I already had the man I loved. And the fat cat, too.
Next, I found the house.
I knew I liked it right away, even before seeing it in person, because the pictures on the internet showed that it had hardwood floors and cream-colored walls punctuated by lots of French windows that let in a lot of light. The advertisement for the apartment detailed all the property features that I wanted in a home: updated kitchen appliances, off-street parking, garage storage, washer and dryer on-site. I also knew I liked it right away because the outside of the house is painted a dusty pink color.
I knew I really wanted it.
To persuade the landlord that I really loved the apartment and that I wanted it the most, I batted my eyelashes lots and drew a big heart on the top of my application and wrote, “Pick me!”
He picked me.
We really love the house. Even though it’s just a small, one bedroom apartment, it has tall ceilings that make the rooms feel wide and breezy and like we really are in California.
The walls of the apartment are painted an off-white, cream color and are subtly textured with uneven smears of plaster. I like how the pattern of dimples and smudges cast hints of shadows, an allusion that gives the room even more depth than the square footage and the high ceilings can provide.
In the kitchen we have lots of storage in cupboards and drawers. We cook with a gas stove and wash our dishes in a deep, white, farmhouse sink. I have always, always wanted a kitchen with a honeycomb tile counter.
I like that our bedroom faces the garden behind the house. Our second story windows are framed by trees with branches full of waxy, green leaves and some exotic-looking, orange, berry-fruits. In the morning and at night, Santa Barbara light sifts through and collects in warm pools on the walls and floor.
In the bathroom, we have a big, white porcelain tub. It holds me comfortably when I lay back to soak in Jasmine-scented bubbles on Sunday with my coffee. The old tub is deep and the porcelain is smooth and curved and cold. There’s hardly enough storage space for all our toiletries but, I’ve always, always wanted a bathroom with a honeycomb tile floor.
Of course, I love that we have lots of windows in this house. It’s always bright in the living room. When it’s warm, which is always, ceiling fans push the hot air that’s pregnant with smells of ocean salt and cactus flowers and sage brush all around all the rooms. It feels romantic and tropical. It smells like Southern California.
(The smell of California awakens competing feelings in me. Sometimes, a strong, briny, sea breeze, a whiff of eucalyptus, a breath of red peppercorns, makes me feel wholly content and full. Sometimes though, the smell of California makes me nostalgic for other times, other places. Like, when I used to walk all around Boston in a pink peplum pea coat in fall time. Cambodia in February, where the sand was white on the uncrowded beaches and one day I didn’t see any people but I did see a cow. Paris by night at Christmastime, on the Champs Élysées, drinking hot, spiced wine. Ray Charles on the radio in Tucson. Sail boats in summer in Rhode Island.)
I was excited for Tim to see our new house when he got here. I was anxious for him to walk through all the rooms and open all the cupboards and peek in the closets and then nod and agree that this really was a really great place. I knew that Tim would like the built-in beer taps in the back yard and also all the built-in shelves in the house for his DVDs and CDs and VHS tapes.
We’re pretty much all moved in, though we still have a few things to do around the house.
We need to get consider more seating in the living room. A couple of comfortable reading chairs? A love seat? I’d really love a fainting couch. We need to get our artwork framed and hanged. I’d like a garlic press in our kitchen and new sheets for our bed and a coffee table that I like better than the one that we have for now.
Still, even with all the to-do’s on our list, our new house is starting to feel like home.
Then I got the job.
In September, I was hired as the Public Relations Coordinator for the Santa Barbara Museum of Art.
It’s the job I’ve always wanted and it sort of feels like meant-to-be/destiny because I was raised by art.
I grew up in homes where the walls were dressed with loud Warhol prints and the shelves were crowded with one-of-a-kind David Gurney ceramics. I remember, at some time in youth, my parents purchased an impressive Chihuly glass piece. We took regular family field trips to the Norton Simon in Pasadena and the Huntington Gardens in Los Angeles. LACMA and MOMA. I remember once becoming infatuated at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art with a small collection of Henri Rivière prints that passed through.
In my house, we grew up believing that art was crucial. That it was fun but that it was also fundamental.
And so, later, in college, I studied Art History in Paris. It was in 2009, in winter. Twice a week my professor would lead us through the galleries, pointing out the brushstrokes in a Degas and the color composition in a Manet.
Then, I had eagerly followed my professor around the galleries, scribbling notes on my pad about blue Boucher’s and pink Fragonard’s.
Now, my house is six blocks from my office at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art. I can walk there in 11 minutes. I work in a building where there are Monet and Frankenthaler paintings hanging downstairs.
All day, I get to read about upcoming exhibitions and exciting new works and installations. I get to meet celebrated artists and observe challenging exhibition installations. It’s my job to communicate important art news and promote the museum to a global audience.
Isn’t that cool?
Tim got a job, too. He hadn’t even been here a whole week before he was hired as a server at the new Shalhoob’s patio restaurant in the Funk Zone. All day or all night he serves pints of cold beer and piled-high Tri Tip sandwiches to girls that I pray every day aren’t cuter than me.
Sine we’ve been here we’ve gone to the beach lots of times. We like to see dolphins in the waves and seals, too. Sometimes I find bits of sea glass or whole crab shells to add to our collection of beach treasures at home. I’ve liked to notice Tim’s skin turn darker, darker brown over the last month. His neck sizzles and his shins roast. His hair looks healthy when it’s brushed back with a little bit of salt water.
We’ve walked downtown lots, for beers and iced coffees. Sometimes, at the buttery, sunset hours, we like to soak in the hot tub in my mom’s backyard. Last month we hiked up the Rattlesnake Canyon Trail. We had a pizza picnic at the rose garden for my dad’s birthday. We drank sour beers and vino verde wine on a wide, green grass lawn.
I am happy. I hope Tim is, too.
And you know, I worked really hard for all of this, despite how this piece says I just found the house and got the job.
Actually, the truth is, I was refused, and also I refused, so many apartments.
Sorry, you need to be employed to be eligible to live here.
No pets!
Only accepting single occupancy.
I thought we might never find a place to live.
I applied to over 60 jobs and almost none of them responded to me. If they did respond, it was to tell me that I didn’t get the job.
Dear Kate,
Thank you for your interest in the (insert position here) job here at (insert company name here).
We recognize that although you are qualified for the position…
…there were other applicants that had a more desired skill set.
…we hired from within.
…we aren’t hiring at this time.
We wish you the best of luck in your search for employment.
Sincerely,
I labored for hours over my cover letter and resume. I wrote hundreds of emails and combed job listing sites day after day after day.
I lived on Craigslist, alternating between the jobs and housing pages. Refreshing the pages on my web browser. Always refreshing. I was (am) running out of money and I was fully loaded on self-doubt.
And then finally, when it all came together, the house and the job, it wasn’t because of luck or happenstance. It’s because I worked really fucking hard for it.
It feels like a relief. When it all starts to come together. The man and the job and the house(cat) that you love the very most, in the place that you love the very most. It feels like I earned it and that feels satisfying. I am full, delighted, rewarded.
I can stop searching now. Sit dow for a minute, take a deep breath and enjoy all of this, with Tim. Get back to baking my coconut cakes and whipping up my creams and booking weekend get-away cabins in Monterey or Phoenix.
There are cactus in our garden and we live within three miles of the ocean. Maybe this weekend we’ll go for a hike.
I’m going to have (I’m having/I’ve already had) such a full life.
Comments