Smile!

It was a beautiful Spring morning, and my husband and I were taking our sunshine, Vito, to the dog park.

Our drive was swift. We breezed through 3 stop-lights and then at the 4th light, something strange occurred.

We stopped, and as we waited, we noticed a woman to our left at the light rail stop. She was pretty plump, dressed in a loose pink shirt with gray sweats (I'm not hating her choice of clothing).

But we hear/see that she's yelling in our direction.

Next thing we know, homegirl has dropped trou and is exposing herself for all of the world and God to see.

There were things hanging from places that even a gynecologist should never be paid to see.

And all the while, the woman is maintaining a fairly "normal" facial expression.

Then, the light turned green and Miss Thang decided to bend over and show us where the sun don't shine.

I immediately turned to look at the neighboring cars to see if they were witnessing this mating ritual (what else could it be?) and they were. Jaws were open, eyes were wide.

Yes, it was visually traumatic, but this incident did make us light hostages smile.

Wouldn't you?

A Little About Me...

Name: Ann with an E

Birthdate: January 1975

Birthplace: Santa Clara, CA

Piercings: 5

Tattoos: 3

Status: Married w/o Children

Hair Color: Black/Red

Pets: A pug, a french bulldog, 2 cats, and a husband

Favorite Food: Pizza

Favorite #: 7

Favorite Color: Black

Favorite Drink: Water

Favorite Alcoholic Beverage: Bud Light and/or Tequila

Favorite TV Show: Dexter

Favorite Movie: 40-Year Old Virgin

Bedtime: Whenever the Ambien kicks in

Best Physical Feature: Lips

Ambition: To be a writer

What country do you want to visit: Italy

How do you want to die: Peacefully

Health Freak?: Hell no

Do you smoke?: Yes

Do you drink?: Yes

That's about it.

R & R

It's official:

The next time someone fucks with me on the road, I'm kicking someone's ass!

I should note that I am one who would be classified in the road rage species.

I think that most of my anger stems from driving behind an idiot, and being tailed by an eager driver. You know, those assholes that like to ride your ass like doing that is going to make you drive any faster.

In fact, in those instances, I like to brake to show them that I'm hip to their little scheme and it doesn't fly with me.

Most of my obscenities make an appearance while I'm behind the wheel.

During my 5-minute commute home, I could go through an array of curses before I reach my destination.

My favorites are:

"You fucking prick!" - This is accompanied by the one-finger salute.

"Go, you stupid bitch!" - If anyone read my post about my big mouth, you will understand how this tends to get me in trouble.

"Drive you stupid dipshit!" - This one can apply to younger drivers.

And this next statement is only used in dire circumstances , and often pops out when I least expect it. I apologize if I offend anyone:

"Move, you fucking C-U-Next-Tuesday!"

Passengers get a kick out of my verbal one-sided arguments, and a few have become concerned for their safety. But I feel that this the proper venue for getting pissed (with the exception of actual violence, of course). I mean, where else am I supposed to vent my frustrations?

I'm also fond of throwing my hands up in exacerbation or the trusty old head shake which tells the offending driver that they're an idiot.

Sunday drivers are the worst. This is when "Move it grandma/grandpa" comes into play. It's like, I got someplace to be. That's usually why someone is in their car - because they're going somewhere. So speed it up or get the fuck out of the way.

Another pet-peeve is those big ass trucks/SUV's that are larger than necessary. I mean, what's with the monster-truck tires? I don't need to see your suspension!

Those snobs (you know who you are!) that drive their fancy cars and think they're above the rules of the road and drive all crazy or like to cut you off are on my list as well. They think you wouldn't DARE hit their car. And I think, they're right. I wouldn't hit their car. But I'd let them hit me... just think of all the insurance money! Although my trusty 1997 Nissan Sentra is getting up there in years... he could still use a replacement.

I just wanted to share my ideology for road rage, for I think in many ways, it's essential; just like rest and relaxation.

