MSI Press Blog

  I have never worked for the Postal Service. My cat, however, believes she supervises it. Every morning she conducts what I can only describe as a comprehensive mail audit. Before I can read a letter, pay a bill, or recycle a catalog, it must pass feline inspection. She sniffs every envelope for contraband, sits on anything labeled "urgent," and occasionally shreds communications she deems unnecessary. At first, I found this irritating. Then I realized she was teaching me valuable postal-worker skills. First: Every piece matters. To me, a stack of mail looks like a stack of mail. To my cat, every envelope is a unique and fascinating mystery. Somewhere between the electric bill and a coupon for lawn care services may lie a treasure worthy of intense scrutiny. Good postal workers know this. Every item has a destination and a purpose, even if the recipient doesn't immediately recognize its importance. Second: Accuracy is everything. My cat has an uncanny ability to identify...

  Humor is one of the most complex, layered, and deeply human behaviors we have. It’s cultural, psychological, neurological, social, and sometimes downright mysterious. Yet there are patterns—recurring structures that explain why certain moments spark laughter while others fall flat. Humor is often treated as a light, throwaway part of life, but it’s actually one of our most sophisticated forms of communication. When we laugh, we’re doing something cognitively demanding: recognizing patterns, breaking expectations, and sharing emotional signals with others. Humor is a social glue, a coping mechanism, and sometimes a tiny rebellion against the seriousness of life. So, what does make something funny? 1. The Element of Surprise At the heart of humor is incongruity —a mismatch between what we expect and what actually happens. A joke sets up a pattern, then breaks it. A witty remark flips the meaning of a phrase. A comic situation twists the ordinary into the absurd. We laugh because ...

  My cat never ran for office, but she governs the household with an authority that would make a city council blush. Watching her, I’ve realized that every good politician could learn a thing or two from a creature who weighs nine pounds, sleeps eighteen hours a day, and still manages to get exactly what she wants. First lesson: constituency management. My cat knows her voters. She knows who will refill her water, who will open the window, who can be guilt‑tripped into giving her the good treats. She doesn’t waste time persuading the uninterested. She focuses on her base. A politician could take notes: know your people, know their needs, and don’t bother convincing the dog. Second lesson: strategic communication. My cat doesn’t meow constantly. She meows precisely . One well‑timed vocalization — usually at 4:58 a.m. — communicates urgency, importance, and a five‑point policy plan involving breakfast. Politicians talk too much. Cats talk just enough. Third lesson: negotiation....

  My cat doesn’t just nap — she surveils . From her perch on the windowsill, she tracks every rustle, every shadow, every suspicious movement of the neighbor’s squirrel. I used to think she was lazy. Turns out, she was conducting surveillance. She taught me the art of pattern recognition . When the food bowl mysteriously empties faster than usual, she doesn’t accuse — she investigates . Paw prints, crumbs, motive. I’ve learned to follow her lead: no assumptions until the evidence purrs. She’s also a master of interrogation . Her stare could make a guilty party confess to crimes they haven’t committed. I’ve tried it on my kids. It works. And then there’s forensic analysis . She can reconstruct a crime scene from a single overturned plant. I now approach household mysteries with the same precision: “Who knocked over the vase?” “What time did the pawprints appear?” “Was there catnip involved?” Finally, she’s taught me intuition — that sixth sense detectives brag about. When she freez...

  Humor doesn’t trivialize pain — it metabolizes it. It’s one of the few human capacities that can hold suffering and hope in the same breath. Research shows humor is a resilience factor in trauma recovery: Soldiers who used humor had lower PTSD symptoms , even after accounting for deployment stressors. Firefighters who practiced coping humor showed reduced burnout and trauma‑related symptoms. The key is benign humor — the kind that connects rather than wounds. Psychologists describe two healing styles: Affiliative humor: shared laughter that builds belonging. Self‑enhancing humor: the ability to keep a hopeful outlook, even under stress. 💡 Why Humor Works Humor re‑engages the parts of the brain that trauma shuts down. It restores flexibility — the ability to see more than one possible outcome. When people laugh together, their nervous systems synchronize; cortisol drops, oxytocin rises, and the body remembers safety. Humor helps people: regain perspective feel less alone tr...

  Donnie was slow...at typing...bac in the day when typewriters were in use. Yep, that dates us. I imagine many kids today do not even know what a typewriter is. But Donnie did even though he did not use it. He handed his typing to me. Not smart! I am the one who is oblivious to detail--and it kept showing up in typos that not only slipped out but also slipped past and right out into the public world where Donnie needed them to be accurate, not inaccurate, sometimes funny, and often embarrassing. Three little examples...(but I could share a host more!). But perhaps the fact that all three examples come from one resume is "nuff said." First error. Donnie was born in 1948. Now, how that got converted to 1848, I don't know. Definitely, Donnie was not making a start to becoming as old as Methusaleh, and anyone reading the resume should have understood that. (There were other dates on the resume that would have quickly pointed to this as a typo.) Second error. Just one missing...