Hey everybody! I have a new mantra. Wanna’ hear it?

WHEN YOU STEP OUTSIDE YOUR COMFORT ZONE, IT’S NORMAL TO FEEL DISCOMFORT!

Wow. Needlepoint that on a motherf--kin’ pillow, huh? Yes, right now I am indeed experiencing discomfort — and not because I just scarfed down half a bag of chocolate tortilla chips (Yes, these actually exist! You can get them at Nature Mart on Hillhurst.) No, this discomfort that I am currently experiencing — in the form of sheer unbridled terror — is due to the fact that this past weekend (drum roll, please) I BOUGHT A HOUSE!

Yep, you read right, people—I bought a house! Life is so weird. Let me explain. Two weeks ago when this column was due and I was feeling less-than-inspired, I called the editor and asked the theme of the upcoming issue. I thought that maybe knowing that my column would appear in the “Hideous Club Fashion” issue or the “Gays Who Love Sports” issue would perhaps give me a creative jumpstart on what to write about. Well, imagine my confusion when he replied, “The Hollywood Real Estate” issue. Huh? Excuse please? My cell phone must be acting up because I could have sworn that you just said—oh, you DID!? OK. Well, I ain’t gonna’ be writing nothin’ on that there subject ‘cause this big ol’ drag queen lives in an apartment in Little Armenia, ‘kay? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a fabulous two-bedroom apartment with a cute backyard. And if you’ve ever seen me out and about you know that the bitch can paint and accessorize, so you know it’s done up right! But it is an apartment. That I rent. Not a house. That I own.

Maybe just hearing that sentence (imagine it now, echoing in the deep golden tones of older black character actor James Earl Jones: “The Hollywood Real Estate Issue, Issue, Issue ...”) knocked over a domino somewhere inside my head that set into motion a series of unstoppable thoughts. Suddenly, dusty old dreams were stirred up. Desires that had been dormant for years awoke and arose like flames licking at my psyche. And now that voice of James Earl Jones was joined by the equally deep, but far more demanding cries of Audrey II, the plant/monster from Little Shop of Horrors: Feed Me! My hopes and dreams of owning a home suffered from years of neglect and were starving. All it took was a subconscious little crumb dangled in front of its emaciated face for it to start salivating.

The next day, I called my friend’s real estate agent and began house hunting. I started out looking at condos, but quickly decided that I wanted an actual house. Some of the places I looked at had been on the market since August. Some were over-priced (translation: real rip-offs!). Some were fixer-uppers (translation: real shit holes!). I felt like Goldilocks chirping, “This house is too small! This house is too big!” And then I found the house that was, and is, just right.

I put a whopping 20 percent down and, before you get bitter and/or jealous, please know that it was in slightly damp, crumpled one dollar bills retrieved from my disturbingly impressive cleavage. “Their called moobs, mama and every middle-aged overweight queen has ‘em!” That 20 percent represented years—no, decades—of hard work. Hard work in high heels. Smiling when I didn’t feel like it, hitting the high notes after a red-eye flight, and being man-handled by filthy drunkards all over the United States, Canada and Europe. Glitter in the eyes, smoke in the lungs and a dull knife in the lower back. Beauty is pain and, let’s be honest, I am goddamn beautiful. And now I’m a goddamn beautiful homeowner!

In leiu of housewarming presents, Ms. Beat asks that you go to her website right now and buy a CD or two or three: www.jackiebeatrules.com.

illustration by www.glenhanson.com