It was high time to wash my car. I love living in the countryside, but trees always seem to regard my car as their personal litter-box. At my last house, fir trees dropped needles and cones incessantly. At this house, maple trees festoon my black Mazda with their little green blossoms. Delicious battered and deep-fried, not-so-delicious when crumbled up all over the mats inside my car. I decided to postpone car washing until the work wouldn’t be undone the minute I parked.
When the last bits of maple blossoms had left their dusty marks on my hood, and my clients (adults with disabilities) had started to comment, “You need to wash your car,” I knew it was time.
I prefer to wash my car myself. Too lazy to do it with a bucket and soap, but too cheap to pay $15 for an automatic wash, $6 is just right for me. Plus, I never cease to be amused and amazed by how the hose shoots out soap, then water, then wax. How does it work?
I was listening to a podcast on memory, scarce heard amidst the hose’s roar. The ol’ Zoom Zoom was looking like a sleek cat after a full meal and a good grooming. I was feeling a surge of adulting competence—it doesn’t take much.
Then it happened.
A youngish guy drove past me, window rolled down, emanating slight gangsta vibes. He looked directly at me and said, “Oh my goodness, now that’s a mouse!” then sped away.
I was confused, and smiled at first. I had no idea what he meant. Due to country living, my car has been plagued with mice from time to time, which somehow squeeze in and pepper my seats with little turds and chewed-up Kleenex. But I was pretty sure any mice hiding in my car would have been A. invisible to the good sir, and B. drowned by soap, rinse, and wax.
Did he mean my car? I see it as more panther-esque. No—the more I thought about it, he must have meant me. But what could he mean? Was it an insult or a compliment? If it was an insult, I didn’t want to google it and find out. If it was a compliment, did I really want to know what kind of compliment? I know the word “mousey”, but that’s about the last adjective one could apply to either my looks or personality.
I looked it up. Hm. A generic term for women? A prostitute? Various parts of male or female anatomy? A woman arrested for brawling in the street? The embodiment of corporate Disney? Who knows. None of the definitions seemed to agree. If the catcaller wanted to be a man of mystery and seduce my curious mind, I suppose it worked.
That evening some friends and I discussed catcalling. “Is it the cat calling, or the cat being called?”
“Well, if he was calling you a mouse, it makes sense for the cat to be calling.”
Everyone agreed they’d never heard the term “mouse” before.
Clarke asked how I feel when I’m catcalled. “Well, this might not be popular to admit… but there are mixed feelings.”
It’s been years since I’ve been catcalled. It used to happen with some frequency when I was in my teens and twenties. I guess I’m in my car more now; back then I used to walk a lot and take the bus. But I’ve also aged. The catcallers were mostly young guys, and maybe they’ve just grown up. One can hope. Or maybe I’m throwing off spinster vibes as I near forty.
Either way, a catcall does give me some sense of, “Oh, a stranger finds me attractive.”
One writer online said if a woman misses being catcalled as she gets older, this is due to internalized misogyny, letting men define what’s attractive. But if men are who most women are trying to attract, how does this make sense? Do we define attraction based on how attracted we are to ourselves?
It’s a weird form of gaslighting akin to the film I Feel Pretty. Amy Schumer hits her head and wakes up believing she’s a bombshell. Then, because she feels pretty, she suddenly has the self-confidence to land an exclusive job in fashion and make super attractive, high-powered men fall for her. Ah, so you’re saying any discrimination due to looks is the fault of women for not feeling pretty enough? That it’s all in our heads? Cool. What about One Direction singing, “You don’t know you’re beautiful/That’s what makes you beautiful”? Are we supposed to feel pretty or not? WHAT DO YOU ASK OF ME?
But back to Clarke’s question. While there’s a tinge of, “Someone noticed me,” other, less-pleasant feelings predominate. Mostly, “How dare you, sir?”
Even if the comment is innocuous, it’s the context that counts. I know that if a guy were really interested in me, he wouldn’t be shouting it out his car window where I had no chance to respond. If a guy in a grocery store told me, “Hey, you remind me of a mouse, like a mouse in Brambly Hedge who has whimsical English vibes and a pantry in a hollow stump well-stocked with handmade preserves,” I’d be totally fine with that. It’s accurate and coherent and I have a chance to say, “Why thank you. You remind me of a water rat from The Wind in the Willows who’s adventurous and a talented sculler.”
(Did I just make up my perfect meet-cute? Possibly.)
A catcaller isn’t trying to get a date. He’s trying to get attention, I guess, but I’m not sure what kind. One study found that most catcallers believe they’ll get a positive response from women and don’t understand that if anything, catcalling makes women feel unsafe. (To be fair, some women also catcall, though I’ve never seen this.) I imagine men are often just showing off to their buddies, asserting some kind of social dominance. They do it because they can, to prove they can. There’s no risk to them, while it can startle and even threaten the catcalled.
I explained my theories to Clarke. He told me catcallers aren’t thinking at all, just reacting. In my later research, I discovered that the rise of catcalling is traced to a cartoon by Tex Avery where a lascivious wolf whistles at a curvy redhead performer. Having now watched that cartoon, I can say the wolf’s prefrontal cortex is definitely underdeveloped. Zero impulse control, zero long-term planning. I see, I act.
This is how I feel when catcalling happens. I’m an object for someone to pass judgment on without fear of repercussion, good or bad. Of course we all notice attractive people. But that doesn’t mean the words should come out of your mouth, as if you’re passing a billboard for McDonald’s. I’m a human, not a hamburger. Catcalling doesn’t acknowledge shared humanity or invite dialogue. It makes someone just a body, just a Tinder profile IRL. How often does anyone ever yell, “Hey girl, nice personality! Do you read Kierkegaard?”
Even if they were yelling about philosophy, when a stranger shouts at you, especially from a passing car, it’s usually a bad thing. It feels aggressive, especially from a man to a woman. It’s way different if someone in a public place offers you a compliment at a normal volume. I’ve never told a stranger I find him attractive, but I don’t think it’s creepy or wrong, in the right context.
I wish I’d realized in the moment I was being catcalled. Then I might have remembered a strategy I came up with in my youth, in an attempt to humanize myself. A bro called out to me from a yard; I forget now what he said. I stopped and made eye contact. “Hey, how’s your day going?” I asked politely. It completely threw him off; he looked away awkwardly. I tried it a couple more times with great results.
Proof’s in the pudding—catcallers don’t actually expect to catch a mouse. I think Clarke and I are both right in our assessments of motive. Either way, if that happens to me again, bro, you better lock your car or I’m going in there to chew your wires and leave my pellets everywhere. Love, Mouse.
Tinder bros would probably be more into Sartre, to be honest.
This is a delightful and insightful piece, Liz. I don't know how I missed your Substack until now, but glad I found you. :)