Home et femme

Ah! It’s that time of the year. I’m moving homes... again! Year 2009 was the year of minimalism and white walls. The year of the gray bedroom that beat out my tried-and-tested Hershey Kiss chocolate-brown bedroom that has anchored each home I’ve ever had. The bedroom was a sad attempt to look like the gray Paris Plaza Athenee hotel room I stayed in Paris. It ended up looking like an s-21/kennel instead.

I do realize I’m a woman of jewel-toned walls and excessive accessories. In an attempt to remain true to myself I have packed up my Lane boxes (truly one of the last companies in this country that actually does the right thing very well) and have taken my carefully edited treasures on to their next journey. 

Looking for the right home is much like dating.

 You look for the right broker or website to find your destiny. Much like asking someone to set you up.  

Did you even know we have a Pinoy Craigslist? It’s quite awesome actually. Then there are those terrible websites that show smashing homes for the fiscally smashed. Then you call to check out the homes — “eyeball it” as they put it in Internet dating — only to realize those homes didn’t really exist — or, as they put it, “It was taken yesterday.”

 Yeah, right. 

Just like profile pictures, most of these real estate websites are there to sell you shit homes for your shit budget. All one big lie. 

Then there are the trusted family friends who do background checks on each home. Just like how an aunt will pair you up with someone who is just “perfect” for you. Whether he’s perfect or not, at least he was never in jail or something.

Same with the family friend realtor: they will never send you to a house that pisses like a drunk. They have your back and they will negotiate for you and be that awesome pushy Italian mother you’ve always dreamed of having. If you have one on your side, you are very, very lucky.

Then comes the real deal. I love vintage homes, with large square bedrooms and high, high ceilings that allow you to have a ceiling fan where you won’t risk decapitating yourself.

I’m not a fan of living in the millennium box they call dream apartments. Don’t get me wrong, this is just me. I’m a girl who likes Cheez Whiz and rice together so my preferences are a bit dodgy.

Living in some of them in my early years provided me with all the convenience when I was young and barely home. Yet, there was something impersonal about central air conditioning and elevators. The moment I moved to a townhouse three years ago, I knew in my heart I would never go skyscraper again. I know there are benefits to it, like a spectacular view and round-the-clock security. But having a house means barbecues, gardens and big dogs. I take the boons of the latter.

Anyway, I did get to go around looking for homes. I found all of them interesting. Then I saw one that made my heart beat like the time I watched Lost in Translation for the first time and how I never wanted it to end. I loved it. It had a garden for my dogs and BBQs. I was already dreaming John Saladino. The house was made in a beautiful ’70s Modernist style with millennium new tiles and marble. It was a bungalow, so very ’50s starlet Hollywood glam. I wanted it so badly.

 I kept asking my aunt to call and check. Did the owner like me back? I even offered to add improvements like fix the bathroom because I can never do my lady things in someone else’s bath.

 My aunt cautioned me to not stalk them. I do get a bit bunny boiler-like when I find something I like.

 Just like basic dating rules: never seem too eager.

I should have listened to my old self who would always say, “If it’s too good to be true, it probably is.” True enough, my bid didn’t make it. I lied down an entire Saturday afternoon, depressed, thinking of the garden I was dreaming to dress in different plants I saw in Tagaytay to never be.

That’s the thing with me: the cart is always in front of the pony. When I saw my little dream house I spent the entire week thinking of color schemes (hue by Kelly Wearstler and creamylife.com), atmosphere (Elle Deco Paris and the surprisingly irreverent Town and Country homes) and what story I’d like to give it (I was watching I Am Love like a serial killer). I’m done with Jonathan Adler, baroque prints and ghost chairs (what was I thinking with those chairs?). I wanted a comfy look with lots of plants. The kind of home you could only enjoy walking barefoot.

That’s the thing with houses: if you really love it, you will see yourself in it. I’m crippled so I’m not really thinking of heels. But I’m also boring now. I didn’t buy a single stiletto during 2009, favoring instead lots of Stella McCartney for Adidas and Reebok Retones. So it makes sense that I have this kind of house.

I have had all these party friendly homes all my life save for the last one. All had quirky chairs, iPods in every room, an impressive collection of Dior barware (I don’t think they make them anymore) and champagne from all over Champagne. Now, I have a tea cabinet, which either fascinates or scares my guests.

My friend once commented when they came to my latest house, “Wow, this house is really just made for two!” True enough there were love seats all over the house and we served chilled chai masala in the Dior.

More than anything my home is also all about the dogs these days. Caligula needs his own room to protect himself from the more adroit Milo, my golden retriever that has the energy of Tim Yap.

Is this really too much to ask? I gave up heels, I just really want a garden patch these days. Consider my expectations lowered.

Then one day, just like that, my House Charming appeared right in front of me. It was more perfect than the modernist home that broke my heart weekend last. It also had more space for my John Saldino garden. It even has a roof deck. I mean I didn’t even think that was possible in the city.

It was more South Beach than LA. I’ve always liked Miami more anyway. I guess it’s true, true love finds you when you’re really looking.