Trick-or-Trauma

Now, look. Everybody (including mothers and dogs) knows that I'm a klutz. I'm not ashamed to admit it and I have learned to accept it.

However, it's not my fault if I presume a door to be open and run head-first into it. It's also not my fault if a table is ten feet away, yet I somehow manage to bang my thigh into it's sharp corner.

My co-workers have even taken to looking out for my best interests, warning me if I'm dangerously close to injuring myself.

It's so bad, that my husband worries when I'm running or walking up or down a set of stairs, for fear that I will somehow fall to my death.

But this takes the cake.

Actually, it takes the whole bakery.

It was Halloween, about two years ago.

I suffer from a number of afflictions, migraines being one of them, and had been shipped off to the doc's where I was given a shot to ease the pain and needless to say... I was feeling groovy.

By the time I'd been returned to the confines of my bed, I was enjoying the far-out experience too much to go sleep, so I kind of just wandered around the house, feeling fabulous, ocassionally stopping mid-step to stare at the ceiling.

As day turned to night, my boyfriend and I were preparing for our annual "Scare the Shit out of the Kids" song and dance. We love Halloween and like to decorate our place of residence with the standard creepy, spooky, dangling heads, spider webs, hanging skeletons, and the like.

Because of our lack of imagination with costumes, my boyfriend was Jason while I wore a borrowed mask, a la Big Foot.

The plan was to turn the lights off in the house, and have me sit at the window, completely still and as the kids approached, I would bang my hands on the window, hopefully resulting in a few screams, and possibly, a child running scared from our porch or a poop in the pants situation. Then my BF would open the door to the remaining survivors and offer them candy. We considered it their reward.

It was a wonderful arrangement. And worked perfectly! We successfully startled several kids, and our winning moment, was when a group of young teens came up, and saw my eyes moving although I was completely still. One of the bigger teens then said to the window, as if trying to convince himself, "You're not real!" As they stepped closer, I banged my hands against the glass, and I'm certain that one even shot up into the skies. It was kick-ass!

So, as the night went on, we got hungry, ordered pizza and ate in between door duties. My migraine had disappeared, but a sore throat came in it's place. Being the genius that I am, I took a swig of Nyquil and resumed eating my dinner. P.S., Nyquil and pizza not good together. Not good at all.

Okay, so on to the good stuff.

After a pizza break, we heard a door knock, and we went racing clear across the house to answer it. I jumped on the loveseat adjacent to the window, slammed my hands on the glass and went right through it.

Yep. I went through a glass window.

"AHHH!!!"

Mission accomplished. We successfully scared the kids.

"Oh my God! Is that real?" one of the girls yelled.

"Yes, that's real," BF answered, in shock, ushering the kids away from the door where it was littered with broken glass.

I'm still stuck in the window, mind you.

One kid was screaming his lungs out, his cries piercing my ears.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" my BF asked while I was pulling myself back through the window.

Fortunately, the mask prevented my face from being maimed.

But that was an unusual experience: looking down at my bloody hands through the eyes of a furry mask. I was like a cheap horror movie with horrible special effects.

"Oh, fuck," I said as reality slapped me in the face.

I just went through the window.

BF turned off the light on the porch which would signify that we were officially closed for business. No need to stop here. We don't have any candy. Keep on walkin. Drugged hairy woman just flew through window.

I walked back to the kitchen to wash the blood/glass from my hands. And that's when my breathing became erratic; my heart pacing, to which I attributed to what would surely become an early heart attack.

I felt faint, as I sat myself down on the linoleum of our ghetto kitchen, and had my hands on my chest as I panted like a dog. I had visions of Redd Foxx in Sanford and Son feigning a trip to Heaven.

"Get a hold of yourself!" BF urged. Now I don't know why, but this statement always sends me into hysterics. It's so adult. So very 50's.

The rest of the evening was a bit of a blur, but I do recall passing out and having nightmares of stomping on our porch and a little boy crying.

