“I’m just looking forward to when the baby gets here and everything slows down a little.” ~ Hubs

“It was BECAUSE of the hair dye that I pooped on the floor, you jerk!” ~ Anonymous

“If I didn’t live with my best friend, I’d be really really lonely right now.” ~ Me to Hubs
“I know. If I didn’t live with me, I’d be really lonely right now, too.” ~ Hubs

“You’re mean! I’m going seal-clubbing without you!” ~Hubs

When I excitedly texted my husband the news that A John Waters Christmas was coming to DPAC in December, I got the response, “That’s so… you…” I got the same response a day later when I revealed that I was going to be a drag queen for Halloween and, like the time before, I felt myself get a little discouraged.

What did that meeeeaan? To knock off “I [heart] Huckabees”, how am I being more myself? And why did the idea of being so remarkably predictable depress me so much?

Was it because I don’t like the idea of being pigeonholed? Maybe I have a fear of someone “figuring me out” before I do. Or maybe I’m scared that everybody else has defined the “me” that isn’t really the “me” I want to be judged just yet… I’m not ready to submit my work…

Or maybe it’s the fear of being defined by something so tiny or insignificant that freaks me out. Like, people have immediately started thinking of me when they hear about the Muppets, which touches my heart because I do, incidentally, adore Jim Henson’s work, but I never want to be “that girl who really likes Muppets” with no other attributes to my name.

I think that’s one of the reasons I feel the need to justify my ridiculous passions for things so often. And, after visiting a friend of mine a few weeks ago, I kinda realized how unnecessary that is.

I have this friend who’s always just been open and happy with the things about life that she loves, regardless of whether or not it’s socially chic. She’s been like this since I met her and presents her love for things like Cheerwine, Waffle House, and thrift store shopping in such a way that you, too, feel the need to love it and kind of wonder why you don’t have such an inherent passion for these things like she does. There’s never been any apology from her to anybody, nor does she try to justify her love for whatever it is that she has allegiance to… she just loves it and kinda doesn’t care whether anyone else does or not. Unfortunately, like most things, I didn’t bother to learn from her example until just recently - like, just before I wrote this thing.

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with just loving something just to love it, anyway? And why the hell did it take me so long to realize that it’s perfectly okay to embrace the things I love instead of trying to play them off like they’re the annoying younger sibling I have to drag around with me? Why don’t I just start the party wagon and get excited when other people jump on board instead of trying to act like it’s some deep, dark secret?

Yes! I love John Waters! And drag queens! And the work, life and mind of Jim Henson fascinate and move me! Yes, I know more about Sesame Street than most people know about their own families! Yes, I spend too much money on books every month! Indeed, I really do love spending time with my almost-3-year old because she’s more fun than most people. Yes, I get a high from writing a really well-thought-out paper on something intelligent; I also love karaoke like its a drug! I love the band STYX and I have seen them in concert! Yes, I have a crush on Peter Dinklage because confidence is hot and he’s got that, talent and a sexy voice! Yes, I want Tina Fey’s career so bad it hurts! Yes! I still wear bellbottom (not just “bootcut” or “flare”) jeans on a weekly basis. I still listen to Ace of Base’s “The Sign” album when I’m having a crappy day (except for the title track, actually)!! Yes, I love Girl Scouts and look forward to leading my own troop and singing all the campfire songs and doing all that stuff I used to do when I was in it! Yes! I think abandoned tobacco barns are beautiful and I want to make a coffee table photography book of them!! Indeed, I still listen to grunge or early-90’s-alternative at least 40% of the time I’m listening to music  (another 40% is devoted to classic rock.) Yes, I love fresh produce and eating lunch outside and foreign films in tiny cinemas and living in North Carolina and singing the harmony of old protestant hymns and playing dress up and showering outside and “Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends” and the Powerpuff Girls and stopping at weird places on road trips and terrible local advertisements and old old books and yellow umbrellas and Greek coffee and redneck flea markets and tunics and hilariously irreverent old people!! I love all this and more!!

And, honestly, if people define me solely by the potentially lame things that I adore, I’m kind of just flattered they were paying attention in the first place.

Literally since I could write, I’ve been keeping a journal in one way or another. It’s not something I started doing with an end result in mind - unlike everything else I’ve ever done - but was, in fact, something I just did, like eating or breathing or picking my nose in traffic.

