Annotated with extensive quote collection on Feminism All the $710 t-shirts sold out over-night. (On 18 Mar.)They were inscribed based on "a personal, eloquently-argued essay, adapted from the much-admired TEDx talk of the same name…" and also a NYT bestselling book.Just weeks before, women marched around our nation’s capitol wearing pink, handed knitted "p*ssyhats" and leaving lots of trash on the sidewalks for others to clean up.In our twenty-first century, do we need yet another definition of feminism, or do we need a humorous backward glance into the last century? Back to a day where the roles were well-defined, but neither sex really knew what theirs was.We bring you three authors: Helen Rowland, Irwin S. Cobb, and Mary Roberts Rinehart, who wrote and published their works in the early 1920’s. They tell of simpler times, before nationwide corporate news TV, Internet, and "bi-coastals" inundated with "fake news."Let’s put down our over-priced designer t-shirts to pick up some humorous reading (for a hundredth of that price) and see how people used to act when we weren’t arguing about who could use what restroom…From Helen Rowland, we can enjoy A Guide to Men:"THE sweetest part of a kiss is the moment just before taking.Love is misery-sweetened with imagination, salted with tears, spiced with doubt, flavored with novelty, and swallowed with your eyes shut.Marriage is the miracle that transforms a kiss from a pleasure into a duty, and a lie from a luxury into a necessity.A husband is what is left of a lover, after the nerve has been extracted.A man’s heart is like a barber shop in which the cry is always, "NEXT!"The discovery of rice-powder on his coat-lapel makes a college-boy swagger, a bachelor blush, and a married man tremble.It takes one woman twenty years to make a man of her son-and another woman twenty minutes to make a fool of him…"From Irvin S. Cobb, we can chuckle through Oh, Well, You Know How Women Are!"Having had her say with her dear friend or her dear enemy, as the case may be, our heroine proceeds to the corner and hails a passing street car. Because her heels are so high and her skirts are so snug, she takes about twice the time to climb aboard that a biped in trousers would take. Into the car she comes, teetering and swaying. The car is no more than comfortably filled. True, all the seats at the back where she has entered are occupied; but up at the front there still is room for another sittee or two. Does she look about her to ascertain whether there is any space left? I need not pause for reply. I know it already, and so do you. Midway of the aisle-length she stops and reaches for a strap. She makes an appealing picture, compounded of blindness, helplessness, and discomfort. She has clinging vine written all over her. She craves to cling, but there is no trellis. So she swings from her strap…"And we can all smile at Mary Roberts Rinehart’s Isn’t That Just Like a Man!"But I simply dare not risk my popularity by being funny about men. Why, bless their hearts (Irvin will probably say of his subject, ‘bless their little hearts.’ Odd, isn’t it, how men always have big hearts and women little ones? But we are good packers. We put a lot in ‘em) I could be terribly funny, if only women were going to read this. They’d understand. They know all about men. They’d go up-stairs and put on a negligee and get six baby pillows and dab a little cold cream around their eyes and then lie down on the couch and read, and they would all think I must have known their men-folks somewhere…"Get Your Copy Now.
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