August 26, 2003

August 26, 2003
Hello, Mars

I never know what to think when the announcer comes on NPR and tells me that soon I'll be able to view a certain planet or a celebrated star with the naked eye. Tonight they tell me that the red planet is closer to earth now than at any time in human history. Go outside! they say. Look carefully! That big bright point in the southern sky is Mars!

I just don't know what to do. It seems a shame to be cajoled into this sudden romance with a shy neighbor who lives at least 60,000 miles away. I don't know if I will go out and meet Mars tonight, because as soon as I meet him, he'll be gone, and I'll certainly be dead by the time he comes back again in 2237.

August is a mess. Who knows if I'd be able to see Mars, anyhow. Because when you go outside at night, you can actually see the air form a gauzy halo around the streetlights at night. This is August in the South, the humid, ripe stink of summer in full force. The mosquitoes have been very successful this summer, piecing together a scarlet constellation from the sorry ruin of my pale legs. Somehow, some way, one single mosquito always manages to jump into the car with me every morning on my way to work in August, leaving me swatting and swearing until I finally smash the creature on the dashboard, staining my palms with my own blood, or just stop the car to let him out. Despite my faithful aggression against the pests, mosquito stock is way up this summer. Buy now.

After months of deliberation, Tom and I are looking for a house. We have fallen in step with a wonderful real estate agent, Ben, who has driven us up and down every single street in Atlanta, I believe, in an effort to find us the house of our dreams. He is longsuffering, and by turns we are mumbly, worried, excited, listless, confused, curious. I think I have a crush on Ben, but matters are simplified by the fact that he is as gay as he is longsuffering.

We've seen a few keepers, but even if we made an offer tomorrow, we're still a long way from home.

Who would've thought that finding the right house was such a chore? I used to think that this would be a breeze. How hard can it be to jump into an air-conditioned SUV and be chauffeured up and down handsome little streets, right? It is growing harder and harder, meeting up after work at night, tumbling into and out of Ben's car over and over. I suppose it is a little like trying to make a baby. You get together, and you know what you're after, and as you pull away from the curb, you wonder if tonight will be the night.

I didn't think we were terribly picky about houses, but I guess we are. I'll fall in love with one property, and I'll be ready to sign on the dotted line before I even get to the back yard. But Tom will only raise a diffident eyebrow. And the next house will be a fixer-upper, and Tom will adore it, and he'll see his future written in its ten-foot ceilings, and mentally he'll book our next 200 Saturdays in a row, volunteering us for hours of diligent scraping, sanding, painting, and staining.

At this point in the conversation, his heartsick wife usually sighs heavily and heads back to the cozy, plush seats of the SUV.

So the search for home continues.

Tonight we explored a new neighborhood — or a neighborhood I've never heard of: Howell Station. It's just South of Atlanta off Marietta Street, tucked in between I-75 and the railroad tracks. I've lived in Atlanta all my life and I'd never heard of this wonderfully quiet, pretty neighborhood. One house we saw tonight called out to me. It was a sweet little bungalow nestled at the end of a dead-end street, with a wild garden just barely contained by a little white picket fence. And across the street was an undeveloped wonderland of kudzu. I could definitely get used to having kudzu for a neighbor.

But I don't think it's The One. It was sweet, but a little small. There are so many little questions we have to think through. Is there room for an office? Is there room for a child? Is the neighborhood safe? Is it close to church/work? Is the property tax manageable? Is the yard acceptable? Will the property values increase over time?

The house search goes on and on, but at least one important question was answered for me tonight. We've gone out house-hunting with Ben three our four times now. And each time, he kept telling us, "It'd be great to have you guys in the neighborhood!" I nodded along as he said this, of course. He's just being nice. But he brought it up again and again, remarking on certain properties: "Now, this house is in my neighborhood. You guys would be really close." He even gave us a tour of his colorful home just outside Ormewood Park, praising the virtues of his neighborhood, explaining how good it would be if we could be close. And I kept nodding, wondering if Ben really intended to invite us over for crazy margarita parties with him and his roommate and all of their other charming gay friends. Does city-smart Ben really want to hang out with us, the provincial, conservative Christian couple?... Maybe we really do have style. I am wearing a Banana Republic shirt right now, that's true. Maybe we are cooler than I think we are. Maybe Ben actually likes us, like, more than he likes his regular clients. Then finally tonight while discussing the neighborhood, he said, "It'd be great to have you guys in this area. I'm on the board of the neighborhood development association, see, and you guys could get involved...."

Oh. Right. Okay. Well, good-night, Ben. Thanks again. We'll be in touch.