"We're gonna get sued!" I proclaimed the following morning, after BF had spent most of the night clearing away the aftermath of the flying Yeti.

I stayed home from work that day, to keep a watchful eye on the scene of the crime so a passerby would think the broken window was an open invitation to loot the place.

It was like a walk of shame as I would later relay the story to the window-fixer guy, who tried his best to stifle a laugh.

But that was nothing compared to responses we received from friends, family and perfect strangers after we told them about the night we scared the shit, possibly literally, out of some kids in the neighborhood.

I should also add that this incident was remarkable enough to make it into the speech of one of my maid's of honor at my wedding, which continues to provide a good laugh at my expense.

Got drugs?

Being that I have crappy luck with my vehicle, I had to get a new tire put on.

So while I'm waiting, I wandered across the street to a used book store (where I found two used books that I'd just purchased new! You know I returned those damn things) and then came back to the tire place, in hopes that I could be on my way.

No such luck, so I stood outside in the parking lot, smoking and playing Brick Breaker on my Blackberry (which I'm hating right now. That phone is played out!)

Anyway, some clean-cut guy comes up to me all discreetly, in the midst of my game where I was completely entranced, and says:

"Hey, do you know where I can get some crystal?"

What the?

"Excuse me?" I said nicely for fear of being attacked. I wasn't sure if I heard homeboy correctly.

"Do you know where I can get some crystal?"

Now, I would like to know... what about me screams meth addict? Hmm??

"No, sorry."

I thought about our dialogue after. Why the hell was I telling this dude sorry because I didn't know where he could get drugs?

I just continued playing my little game so he wouldn't think I was gonna narc... and I wouldn't... that's just not my style.

Then when I was done, I walked to the waiting area of the tire place and looked back to the street to see boyfriend across the way looking at me.

I bet he thinks I was gonna tattle, because one minute later, my car was ready and he was nowhere to be found. He probably headed for the hills.

But on another note... where WOULD one get crystal?

Uniforms

I got to thinking today, as I viewed myself in the bathroom mirror...

I dress like a bum. And I love it.

I wear jeans and a hoodie almost every day and today I have a hat on because it's a bad hair day.

I don't know how it could get better than this unless I were able to work in my pajamas. Then I'd really be happy.

But I used to wear some doozy's for work.

My first job was at Carrow's Restaurant in Cupertino.

I was a hostess and wore a God awful uniform: a crisp white shirt with a maroon mid-leg skirt, nylons and white nurse shoes. And those damn shoes hurt like a son of a bitch!

Then my next job was at the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose. THAT was by far the worst ensemble I'd ever worn: another crisp white shirt with a funky collar, and a big poofy, patterned skirt reminiscent of the 1800's.

I still laugh when I think of the time, as I wandered the guest shoppe, dusting, that a customer came up to me and asked, get this... she asked me: "Do you work here?"

My jaw dropped and I deliberately looked down at the full skirt/petticoat I was wearing and back to her.

"Yes... yes, I do... what can I help you with?"

Would one voluntarily wander the streets in such a get-up?

When I worked at MusicPlus in Cupertino, I had to wear khaki pants and a blue shirt... not too shabby.

It was when I worked for the Emporium in Vallco mall that I was finally able to escape the horror of uniforms, and I prefer to stay with my current outfit.

Forever.

F uniforms.

Spread 'Em!

About a month ago, I was minding my own business, driving home after picking up dinner for me and my hubby at Chili's.

I exited the 87 highway, and I spotted a cop behind me.

So, of course I started going over a checklist in my mind:

Was I drunk = no.

Was I under the influence of narcotics = no.

Was I speeding = no.

All in all, I had nothing to fret over. Or did I?

I was just being a mindful citizen, properly abiding by all of the rules of the road, when I saw those dreaded lights flashing.

Fuuuuuck.

I was literally about a minute from home.