And sometime during the development of my mental illness, writing became a compulsion, causing me fits of  anxiety or insomnia if i couldn’t put on paper what was hurling itself around and blocking my consciousness. Even after years of therapy and recovery, I found myself unable to just be still and silence the noise. Even if there was nothing wrong, my brain just wouldn’t shut the hell up for two minutes and give me peace. It seemed that, no matter how badly I wanted to, I couldn’t stop finding something to obsess over or protest or belabor. And the only release was to write it down. And then, sometime in there, the compulsion became to write it publicly and I adopted this 21st Century mentality that nothing I do is worthwhile if I don’t splatter it all over the Internet.

I began to disgust myself.

And then, about two months ago, my brain finally acquiesed. I’m not sure what happened (and I’d hate to fit a stereotype and say that it was solely because of Burning Man, although that was certainly the first major event that called my mental change to my attention) but, sometime in the last couple months, I’ve been able to actually enjoy a moment without worrying about what it means in The Grand Scheme of my life. I’ve been able to savor events and sights and people without immediately needing to share them with anyone else. And, most notably, my brain has finally FINALLY let me live directly in the present. There’s no more constant worry about whether or not I’m wasting my life, there’s no more anxiety or admonishment about whether or not I’m who or where I should be… It’s incredible.

And the mental settling goes farther than that, as well. I don’t feel the need to get angry at political controversy over which I have no control; now, if I see something that hurts my heart, I’ll see what I can do to help or change the situation without wasting time getting angry at the inevitable idiot commentary… this is practically UNTHINKABLE if you were to look at my track record. I don’t get angry much anymore - either something is bad and needs love and concern or something is so bad that it’s hilarious and I’ll respond accordingly.

Oh, hey, I’m not saying I’ve found nirvana or anything. I’m not selling all my possessions to live and work in Calcutta… I’m just saying that, for some reason, after more than a decade of praying for it, I’ve been granted a little bit of serenity for once. And it is just as fantastic as I’d always hoped.

So that’s why it’s been so quiet around here. Sure, I’ll share a few pics and thoughts on Facebook and Twitter, but getting out into the real world and turning it all off so I can enjoy this new brain phase has been bliss.

Yesterday I was having one of those superhuge sob sessions about something unimportant (read: I need to put on my big girl panties and get over it) when the Bear noticed and decided to mediate.

Taking the stance of a warrior, she declared, “I KISS IT BETTER!!!”, ran over, pulled my hands away from my face and gave me a prolonged, “mmmmMMMMMMMWAAH!!!” on the cheek.

I’m kinda jealous; my kisses aren’t that effective at problem-solving.

This is a story of my 2.5 year old and how she elicited gasps of horror from a couple dozen mothers while I tried unsuccessfully to control my laughter.

DISCLAIMER: I realize I share entirely too many stories and photos about my child in a massive public forum. And, the WORST part about this is that I honestly hate people who do that, especially because so many of the “Listen to the hilarious thing my gifted/talented/world-saving child did!!!” stories are just so painfully mediocre that they make me want to punt a kitten. Additionally, I also realize that I’m completely biased and unoriginal because I think my kid is genuinely awesome. So, just so you know, I’m totally self-aware about the image I’m painting of myself as a suburban mother whose life revolves around a toddler. I get it.

So, there are free movies every Tues-Thurs morning at a massive multiplex up the road from us that we’ve been attending as we can. Because these are free, I don’t mind leaving 45 minutes in when Chloe is no longer interested in staring at a giant screen, even when I let her do running commentary.

Today’s feature film was the agonizingly formulaic “Arctic Tale”, which played out like every other here’s-the-story-of-a-modern-baby-polar-bear’s-life-and-how-it’s-going-to-die-because-you-”need”-to-buy-a-giant-car-YOUAHOLE!! Aaanyway, there was a scene in this movie in which a large polar bear sets its sights on a baby seal and begins to pursue it, thundering through the water as the music mounts and children all around us begin to cry out in their “IT’S GONNA EAT ME IN MY SLEEP!!!” terror. Just as the cacophony of kids screaming reaches it’s pinnacle, the “auntie” of said baby seal swoops in and thwarts the predatory bear’s mission, much to the relief of everyone in the audience…

…Except my angelic, blonde haired, blue eyed, pink dress-laden daughter, who slaps one hand to her forehead, reaches an upturned palm toward the screen and yells, “Ah, COME ON!!!”

