Hello? Is it still Friday? Was it ever Friday?

Well, who is to say we can’t have chupcabras on other days? I mean, besides their labor union, the International Brotherhood of Chupacabras and Assorted Improbable Creatures, which was recently denied collective bargaining rights by Deformed Play-Doh Sculpture Scott Walker (WI). Why should those union layabouts get six days a week off and all the goats they can suck? My friend Christina bought Goblin a plush toy shaped like either a sloth or a bigfoot (the jury is still out), and it crossed the IBCAIA picket line on the way in here.

How are you, my little artichoke hearts? I am making a list and checking it twice. It is a list of things I have to do in order to graduate from Ye Olde Acupuncture School in a couple of months. A long list. I am making arrangements for some preposterously overdue renovations in The House That Is Collapsing Around My Ears. I am embarking on a new thirty-day fitness routine—a thirty-day fitness routine I started last week, diligently performed for two days, and then forgot all about, so maybe the second time is the charm on that one. I am a busy little bumblebee, but not the kind that is dying off because of environmental evils. I am a bumblebee who survives and eventually contributes to its 401(k) again.

Here is a chupacabra.


Other Than That, Mrs. Lincoln…?

I recently went to Florida for a few days to see the opening night of Rob’s show. Florida is a swamp of a state, both environmentally and politically, but one area where it excels is bugs, which diligently line every surface with their webs and slime trails and cocoons and in their spare time jump up and attack you. There is one bizarre kind of spider with a black butt and a big green head that is particularly pesky. Rob’s mother was loathe to clear the walkway of their striated webbing because she said they ate mosquitos, however I came home with a mosquito bite on one arm and a spider bite on the other, so it is clear that my body is a battleground for more than just dysmorphic disorder.



Ten years ago today, I sat down at the computer in my noisy Jackson Heights apartment and started a blog called Upside-down Hippopotamus, named for the snaggle-toothed Boston terrier who had wriggled her way into my heart two years before. No, I did not have another snaggle-toothed Boston terrier before this one; it had merely been noted that Goblin Foo Uvula, mistress of disguises, resembles a baby hippo when lying on her back.

Goblin and I lived with my friend Tiffany and were still getting to know the handsome lunatic whom I would eventually marry. I was unemployed, which I called “freelancing.” Various business ventures, advanced degrees, and mythological creatures were still in our future.

What possessed me to narrate my ongoing autobiography to the masses I couldn’t tell you, but I barely missed a day for years. I certainly can’t recall thinking that the masses would pay attention, although a surprising number of people eventually did. Looking back at my writing, I can’t recall being quite so interesting a person, which leads me to wonder if I made it all up.

A hectic schedule of graduate school, treating in the student acupuncture clinic, and helping to run a café is not exactly conducive to keeping this story current, but I have no plans to disappear again. I hope you don’t, either. I get by with a little help from my chupacabras.