So, I pulled over and copper dude pulled up behind, shining a flood light in my direction.

I rolled my window down and when the officer came to my window, he shined his big little flashlight in my face and told me to keep my hands where he could see them.

"License and registration."

I gave him my license and then gave him my expired registration adding, like an idiot, that I hadn't gotten my car smogged yet so I hadn't been able to get my registration renewed but I was going to do it immediately and I was sorry. I may have even promised him my first born... I'm not sure.

"Can I ask what you pulled me over for?"

"Your brake lights aren't working and I almost hit you."

Fuuuuck again.

"Oh really?? Oh no!"

Truth be told, I've had brake light issues for the past year and have tried to avoid driving at night because of them.

"I'll be right back," the friendly officer said.

I'd just picked up my wedding pictures so I browsed through those while I waited.

Next thing I know there is ANOTHER flood light coming from my right side of the car. There was another flippin cop car and a female officer was chatting it up with my cop.

So then he comes back and asks me to turn off my engine because "I don't want your battery to die." And I'm thinking, what the F are we gonna do here that my battery would have the opportunity to die?

Then he asks me to "step out of the vehicle and keep your hands where I can see them."

Was there an arrest warrant out for me that I wasn't aware of?

I obliged, of course, because not only was homeboy carrying a gun, but I was curious to see where having a broken brake light was going to take me with this dude.

I walk with him over to his car and he tells me to face the hood of his car. The female officer was just like 'hum dee dum, I got nothin better to do so I'm gonna watch this.'

Next he asks me to put my hands behind my back.

What the?

I put my hands behind my back and he holds them asking, "Are you carrying anything in your pockets that could do me bodily harm?"

I wanted to tell him that I'd left my bazooka at home, but thought that being a smart-ass might not be a good move here.

As he's FRISKING me, the female officer starts asking me where I work because of my parking sticker on the back of my car.

"I work for - - County."

"Oh yea? What do you do?"

It was like they did this all the time... one frisks while the other asks ridiculous questions.

"I work in the - - and investigate complaints of discrimination and harassment."

I'm kinda shaking while this is going on because I honestly thought as he held my hands together that he was going to cuff me. I've seen way too many Cops episodes.

"Oh, so you must investigate complaints against us?"

I was dumbfounded.

"Oh, I'm just kidding."

"Oh, ha ha," I said trying to be agreeable.

Now homeboy has finished patting me down and tells me that I could have caused a major accident because my brake lights weren't working and that I need to get them fixed.

I told him that a friend had tried to fix them and that I thought that they were working.

"Well, your friend screwed up because they aren't working."

"Oh my gosh, I didn't know that." Oscar, please.

He proceeds to tell me that I need to get them fixed immediately and to NOT drive my car until I do so.

And I'm thinking, how the hell am I supposed to get my brake lights fixed if I can't drive my car? Hello??

"You're being nice," the lady cop chimes in. I'm thinking 'shut the hell up lady.'

"I'm not going to issue you a ticket but make sure you get it fixed."

"Thank you," I said, relieved.

"How far do you live from here?"

"I'm right off of - and -," I say pointing down the street.

"Okay, let me walk you back to your car. I don't want you to get hit." All of a sudden Mr. Manners.

I get back in my car and as I prepare to flee the scene, I look to see if any cars are coming and am unable to do because of the cops' flood lights!

"I can't see!" I yelled, but figured I shouldn't push my luck. So I pulled up a little more until I was able to see a clear path and made my way home.

When I got home, I told my husband what happened.

"I was gonna call you from jail and tell you your dinner was in the car and to bail my ass out."

But as I would relay the story again, I got a little peeved.

Is it normal to be frisked for out-of-order brake lights? And if I was merely frisked because he got me out of the car, why the hell did I have to get out of the car in the first place?

I object!

The next day, I drove to work... but it was during the day so i figure it doesn't count.

And yes... I got my brake lights fixed.

But one should never have to spread 'em because of lights.

Never.