Adopt-A-Fox: James Purefoy

Adopting . . . such a curious custom we have for our foxes here at the Henhouse. I must confess, however, that with four young men of my own around here, I have no notions of adopting another, even metaphorically speaking. I have enough laundry, bathroom mess, car problems, and food bills around here to scare any semi-mature-but-not-really women out there. And then there's the whole fox concept. Maybe it's because I'm a woman of a certain age, or maybe it's because I'm a mother of a certain age, but . . . I just can't seem to get worked up about young twenty-somethings whose faces reflect nothing of life but parties, parties, and more parties.

Give me a man for my ogling pleasures, please. Not a boy.

With that in mind, the fox I've chosen for today is someone who always seems to skim along the sidelines of celebrity. Here in America his star has never really risen, but in the UK he is far better known. I think we Americans have been really missing out.

As Proof Positive, I give you: James Purefoy

James Purefoy is a wonderfully masculine English hunk-o'-honey, I must say. You can tell by the way he holds himself. The hawkish nose. The surly curve of his lip. The eyes that are hooded, brooding, just enough to make you wonder what he's hiding . . . or thinking.

I first caught up with him in A Knight's Tale, where he played the English king who enjoyed jousting, but who could never find an opponent willing to challenge him without reservation, due to his royal status.

He has the features a king should have, no?

My next encounter with Purefoy was in Vanity Fair. . .

Purefoy played the wonderfully rascally Rawdon Crawley, a wastrel of a man who was, despite that, despite everything, completely and utterly in love with the manipulative Becky . . . who proved to be his downfall. Damn her silly eyes.

I mean, really. I know she wanted to move up in the world, but her ambition lost her everything that ever meant anything to her. Including the opportunity to have this man warming her bed, every . . . single . . . night.

How are we supposed to sympathize with her character after that?

She really was a stupid girl, at heart.

He was charming as Beau Brummell . . .

{Can you tell that I have a thing for costume dramas?}

But lest you think costume dramas are the extent of his talent, or beauty:

I'm kind of liking the slight stubble of a beard on him. And the towel. And I'm really liking it that he has this attitude: "For some reason, nudity was never shameful, it was never brought up in my household when I was a kid, there was no 'dirty, dirty sex'. It's not like we all ran around naked in some horrid 70s nightmare, it just was never an issue, and because it was never an issue I've never been embarrassed, I guess."

Bless him.

But just in case you all think I have given up my admiration and appreciation for my favorite Scotsman Gerard Butler, ahahahahaa! I think not. I leave you with this from his latest, P.S. I Love You . . . because no woman should ever miss a striptease performed in shamrock boxers. :)

Love to all,

Mad {madly!}