The boobs just don’t do it for me, so I keep looking outward for confirmation that I am, indeed, a woman. Last Thursday at the theater where I go with J to do concessions, I got a very stereotypical validation.
As I was counting the bills, I happened to catch movement out the corner of my eye. I look down only to see the eyes of a very small, brown mouse peering up from under the refrigerator not two feet away.
I launched myself about two feet into the air, bump backwards into the J, who is propelled into the counter, and emit the time honored dance of shrieking, jumping, and pointing. J, undisturbed beyond being shoved and immune to most of my antics, just stared at me.
“What the hell?”
Gasping and pointing, “Mouse!”
He slowly looks over, “That’s a stain on the tile.”
“Mooooooooooouse!”
Resident Mouse then precedes to come out from the other side of the fridge to look at both J and I. I point, shriek more, and utterly terrify the mouse who skids back under the fridge. My sounds echoing off the empty theater walls, J says, “So there is a mouse. Huh.”
More nervous, repressed yelps from me as we try to catch him with a bag and a few kernels of popcorn so that we can transfer him outside. Resident Mouse, however, does not fall for it, dashes into the bag, pulls out a kernel and runs back under the fridge. But before the theater opened, I was able to stifle my screaming with murmurs of “How cute” as he bravely dashed back into the nether regions of the pantry, not to be seen again.
J kept shaking his head. “It must be a woman thing.”
“What?”
“You and your noises.”
Sheepishly, “Maybe.”
He sighed, “You owned a mouse once silly.”
Um, yeah. I did.
Posted by firewings 
