|“The Coquette” by James Wells Champney c.1885|
Ed. Note: Let’s keep it simple: James is one of my favorite people — ever. He knew I needed help filling my post void as I work, work, work, and like the gentleman he is; he volunteered. So, you will be as happy as I am, I’m sure, to know that I have signed him up until he resigns the commission. (Please encourage him not to do so. Merci par avance.)
He chooses the subject and I say, “You go James.” I love today’s musings. I think you will as well. . .
I decided I would like to make a few comments on some women’s issues.
Sort of a series of my incoherent ramblings. Tish was nice enough to allow me to use her site as a forum. Am I an expert on fashion? Decidedly not. Although to use a Supreme Court ruling, “I know it when I see it.” No degree in psych, no training in marriage counseling, basically nada.
So what makes me an expert? Well, I’m not. What I am is experienced, which I hope gives me a little insight.
So until Ms. Jett withdraws my use of the hall I’d like to give you some of that insight. Remember free advice is worth what you pay for it.
When you leave the restaurant on a crisp fall night slip your hand into his coat pocket and lay your head on his shoulder, coquettish. When his hair falls onto his face while he reads, gently push it back and stroke his cheek as you withdraw your hand. I could go on, but you get the idea. If you feel that this will compromise your stature as a woman of the 21st century; I won’t tell if you don’t. What you will be doing is stating your femininity, coyly, and raising his feeling of masculinity. And I ask you, what’s wrong with that?