Karma is indeed a boomerang

Certain individuals in my office are known for having fun with Photoshop. I will cop to being the mastermind in this instance, but I will not claim the dirty work -- i.e. making light of our fearless commander's judging position by assembling faux Mrs. Massachusetts contestant dossiers -- complete with profile photos featuring high-ranking wing officials' heads on Patriots cheerleaders' bodies.

Lest you fear for my job, I will report that the joke went over famously. Our fearless commander-turned-pageant-judge gave us all high marks and the game officials' biggest concern was who had the best legs, tush, and other salient female parts.

It was almost the perfect prank. Almost.

So, I have been tasked with getting the word out about the annual Military Retiree Day events on base, which I am thrilled about. I'm the proud granddaughter of a World War II veteran, so every elderly retiree is an adopted grandparent. Unless he laps me on the track, in which case he is no family of mine.

A dear, grandfatherly retired master sergeant interrupted my online New York Times perusal this afternoon (hey, a fulfilled employee is a productive employee!) to give me updated information for an event press release. He was very sorry, but I would have to photocopy of one of the forms. I assured him this would be easy as pie--happily pointing out that with my scanner, I could accomplish that task without even leaving my desk.

As Mr. Master Sergeant stood at my elbow, I opened the scanner lid to find . . .

This . . .

staring up at us!

"Oooh myyyy . . . " Mr. M. S. breathed, a mite disapprovingly, I felt.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Um . . . oh. Those are, um, the Patriots cheerleaders!" That explained why it was tucked away in my scanner, right? My arched-to-the-ceiling eyebrows and strangely pitchy voice had me feeling a bit like a cheerleader myself. "They always come to Heroes' Homecoming events," I said, my head bouncing in staccato nods. Suddenly the room was stuffy and I felt moisture spring up along my hairline.

"It's not mine!" I blurted.

He mumbled something, fixed his gaze on the cube diagonal to mine as I hurriedly scanned the document, and didn't linger after I'd finished.

Whoops.