When a Southern Woman Rambles... by L. Avery Brown (great reads TXT) 📕

Thus far, I've explained the 'Frighteningly Freckled' part of the title but I've yet to hit on the 'She-Pirate' aspect. And I'm sure you're dying to know exactly why I dubbed her the She-Pirate…

It starts with a tattoo.

Apparently, she went through a pirate phase a couple of decades ago because she not only had a time-faded, stretched out Jolly Roger tattooed onto her left breast (although the elongated way it looked told me straight away that the Roger on her breast had lost his jolly many years before I ever saw her) but she also has crossed-cutlasses tattooed entirely too far below her navel which was bejeweled with a petite gold belly ring that made her pot-belly look ever so sexy. One can only assume that the swords were put there to serve as a warning to anyone who tried to follow the stretch marked and gall bladder surgery scarred map on her midsection, as it no doubt led to the treasure box she’d had tattooed on her… low back.

Gracious me! Where did you think I was going to say? Yes, it was a skimpy bikini but it wasn't that skimpy!

My heavens...that treasure box! When she got it, I'll bet she thought it was so cool it was hot! And I suppose one could say that when the ink was fresh that tattoo of hers was the ultimate visual pun…a ‘booty box’ right above her backside, which is often referred to as a 'booty'. But today it's not anywhere close to hot. It's not even lukewarm because it seems that as time passed and the ink faded, her rump was shanghaied by her belly because her hind end as flat as a pancake.

 Aargh! So now you know the tragic tale of beauty that was the frighteningly freckled She-Pirate, matey! 

The moral of this particular tragic tale of beauty:

Gravity can be a bitch! 
No one wants to see an aged Jolly Roger 
stretched out like saltwater taffy oozing 
down a person's chest!

So, love the skin you're in...
it's a treasure more valuable than 
any inky embellishment. 

Call me paranoid, but whenever I come to a stoplight or have to stop to make a left turn, I always look into my rearview mirror to make sure that I’m not going to be rear ended by some fool who drives like he’s 3 seconds behind the leader on the final lap at a NASCAR event or by someone with the depth perception of a near-sighted Cyclops and the braking ability of a 2 ton walrus on wet ice. And it never fails that whenever I see the reflected image of a speed demon rapidly growing larger in my mirror, I get the oddest tingly sensation that courses through my body. It is a sense of dread and foreboding that, even on the sunniest of days, is upsetting; but, when the driving conditions are less than perfect, it can be downright terrifying.

Such was the case one day when a pistachio green Honda that had seen better days, as it had a passenger side mirror that had been duct taped into position and its front bumper had been smashed in (most likely the result of someone’s careless driving habits), came barreling up behind me as I slowed to a stop at a traffic signal on a somewhat misty morning. I remember feeling that familiar wave of anxiety wash over me as I watched the driver (a young woman who wore the look of a person running more than a couple minutes late for work) doing a rather sloppy version of the traditional ‘strain and crane’ move. 

For those of you who may not be privy to this technical term, the strain and crane is a driving technique wherein one shifts one’s torso and reaches to the side to retrieve something from a pocketbook/book bag/attaché case, etc., located in the passenger seat without actually turning one’s head. This is a learned skill which requires that the driver have an intimate knowledge of all the items within the aforementioned tote-able containers such that she (or he—though more often than not it is a woman) can locate a particular item simply by grazing her fingers across the various unseen objects inside it. 

The sign of a successful strain and crane -aside from not crashing the vehicle- is that it can be done while continuing forward at a constant rate of speed. Incidentally, a good strain and crane is sometimes preceded by a backseat tug and lift wherein the carrying device through which one rummages in the aforementioned scenario, is retrieved from the backseat of the vehicle by reaching one’s arm behind the driver’s seat, grabbing said bag, then bringing it to the front all in one fluid movement.

I watched as the driver veered slightly to the left proving Newton’s Third Law of Motion ‘for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction’. She was leaning to the right—her left hand was on the wheel pulling to the left altering the path of her forward moving vehicle...simple physics, really. Thankfully though, her ‘danger-danger’ alarm went off when her wheels hit the shoulder of the road causing her to very nearly overcorrect and enter into the lane of on-coming traffic but somehow she able to keep her bearings and avoid a major wreck. And even more thankfully, she was also able to keep her wits about her long enough to bring her vehicle to a complete, probably bone-jarring, stop before she got too close to me!

