A few days ago, I was visiting with my precocious godniece Jamie. She was trying to finagle a whole dollar from me, in exchange for fetching me a soda.

I pointed out that she’d have to abandon what she was doing at that moment (general fun-having), and hike a fair distance and back (for an 8-year-old), to earn her scratch. With a meek smile, she reached out her arm in the direction of the soft drink source, mimicking an extended, superhero-like stretch.

“Like Mister Fantastic, right?” I said, playing along with her latest goofy suggestion.

A brief look of confusion flashed across Jamie’s face. Then she recovered and stated — not without some indignation — “No, like Mrs. Incredible!”

Because Elastigirl/Mrs. Incredible, of The Incredibles fame, is a girl. So that makes more sense than invoking Reed Richards. Of course. Comparison of the adjective-based super-names is a dead heat otherwise, and is secondary next to the gender-identification consideration.

Yet again, I misread female communication. At least this time it cost me only the dollar that I gave her anyway.