This morning I planned to walk two miles as soon as I got up, so that I wouldn’t bake in the sun. At least I haven’t lost my sense of humor. Technically, I still have a couple hours before the sun hits full power. Who am I kidding? I’m not going anywhere.

I’m going to drink coffee and type for a while. Then I’m going to Wal-Mart because I’m a glutton for punishment. I’m going to check the trashcans on the way in, though. You never know what you’ll find.

In cat news (you knew I couldn’t hold out for long, didn’t you?), I’m trying to find tips on taking pictures of a black cat. I read that putting a small piece of Scotch tape over the flash diffuses the light, which makes the dark parts of the picture (the cat) easier to see. It works, as you can see below, but not as well as I’d like. Then I read a tip that said it is best not to pose your black cat against a dark background. (Well, duh.) Suggestions welcome.

I’ve been laying low, just hanging out with the replacement cat, so there isn’t a lot to report – which is why I haven’t been reporting it. Funny how that works. Anyway, here’s a few tidbits straight from the Cartman files. She’s been gone for over six months, but apparently her spoor infected a few of my coworkers.

I overheard this from the woman whose life I will one day take over:
Woman: Did you hear about that little girl down south?
Coworker: No, what?
Woman: They got some of them cadiver dogs to look for the girl. And they went straight for the trunk of the car. The grandma said they just had some old pizzas in the trunk and that musta been what the cadiver dog smelled.

I guess since I once referred to the “boot heel” of Missouri as the “boot hill I have no room to talk, but I’m going to anyway. Holy Snickers bars! Cadiver? I would have assumed I misheard her if she hadn’t said it twice. It gave me a mental image of a dog with scuba gear doing ocean dives looking for treasure.

This next one is so unbelievably dumb that I hesitate to share it. It happened, though. I have the emotional scar to prove it.

Bosshole received an email with photos of movie gaffes. One was a pirate (Pirates of the Caribbean?) with an Adidas bandana. Another was a Samurai in full Samurai gear, wearing a watch.

Bosshole: I don’t get it.
Me: He’s wearing a watch.
(Blank stare from Bosshole)
Me: He’s a Samurai from the 1800’s and he’s wearing a wristwatch.
Bosshole: So he’s a mime and he shouldn’t have the watch?

I just stared at her for a second. Mime?

Me: Um, no. A Samurai, a Japanese warrior.

And then I realized what she was looking at. The pictures were attached as files instead of embedded in the email. When she opened each picture, she was reading “MIME attachment” at the top of the file. Oh. My. God.

You might not know what MIME is (Multipurpose Internet Mail Extension) but you don’t have to be a computer expert to figure out that MIME has nothing to do with the subject of the picture, especially since it was on every single file she opened in that email.

It’s cool that she didn’t know (and couldn’t guess) what MIME does. But she makes a lot more money than I do – and that is not cool. Not cool at all.