I remember when Jessica Lynch came home from Iraq, and everywhere, we heard the pounding of "Hero! Hero!" I never remember what, exactly, was heroic about Jessica. I know she was in a HumVee vehicle. I know she and her squad were attacked. I know a lot of people died. But I didn't know what exactly made her heroic.

Well, I know now.

She's telling the truth.

Lynch is indeed a lynch-pin. Her testimony about her experience in Iraq, along with others' comments condemning acts of the military, are the beginning of the end of this farce in Iraq.

When a woman-no more than a girl-can tell the American people that America deserves better than betrayal from the media and from the United States Armed Forces, I give her the vote of heroism. She is finally speaking on behalf of herself and her fallen comrades and most importantly, she is speaking to us, the people who somehow managed to vote in representatives and politicians that continue to continue to continue (thanks, Paul Simon) to foist this 'war' on our nation and the nation of Iraq. Her testimony may not be powerful enough to stop the war, nor may it move people the way it has moved me.

But it speaks of honesty, down to the simplest common denominator. A poor woman from West Virginia, who may have joined the Army because there was nowhere else to go, or may have joined the Army because she loved the stars and stripes, tells the ultimate truth, flying in the face of the Big Government's propaganda.

"The truth of war is not always easy. The truth is always more heroic than the hype," she said.

Thank You, Miss Lynch. For a moment, my faith in this beautiful country has been restored.

...so give me some credit, dammit.

My friend informed me that I have a rather special heritage. I never really thought about it, but I suppose I should remind myself (and therefore, my readers) of why I should be held in high regard, esteem, company, et al.

I am a descendant of the Tudors. That's right. Royalty.

The maternal line of my family has, for ages, set the standard for elitism. I can't help liking nice things, dammit. It's soaked in through centuries. Also: all the women in my family marry beneath them, in a Protestant guilt effort to dispel all the bad things we have been responsible for. It's a running joke. By now, our bloodline has been so watered down by healthy American males that we have lost many of our horrid recessive traits and have probably gotten better looking as the years went on. No matter. Michael and my father and my maternal grandfather are all wonderful representatives of the 'common' man. I do hope you know I being completely and utterly sarcastic. You don't? Well.

The most important ancestor I can claim is Bloody Mary. If you do nothing to read about her fascinating history, and her relation to Henry the 8th (I am, I am), then do read about her trial and execution. It shows how stubborn Scottish women can be, and it a wonderful ghost story to tell your children. It should shock them fairly well. (Three bloody whacks, resulting in the death of a dog and a good amount of blood sprayed absolutely everywhere! Plus, the sawing of a neck while Mary is still alive...) Anyway. My Tudor line does not die out with Mary, Queen of Scots, but continues on through the ages in bits and peices and lands with the Mayflower and the Revolution. It is true. My grandmother is a DAR. She went to a nice all girls' school in the twenties, and I was offered a legacy scholarship there, as well. I didn't go; I was focused on finding a blue collar grease monkey to take me to the prom.

My grandmother's family also owned the Beloit Ironworks. It was the first factory in the USA where workers demonstrated and got a credit union. This means absolutely nothing. I am positive that my great-great-grandfather had nothing good to say about the arrangement. I am, however, married to the son of a steel mill worker. Irony.

I am absolutely ashamed of much of my heritage. I was lucky enough to have the Protestant Guilt beat into my poor, horse-faced genes. On any given day, I'll be much happier to share with you the Willa Cather existence of my father's people--people of the grain and harvest, of the deadly North Dakota winters, of the depressive Germanic method in raising children. That's such an American heritage, I think, rather than this expansive genetic stew resulting in blonde hair and hyperextended joints. But in any case, I must try and channel this royal bearing more often. I am hoping it will assist me in my goal to take over the world and retire by forty.

Now, bow and worship me. I'm as royal as frickin' Princess Di.

Kurt Vonnegut has died. We have lost another one who hoped.

These days, I am living as the philosophical equivalent to a dodo bird. Exultant in my stupidity, I have forgotten all about hope. The reason to do what I do best--write poorly. Many times, I have harkened back to the dreadfully accurate words of Allen Ginsberg:

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix
-Howl

While Ginsberg wrote for the beat generation, his words apply to this maddening generation of post post X'ers. We have bypassed heroin for something better, something more applicable, something safer--apathy. The Boomers were the parasitic joy of the twentieth century. They sucked their hosts dry, and left the land and people dark and hopeless. Instead, we crave technology to support our hollow souls, and have forgotten the truth of the world. We are starving, Allen. We are hysterical. And we are naked and vulnerable to what comes next.

Unlike me, there are those who have decided entropy is absolutely dawning on us, and they have decided not to hope. I do not chastise them, for they have the courage to think everyday that all is past salvation. And they persist. It is a conversation between an athiest and her world. She is truly able to forsake a faith made of cotton candy wisps, and decides to embrace the void of God. She is Without. Many of my contemporaries have grasped this, and continue to live and work and play.

But then, there are us. The hopers.

Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.
-Kurt Vonnegut

Kurt Vonnegut and his satire displays such hope for the world, that in amongst the most dreadful atomic wars and most conflicted and insane individuals, there is a morsel of hope for humanity. All over, these hopers keep lifting their minds up and impart to the world what it means to dwell Within. I could list them: Socrates, Plato, Julius, Alexander, Jesus, Buddha, Hamilton, Jefferson, Luther, King, Parks, St. Theresa, Ghandi,Arvo Part, Vonnegut, Rahner, Kant...but you know these and many, many more.

I know I haven't been around much. I've neglected many of you. All of you, in fact. So, for me to demand anything of anyone is just downright selfish. Anyway, I INSIST that you go look at Anne's Silks .

You will find there a plethora--a veritable cornucopia--of artwork. You will fall in love all over with the world, and you will want to dance in the streets, screaming about this artist. You will fall all over yourself in anticipation of another one of her blog entries, and you will email her constantly to commission work from her. You will, in short, be awed by her talent.

All of these things, I promise to you!


Also, Anne is my mom. She's way hot.

Humans love analogies. That's why my book (my theoretical book) is going to make a killing. I have broken all people down into four different categories. In a perfect world, there would only be two kinds of people (because we've heard that phrase so many times, and we like it). But I am going beyond the whole "There are winners and there are losers" mentality. I'm taking it even further in evolution. Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus? Step aside. My analogy bypasses gender, race, and even human DNA.

Cats and dogs, people.
And cats who act like dogs.
And dogs who act like cats.

'Nuff said.

I am a dog. I am a tongue rolling, tail wagging, oh-scratch-me-right-there-and-I'll-kill-for-you kinda gal. I am loyal to a fault, obedient except when I haven't been given enough playtime or attention, and will protect my loved ones with great big bites and yelps. The only time I compromise others' honor is when someone dangles a tasty treat in front of my face. I am easy to please (coffee, much?) and believe in people.

My husband is a cat. He is a great floppy Maine Coon. He really likes other people, sure. He's awfully easy-going. But he knows what he knows, and that's all he needs. He is independent and will flip the rest of the world off if the world isn't doing things the right way. Michael asserts himself and his boundaries through body language. He practically oozes disdain for anyone who does not meet his expectations. Now, granted, his expectations are merely standards in morality. Pretty much, if you smile and don't lie, Michael will like you. But if you're a womanizing asshole (yeah, you, frat boy across the street), he won't piss on your teeth if your mouth was on fire. That's right. I said piss.

I know someone who is a cat, but acts like a dog. She's actually one of the worst kind of cats--a Siamese (like Delilah). She's selfish and moody and anxious and brooding, but she only lets her closest members in on that part of her personality. The rest of the time, she is a dog. A Golden Retriever, at that. She is loved in the community and is often held to a greater standard than you or I or June Cleaver. Stay clear of cats who act like dogs.

And then, that leaves us with dogs who act like cats. These are the Chihuahuas of the bunch. Independent, yes. But self-serving? No. I think dogs who act like cats make the best leaders, because they are able to determine where real threats lay. They don't sweat the small stuff, and they are loyal, but also able to distance themselves from flattery (unlike myself).

You see, I'm on to something!

For those of you enabling puppy dogs who are always looking for a scratch around the ears, be careful whose dirty fingernails are hooking under your collar and tugging you away from your safe yard.

And for you cats? Take it easy on us dogs. We're just trying to get a bone.

It's been SO long that I can't even recall where I left off or where to begin again. The quick rundown: I do have a job, now. It's a real one, where I go into the office and sit at a computer and look busy as much as possible. I'm still working with the developmentally disabled, just in a very wealthy part of Michigan (there are about eight towns left in Michigan that one could consider wealthy--the rest are merely hanging on for dear life).

I have made two new friends who also happen to share a love of knitting and a love of cynicism.

My husband is often travelling, leaving me alone to learn how to play my new guitar.This is my new guitar. It is a custom guitar from Daisy Rocks. I don't really know what that means, but I know this...my fingers hurt. And I can really bang out some songs on the D chord and the G chord. And if you are a chick and want to learn how to play guitar, I recommend the Daisy Rock brand. The stems are thinner, making it easier on our smaller, more delicate hands. Also: the guitars themselves are frickin' chic. Girls need chic.

I also spend plenty of time enhancing my hand-eye coordination via video games.

My grandmother was put in a nursing home for awhile, but is coming around and will be leaving there for her own home all on the eve of her 90th birthday.

My cat remains utterly insane. And cute.

My new secret diet requires me to repeat in my head everyday the magic words: I want to look good naked. I may be wrong, but I think it's working.

I am happy with my life. And that keeps me from writing. Too bad, really, since I want to write so much, and stay on top of the blogworld. But my days just keep getting shorter, and it's difficult to spend time in front of a computer when I could be doing so many other things. I don't have the time for introspection that I would like, but I can't complain when so many good things seem to be happening all the time.

And now, to shower and go to work.