Former Vocation PTSD

I've had to turn to the layman standard for looking at homes--Zillow. Many have superimposed furniture in them for buyers who can't figure out where the couch should go in an empty room. And to be honest, there are a few homes where I understand the virtual staging. I've seen where I can't figure out where the couch would go either. But I'm sure if the previous homeowner figured it out, so would I. 

Though I can see past the virtual staging, I'm having a tough time with stretched pictures. Is that a space for a refrigerator or a king sized bed? I've started counting floor tiles to determine how wide a room might be instead of marveling at the massive bathroom (which, according to the floor tiles is probably less than 5 feet wide). 

But the worst for me is that I apparently can't get the realtor out of my veins. I am barking at the real estate folks who posted the pictures, saying things like, "Could you have put the toilet seat down before you snapped the picture?" and "Nobody cares that your seller keeps a philodendron on the kitchen counter!" 

Or, this view of garage wall. Why? And is that floor tiles?  

Or this? I'm not shaming the sellers here. Perhaps they are stressed and overwhelmed--Heaven knows I am, and my home isn't even on the market! But the agent didn't have to put this picture on the MLS (which directly feeds to all the Zillow-type web sites). I mean? What do you do with this bedroom/dining nook/closet? Alas, if it were only virtually staged. 

Marty commented after my head exploded with my 235th tirade, lovingly suggesting maybe it's time to bring back my Bad MLS photos posts again. Perhaps it is. 

Unemployment Update

It's been nine months since Marty's departure from Dante's fourth ring of eternal damnation. And nobody around here is sad he isn't there any more. We haven't starved. Our bills are mostly paid. Mostly meaning, it wasn't the trip to Florida that sucker punched our credit card--Marty and I are efficient travelers. It was car repairs and a few other unexpected hits which followed. 

Marty has come to the realization there's no work in Texarkana. He can't do what he's done for years and while he's here, Marty doesn't want to do anything else. And unfortunately, I mean that literally, not figuratively. Therefore, a potential move to Florida is back on the table. 

Yesterday, I met with Tessa and drilled her about the state of the real estate market. It's soft. I knew this because I can see what's going on around me. I've also talked with the loan officer in Florida, about options if it takes a few months to sell. The wheels are starting to spin. I even broke down and opened up Zillow to see what's for sale over there.  

At this point it is safe to say we are in the "early stages" of another move. The house is a cluttered disaster. Four adults, one dog and two cats under one roof does not make for good showability. So, that's the next step: declutter, degrease and deep clean. 

When, "Here's Your Book. Thanks." Would be Considered Tacky

I realized I held on to Ms. Cindy's book too long. I found it on my book shelf and remembered I read it about two years ago. And Oh $@*&! I hadn't returned it. 

I live in Texarkana Texas. Residents have a Texan attitude and Southern manners, which meant there was no easy way to return a wayward item--even one that isn't missed--without a long, drawn out apology, which I provided and Ms. Cindy graciously cast aside with the manners of a Bible Belt belle. 

The book in question was returned to her front porch this past week, along with a humble handwritten note and tomatoes from my garden as loan interest. Additionally, I sent a text, telling her where she'd find the book and commenting on her adorable (she is adorable) dog who peeked at me through the window. 

Ms. Cindy responded in kind, thanking me for doing this right. 

Luna Brought a Bit of the Desert With Her

An Exhausted Luna After Being Probed By Doc P.

Luna has been sick since we moved here. Very sick. 

Last winter Doc P figured out what was going on with our poor puppy. She had this disease he'd heard of in Vet school, but never saw in real life: Valley Fever. 

On the remote chance you might read this and not be from Arizona, Valley Fever is a disease anyone who has lived in the Phoenix area for more than a year has contacted. It is caused by spores in the air. Generally there's an initial "outbreak," like a cough, or a strange illness which takes the person down for two weeks, or maybe the outbreak is nothing at all. Sometimes there might be another flair-up if the patient has a crummy immune system. But, for the most part, it just remains dormant in the system and becomes something we live with. However, if you have lived there, you've been exposed. 

And yes, pets can get it too. However, animals in East Texas don't normally have this. So, when Doc P deep dived into Luna's wild health issue, this was the last diagnosis he ever intended to make. 

And I'm glad he did because Luna's health is so much better than a year ago. With her thyroid under control and her fungal infection gone, she's running and even can jump onto the bed. She has more energy than I've seen in a long time. Yes, she's aged terribly (a gray muzzle now), but she's defiantly got some spark left in her. And she's even gained back the majority of the weight she's lost in the past year. 

How does Luna feel about this? Well, as far as she'd concerned. Doc P is the devil. He sticks needles in her. He violates her boundaries without even offering her a treat. He's made her sleep in a cage overnight, away from her kittens and the rest of us. He's a big stinky meany. 

We, however, are grateful Doc P didn't give up on her. 

Red, White, and Clues

Texas Rangers wear cowboy hats.

Yesterday, I made it to the North East Texas Writer Organization's conference: Red, White, and Clues. Held in Mount Pleasant, my Golden Quill writer pal, Karen, and I jaunted the 70 miles to a crowded room full of mystery writers. And wow! You'd think for podunk nowhere, this conference might have been akin to a kiddie carnival. But nope. This was Disneyland. 