I stared at her through my rearview mirror and watched as she grabbed her purse, rummaged through it and pulled out various items that I would soon learn made up her portable cosmetics counter. Then I watched, over the course of several traffic lights, as she ‘put on her face’. Mind you she wasn’t simply applying on a touch of eye shadow or brightening her smile with a quick stroke of lipstick. No, she went from foundation to setting powder in what I figure was a time just shy of 10 minutes. 

First came her foundation, Cover Girl Clean with the fresh scent of Noxzema. I know because I immediately recognized the bottle, it’s really quite distinctive. She unscrewed the lid, placed it in between her teeth (I can only assume she did that so she wouldn’t misplace it), and got her fingers well covered with the stuff before she commenced rubbing it all over her face.

And then the light changed. I was happy to see that the mist had all but stopped falling as I started to roll forward. With a quick glance up to my rearview mirror I saw her deftly holding the bottle between the fingers of her left hand as she also gripped the steering wheel while she shifted gears with her right hand. (Such talent, such skill!) Then I saw her car lurch forward just before she whipped over into the right lane. Then she passed me and sped off. And I figured that was the last I would see of her. But no... 

She had gotten nearly two car lengths ahead of me. But by the time I’d come to a stop at yet another traffic light, I saw that I was directly beside her. And I simply couldn’t help but look her way. By this time she’d put away her bottle of foundation and was busy with her eye shadow. I watched as she determinedly rubbed the tiny applicator across the color, loading it with the stuff as she intermittently glanced in her vanity mirror and then to the side to check the status of the red light.

It was all quite frantic and yet, it was all somehow quite artfully executed. In fact, it reminded me of a contemporary dance piece...

Rub, rub, glance to the right,
    glance forward, apply, apply,
    s-m-o-o-t-h, glance to the right—
    Next Eye!

Rub, rub, glance to the right,
    glance forward, apply, apply,
    s-m-o-o-t-h, blink, blink,
    glance to the right, shift into 1st.

Again, she sped off and again I thought that was the last I would see of her. Until...

A big rig carrying liquid nitrogen pulled into her lane forcing her to slow down. I could see the rear of her car and could tell that she was itching to get into my lane as she got closer to the center line, practically screaming ‘let me over!’ to the beat up looking landscaping truck a few car lengths ahead of me...but the driver of the Ford F150 would have none of her youthful automotive badgering and held steady to his 45 MPH course.

When we all finally came to another stop, I remember thinking that if she inched any closer to the rear of the nitrogen truck she’d have to apply for a vehicular marriage license! Then when the light changed and my lane started moving forward, I laughed out loud as I passed her and couldn’t help but keep up with her in my rearview mirror as I continued on my way.

The poor girl had to stay behind that nitrogen toting truck until all the traffic in my lane had passed her and then all the traffic from her lane had zipped over and passed her as well. I didn’t see her when I reached the 4th light and after I’d gone through the 5th light I assumed that'd I'd probably seen the last of her so I decided to put her out of my mind. But... 

When I was stopped at the 6th light and was busy fiddling with my mp3 player. I glanced to my right and saw her car beside mine once again. She whipped out a pink tube of Cover Girl mascara, the kind with the green lid, and made what was probably the best Howler Monkey face I’d ever seen as she proceeded to brush the stuff onto her lashes, making sure to get a thick layer of the stuff on.

Then I watched as she opened a classic looking little black compact and rubbed the application pad across the pressed powder before she speedily swathed it all over her face; essentially buffing her primed and painted skin with the thing. A few quick side to side glances in her vanity mirror let her know she was done with her road-warrior makeover, so she pushed the visor back up to its upright-closed position. She revved her engine and waited for the light to change like she was preparing to burn rubber at a championship drag racing track. And when it changed, she sped off quick as a wink, and made a hard right into the parking lot of small strip-mall style shopping center.

That was the last I saw of her and I suppose I ought to thank my lucky stars that she didn’t lose her focus and cause a wreck. But somehow, I think that the girl in the pistachio colored car has made that particular cosmetically charged run before because she seemed to know the length of every light and she moved with