The glowers of sheer disdain and pure judgment from my parenting peers couldn’t quell my hysterical laughter for the next five minutes until the Bear, now disillusioned with the film’s lack of baby-seal-mauling scenes, insisted we “leave to home.”

I have the best sidekick ever.

So, apparently I’ve become a total woman (I mean that in the derogatory way, by the way.)

In my last blog entry I talked about how I was going to bed with this sense of heartbreak and longing. Finally, after about 5 or 6 days of it and desperately trying to figure out what it could possibly be and/or came from, I mentioned it to my husband. Without hesitation, he said, “Well, the Bear’s been gone in the last week; maybe you miss her?”

I immediately burst into tears.

My mom and dad offered to take over Toddler Wrangling Duty while my husband and I made the move to our new house, which was an incredible blessing. It saved us so much time and energy and really allowed us to get things done efficiently. (Plus, we got a mini vacation over the weekend to attend a friend’s wedding! Hooray!) And it wasn’t what most people would call a huge deal but I got to sleep in until 10 a.m. almost every morning, listen to anything I wanted to while packing, abstain from changing anyone’s diaper, stay out as late as I wanted, etc. for a WHOLE TEN DAYS. It was kind of amazing - something I haven’t had since our honeymoon.

But when he mentioned her absence, I realized that that’s exactly what I was missing. She’s been back now for a couple days and, even though there’ve been some crying spells and a little neediness, it’s been wonderful to have my little sidekick back to rouse me at 6 a.m. and make me have a productive day where I get outside and I have to stay positive no matter how I’m feeling. It’s good for me.

So there you are. No depression here - just complete estrogenal fits. Awesome.

So, we’re on Day 2 of Moving which means that I’m running back and forth from our rental house to our new place, cleaning and flinging random odds-and-ends into boxes and trying to cram all that into our car but I’m finally starting to get excited.

I have plans. We’ve already painted a giant red accent wall around our stonework fireplace (much like the one at our old place) and we’re going to do the same old-Tuscan-style ragging effect around our kitchen and paint our bedroom that soothing light green color so we feel like we’re living in a tropical paradise. But I want to customize the crap out of the house. I want glass doorknobs everywhere (those things are EXPENSIVE at antiques shops) and we want to install a Dutch half-door on our front door (we might even hang a flower box off it) and we want to build an arbor out back and I want blooming-berry vines covering the brick parts of the garage and corners of the house and I want to turn the hill in our backyard into a terraced garden with tons and tons of veggies and fruits and, one day, I might even install aerialists’ ribbons from our huge vaulted ceiling and learn how to do all that like I’ve been wanting to for forever and… and… and…

We just have ideas, okay? Lots of them. And the freedom to do whatever we want to a house is both exciting and overwhelming. I mean, I can doodle Pearl Jam lyrics all over the walls if I want and no landlord is going to get mad at me! How cool is that?! (My husband may be livid but meh… that’s what primer’s for…)

But, for right now, we’re focusing on unpacking the three trillion boxes we have lying around and getting rid of the Thomas Kincade border in our master bathroom. Eughck.

This week I am:
~ Making 20 sugar scrubs
~ Advertising for our moving sale this Thursday
~ Making wedding and baby presents
~ Packing my rental house
~ Cleaning my rental house for viewings
~ Closing on a new house (today!)
~ Getting my annual haircut
~ Pitching Yum in the Tub to Glam Lounge
~ Chasing a 2 year old
~ Getting my cat declawed
~ Welcoming one of my besties into town
~ Keeping my husband sane
~ Getting in touch with the 3 hostesses I’m working for in May
~ Finally applying for a small business license and Tax ID #
~ Launching a new blog
~ Cleaning the landfill off my desk
~ Going through everysingledrawerandcloset purging things we haven’t used in years to minimize our Clutter.
~ Getting into mini arguments because my husband wants to keep 3 boxes of Spanish notes and magazine clippings of landscapes from 6 years ago.
~ Remembering to brush my teeth and put in my contact lens. (That’s not a typo; it’s singular “lens” on purpose.)
~ Buying paints for the house
~ Trying to get out to the Saxapahaw River Festival
~Staying up till 2 am with my brain whirring on some weird chemical obsession about really really inane topics (Subject the other night was: Mid-90’s Songs I’ve Probably Forgotten - both in “Liked” and “Unliked” categories.) and then being angry again that my doctor in Myrtle won’t just give me a phone consultation like a normal doctor and that I can’t go to my new doc at UNC until June.
~ Trying to keep it aaaalll together.