The speaker lineup included several prolific, best-selling authors discussing the finer points of mystery and suspense story telling. Lest you think that is wildly dull, you might be right if story crafting and mystery/suspense stories aren't your thing. But let me just say this: mystery/suspense is the hardest of all the genres to write. The writer needs clues and misdirection. The audience needs a satisfying ending. The writer needs compelling characters who have childhood trauma. Okay, that last part is optional (but I used it in The Redeemed--coming soon, I swear), but a backstory on paper or in the writer's head is necessary for a flawed character. As any reader can tell you, a perfect character is a boring character. Okay, my tangent is over. 

In addition to the speakers who managed to find their way to this little part of East Texas, we had someone come from a search and rescue school who answered all sorts of detailed minutia questions about finding bodies, weapons and even shared a story about he and his other search and rescue colleagues were called out around 3 a.m. this past Thursday morning to rescue a group of boaters who were stranded in the Sabine River and surrounded by gators. Best line of the conference: "They were the type of folks you'd expect to be stranded in the Sabine River in the middle of the night surrounded by gators." 

We also had a Texas Ranger* speak to us about cold case investigations and how forensic operations are conducted. He talked about blood splatters, advances in DNA technology, and stupid criminals. He even disused where he puts his hat when he has to take it off at a restaurant (on his knee). Notes were taken and I'd be willing to bet some of this information will be used in some attendee's future story. Third best line at the conference needs a small set-up. A woman asked our Texas Ranger some sort of semi-personal question. An audience member yelled out, "He's married Jennifer. Give it a rest." 

The second best line of the conference came from our last speaker who had sat through the entire conference. She has 30+ books out and writes under a couple of pen names.** She looked at the crowd and said, "Thank you fellow introverts for not leaving thus far. Y'all are great but just like you, I'm ready to be alone."

*Okay, this deserves a comment: there are only 166 Texas Rangers in the entire state. 166!!!!! Talk about an elite team.  

**I must find this woman and thank her for reassuring me that writing under a pen name is worthy. Why does she have different pen names? One of the genres she writes in is erotica and she doesn't want the folks at her Southern church finding out. 

The Piano Men

 

It's time we discussed the 1923 Banana Club. 

The 1923 Banana Club, or "Banana Club," as the locals call it, is a lounge/bar/music venue in downtown Texarkana Arkansas. The place got its name because it was in the basement of the Central Market back in the day. Produce from the trains (across the street) would come in and be stored down there. There are still the hooks where the bananas hung, lodged into the ceiling. 

Down those steps. If you know the code
(and have reservations) the entertainment is yours. 

The place is fashioned as a speakeasy, with the front entrance down a staircase and a secret code to enter. Allegedly this code is on their Facebook page, but I have yet to find it. Once inside, there's a small lobby--think the size of a modest walk-in closet--with a sliding door, letting patrons into a venue which probably seats 75. 

The vibe is secret hideaway meets frat party. The place is decorated with paraphernalia that might have been found in a speakeasy from 100 years ago, along with a ton of historic explanations. Most nights there's music--and there's a lot of great musical talent in the Ark-La-Tex area, which makes up for the terrible service (it's always terrible). The place is owned by a man I've never seen sober. I've often wondered if this is part of the act or he just has a bionic liver. But like most places around town, terrible service and inebriated owners don't define the experience. Nor does it lessen the fun. 

I took this picture Saturday night. Though you can barely make out anything with the lighting the way it is, there are instruments hanging off the wall. The lighting always looks like this.  

Saturday night a few of us went to see the Two Pianos guys who played for three hours (minus a 15 minute break). The audience sang along while they performed everything from Baby Got Back to the requisite Sweet Caroline. They took requests and nothing stumped them. 

One of the musicians happens to be married to our newest Corona. We sat in the front, which might have been a mistake for poor Debbie*, who was picked on all night by the two. Given this is the Bible Belt and they are part of the Church of Christ music leadership, the pianists were much more lude than I expected. 

Fortunately for them, the audience laughed--even Deb who was a great sport about everything. However at the end of the night, they did offer a public apology, pointing out they would be seeing those of us who sat at our table in church in a few hours. Another private apology followed before we left--this dude was sweating bullets!--along with a third apology the next morning before church. 

I'm still laughing. And honestly, so is everyone else. In fact, Deb was so popular, two guys who were about the age of Buckaroo came up to our table and invited Debbie to Wataburger on Stateline because she seemed like such a good hang. 

"You could be my great grandsons!" she exclaimed. 

"So are you coming?" they asked. 

She didn't. 

*To give you a snippet about what 70+ year old Church lady Debbie the Queen of Everything endured for hours Saturday night, after church yesterday I ran into Deb who wanted me to go to a bible class with her. I never go. She pushed. And then I said, "That song we sang a minute ago, wasn't it in the key of D? As in D for Debbie does Dallas?" 

She gave me a playful swat and said, "Bye. Have a good Sunday."