It's about 6:30 p.m. Wednesday night - already perfectly dark outside. I've spent the last near hour sitting in traffic on I-90. All I want to do is go home, get something to eat and fall asleep in front of the fireplace. First, however, I have pick up a few last minute groceries for my dad and his poker buddies.

I don't really mind. Metropolitan Market is barely out of the way compared to the drive I'd just made. An elderly woman from the Salvation Army is standing just outside the automatic doors, ringing her soft bell in an unobtrusive manner. Last week I'd walked right by the same donation bucket so this time I grab a handful of loose change from my wallet and dump it in.

On my way home, opting not to take California Avenue, I turn down the residential street next to Starbucks. Not half a block off Admiral I encounter a truck large enough to swallow my little 1998 Dodge Neon whole. There are cars parked on either side of the street. It's obvious that one of us is going to have to pull over.

Let's pause a moment to consider the situation. I am barely off the main road and have cars parked on either side of me for several yards. This truck's left side is completely devoid of cars for at least four car lengths. All the truck has to do is pull into this gaping wide space and let me pass.

What happens? We idle in our cars and stare each other down for several minutes. My initial inclination is to wait for this unreasonable b#st%rd to move. I'm not about to be forced into backing out into Admiral Way! Then the realization slowly sinks in that despite what my defiant pride and sense of personal safety is telling me, I need to get home and sitting here isn't accomplishing anything. Besides, another car is now waiting at the corner behind me for that truck driver and I to work out our differences.

Somewhat dumbfounded and more than a little angry, I put my car in reverse, retreat dangerously near to the intersection, and pull into a space that under normal circumstances would probably fit about 3/4 of my car. Witnessing my retreat, the truck edges forward. He squeezes past me and makes sure to take the time to glower down at me from his perch feet above the roof of my car as if the entire proceeding were my fault because I am an incompetent woman daring to venture unbidden into the realm of real men.

What it is that causes men in big trucks and SUVs to feel the urge to display anger, frustration and contempt towards other - usually female - drivers? Yes, I did specify men. After questioning other female drivers, the consensus is that it is almost always men who give us the finger, honk at us, cut us off, roll down their windows and curse at us, and/or act out in any other kind of aggressive manner towards us women. This is most certainly not the first time something of the kind has happened to me, and almost certainly won't be the last. Even my mom has had nearly the exact thing happen to her in this same "open minded" community of West Seattle.

Men, what do you gain by using your large vehicles to try and intimidate other drivers? What do you gain by insulting female drivers? Does the phrase "compensating for something?" ring any bells? And to those many good and polite men out there, what do you think about this?

I want to hear from other people. Women share your stories. Men tell us your opinions. If we can't find answers, we'll at least be talking (my e-mail address is below).

Kyra-lin Hom can be reached at kl_hom@yahoo.com