Dear Ru,
Let me start off by saying that I’m a fan. I have been since the moment I heard you told me I’d “betta werk” and I probably will be forever. I bought your books, I’ve watched your underground documentaries, I’ve worn your t-shirt… I’m there. I think what you stand for is amazing and you’ve been incredibly instrumental in the gay rights movement, acting as a sort-of ambassador into pop culture and helping to promote pride and joy within the LGBT community. I think your messages of love are powerful and I think you’re a perfect role model (both in and out of your drag persona) in that you show incredible confidence but you’re never mean or underhanded. I think you’re incredible.

And it’s no secret that you’re a smart guy; you’ve had to be in order to break into a still homophobic mainstream and maintain a career that’s lasted almost two decades. If you’d come out and just been a boozy, flighty queen, you wouldn’t have stood a chance against all the inevitable hatred you’ve garnered and you never would’ve been able to command respect from those who let you through the Pop-Culture gate in the first place. You know this.

Additionally, you know that “RuPaul’s Drag Race” is more than just another trashy reality show. This became obvious to the public the moment Ongina was awarded the MAC spokesmodel position and began to cry before admitting to the world that she’d been secretly living with HIV for years. That was the moment we realized that this show wasn’t just about men trying to out-fab each other but it was a means to educate the world to another facet of gay lifestyles and help those who don’t understand to embrace gays/lesbians/bisexuals/transgenders as people instead of just faceless political opponents. Sure, there’s cattiness and overblown drama and obvious creative editing choices (it makes for good TV) but what RPDR stands for in principle and as a televised show in mainstream America is very very important. Again, you know this. You’ve said this yourself.

I don’t believe that one should live their life being diplomatic to further a political agenda by any means but, frankly, the decision to name Tyra Sanchez the winner of RuPAUL’s Drag Race: Season 2 was almost a step backwards and a complete slap in the face to those who have been working to dispel stereotypes about drag queens. Your personal tenants of what makes a drag superstar are Courage, Uniqueness, Nerve and Talent (and, yes, I get and appreciate the joke.) Granted, as a performer, Tyra has tons of uniqueness and she’s obviously very clever in her creative endeavors but that’s where the good stuff ends.

First of all, you’re a very big proponent of being a sassy queen and not a bitchy one for the sake of dignity and class and you honestly couldn’t have picked a worse candidate for that out of the contestants this year. Secondly, you’re fully aware how much intelligence is needed to hold a position as a popular gay/bi/lesbian/trans icon but you’ve totally contradicted that by choosing a girl who is dumber than a sack of hammers, socially inept beyond reason and can’t put together a sentence if she was being paid a hundred bucks per word. Unless she’s onstage, she has the personality of a jar of mayonnaise.

And aaaallll of these things are cliches that the gay community has been desperately trying to distance themselves from when it comes to public relations.

Frankly, if you wanted us to appreciate and embrace Tyra, I don’t know why you’d choose to approve the editor’s choices to make her look like a self-centered idiot who is just rude beyond reason. Obviously this was a decision you stood by and I’m baffled as to why you’d want to paint that picture of a contestant that you knew you were going to choose to represent the show and your work.

More than anything, though, I’m frustrated - with this and all the other public decisions that are made that keep the gay community in the stereotypes that don’t allow us to advance - and a little bit disheartened. Because if you’re not going to try, why should anyone else? The last thing the queer community needs is someone on the inside working against them.

Unfortunately, Ru, you betrayed your own advice and f*%#ed this up.

Most sincerely,
Castallare

In hopes to retain SuburbanBohemian.com as a space to share my personal life’s ponderings and events, I’ve opened ILoveBeingSouthern.com as a place to separately continue with the Things I Love About Being Southern series. (It garnered a big enough following to warrant that, I thought, so we’re trying it out.) I want to have a professional presentation eventually but, for now, the basic Tumblr format will have to do. Look for updates in the next month or so.

Oh, I thought I’d try a little blog marketing, so feel free to check us out on Facebook, too. (What am I becoming?)

So there you go. Tell a friend.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.