance was dying down and the routine setting in. They were going through what most couples go through: Katherine is frustrated with the housework and frustrated with Jack for expecting her to do it—then she apologizes for being so easily frustrated. She also emphasizes how much she loves him, which is so important. To remind your lover that even though you get angry and overwhelmed at times, you still love them. That’s why you’re here trying to make this thing work . . .

May/June 1913 (uncertain of the date)

Am I such a tyrant—Jack dear—or do you say it mainly to tease me? I suppose Im a bad manager & the house seems to take up so much time if it isn’t looked after with some sort of method. I mean. . .when I have to clean up twice over or wash up extra unnecessary things I get frightfully impatient and want to be working. So often, this week, Ive heard you and Gordon talking while I washed dishes. Well, someone’s got to wash dishes & get food. Otherwise—“there’s nothing in the house but eggs to eat.”

Yes, I hate hate HATE doing these things that you just accept as all men accept of their women. I can only play the servant with very bad grace indeed. Its all very well for females who have nothing else to do. . .& then you say I am a tyrant & wonder because I get tried at night! The trouble with women like me is—they can’t keep their nerves out of the job at hand—& Monday after you and Gordon & Lesley have gone I walk about with a mind full of ghosts of saucepans & primus stoveses & “will there be enough to go round”. . .& you calling (whatever I’m doing Tig—isn’t there going to be tea. Its five o’clock.) As though I were a dilatory housemaid! I loathe myself, today. I detest this woman who “superintends” you and rushes about, slamming doors & slopping water—all untidy with her blouse out & her nails grimed. I am disgusted & repelled by the creature who shouts at you, “you might at least empty the pail & wash out the tea leaves!” Yes, no wonder you ‘come over silent’.

Oh, Jack, I wish a miracle would happen—that you would take me in your arms & kiss my hands & my face & every bit of me & say “its alright—you darling thing, I quite understand.” All the fault of money, I suppose. But I love you & feel humiliated & proud at the same time. That you dont see—that you dont understand and yet love me puzzles me — — —

Will you meet me on Wednesday evening at the Café Royale at about 10.30. If you can’t be there let me know by Wednesday morning. . .Ill come back and sleep at ‘57’ if I may even though I don’t live there. Jack—Jack—Jack

Your wife,
Tig

Love Letter By Sylvia Plath

Wednesday, February 11th, 2009

Not an actual love letter, but rather a poem entitled “Love Letter” by the incandescent Miss Sylvia:

Not easy to state the change you made. If I’m alive now, then I was dead, Though, like a stone, unbothered by it, Staying put according to habit. You didn’t just tow me an inch, no- Nor leave me to set my small bald eye Skyward again, without hope, of course, Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn’t it. I slept, say: a snake Masked among black rocks as a black rock In the white hiatus of winter- Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure In the million perfectly-chiseled Cheeks alighting each moment to melt My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears, Angels weeping over dull natures,

But didn’t convince me. Those tears froze. Each dead head had a visor of ice. And I slept on like a bent finger. The first thing I was was sheer air And the locked drops rising in dew Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay Dense and expressionless round about. I didn’t know what to make of it. I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded To pour myself out like a fluid Among bird feet and the stems of plants.

I wasn’t fooled. I knew you at once. Tree and stone glittered, without shadows. My finger-length grew lucent as glass. I started to bud like a March twig: An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg. From stone to cloud, so I ascended. Now I resemble a sort of god Floating through the air in my soul-shift Pure as a pane of ice. It’s a gift.

The Power of Writing Things Down

Tuesday, February 10th, 2009

Another great write-up on the written word (I’m probably preaching to the choir at this point) at Divine Caroline.

Love Letters for Barter

Tuesday, February 10th, 2009

Just in case I’m not your girl for love-letter writing, and you prefer a more haughty style: Here he is. And you don’t have to pay him in cash necessarily. I wonder what I could barter. Think he’d take a letter for a letter? My style in exchange for his. . .?

(Forgive me gods of sexism for assuming this is a man. It was this selling point:You want to get laid on Saturday, right? that made me assume such a thing.)