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On My Nightstand

The Accidental Tourist,
by Anne Tyler

Taming Your Gremlin,
by Rick Carson

Lost Memoirs of Jane Austen,
by Syrie James

Ending Your Day Right,
by Joyce Meyer

And my monthly copy of
Down East Magazine

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Products of contemplation from an enthusiastic freelance writer who just can't pin herself down. Some technical, some not so much. Some creative, some shockingly unimaginative. Some professional and productive and some, frankly, unprofessional and unproductive. And that's probably where the fun starts.
Saturday
27Jun

It's Not Unusual

DateSaturday, June 27, 2009 at 12:23PM

I do love a road trip. Tom flies in from Vegas, sometimes another place depending on his schedule but usually Vegas, and we get to spend a few uninterrupted hours together. After saying our hellos and flipping through inserts together, I slide his shiny, still too cool for school self into the little slot in the dashboard and off we go.

He sings and I listen. I sing and he just keeps singing. I talk and he professes his love in so many different ways – each about three minutes long and separated by tiny moments of silence for reflection. I like to reflect on his hairy chest and unbuttoned white satin shirt with the ruffles, and he likes to reflect on my crackerjack driving skills and uncanny knack for navigation.

We laugh (oh, how we laugh when we pass the sign for Stinking Creek Road somewhere in Tennessee) and we reminisce about our other road trips together.

Most of our time is spent talking and singing about life and love. I say I’ll never let him go (meaning, I won’t leave him when I return the car to Hertz), and he says that he’ll turn the tide for me with his hands (tide, maybe, but apparently ol’ Thunderball can’t do anything about the yay-hoos going 55mph in the left lane).

At this, we laugh some more. He takes a sip of scotch (I’m driving) and starts singing “She’s A Lady”. I am reminded of how much he really does mean to me, so I pat his little jewel case, take back the unladylike namecalling and graciously accept the turning of the tide. 

Stay until tomorrow? No, I know. We say our goodbyes and he heads back to work. I take one last look as I put him back on the top shelf and can't help but smile. Till next time, young man, till next time. 

AuthorKaren Rutherford | CommentPost a Comment | | | Print ArticlePrint | in ,
Wednesday
24Jun

Happy Birthday, You, Wherever You Are

DateWednesday, June 24, 2009 at 08:34PM

June 25th, nineteen years ago, at 1:23pm, Austin interrupted a particularly good episode of All My Children by FINALLY insisting on being born. If you see him, please, please, please sing to him. As loud as you can. And, preferably, while squeezing his cheeks. He loves that.

With each of his big events of late (18th birthday, graduation, the dropping off at college scenario, and so on), I post this video*, because it fits how I feel. I couldn't be happier about the man he's become, but I couldn't be sadder about his getting older and dragging me with him.

*Yes, I do other maternal stuff, too, like researching banana pudding recipes (which will hopefully go from research to implementation phase before June ends), putting a check inside a card (which is much more personal than transferring money at ourbank.com), and making reservations (nothing says "I love you" like a McCormick and Schmick's dinner).

AuthorKaren Rutherford | CommentPost a Comment | | | Print ArticlePrint | in
Monday
22Jun

Hillbilly Papa-razzo

DateMonday, June 22, 2009 at 08:11PM

I live in an area of Indianapolis known as Meridian Hills. It is within the city limits and is considered a more than decent place to live. Mostly professionals, mostly folks with a little money (I moved here for the school district and am in on a "just passing through" technicality).

The name is a little misleading, because you'd have to drive the area for an hour or so to find an actual hill. BUT, you can easily find the hillbilllies. They're next door to me.

When I talk about my neighbors, one might think I live in the sticks. It'd be an understandable conclusion, because it is exactly where they should be. They are recently retired campers. Not RVers, just campers. Their favorite place to go is the campground (and not "the new one") in Gulf Shores, Alabama (lookie there, favorite and Alabama in the same sentence!). They practice casting (throwing a fishing pole, right?) in the backyard. They have gobs of family over almost every day. They have a little fishing boat behind the camper and an overgrown diesel truck in their extended driveway. Sometimes, they rip the tarp off the boat and sit in it with the grandkids. (Don't they have video games to play with like normal children?) Recently, they repaved their driveway and had a big hoe-down in the front yard, grillin', sippin', I'm assuming spittin', and watchin' the tar dry.

Not much goes on in our backyard. Mostly just getting in and out of our cars, dog business, and lawn mowing. But, boy howdy, when something happens, it's like we're movie stars.

Today, we had someone cut up and haul off our downed tree (which every member of their extended family has come in the yard to get an up-close and personal look-see. Maybe they're hoping for Jesus or the Virgin Mary in it or something). When it was cleared and the man had gone, we went outside to approve the job and do a tiny bit of leftover clean-up. I glanced in the neighbor's general direction and saw a big ol' shadow in the screened-in porch. The hillbilly Papa. Just staring and not even flinching when we saw him.

Then, I stood outside and chatted with the cable repairman for a minute or two. And there ol' Pap was again. Unnerving me and cramping my style.

Later, I pulled up in my rental car for my trip to Charlotte for work tomorrow and there he was again. I'm not even sure he went inside. I don't know if or when his shift ends.

Maybe I should throw him a line. He must be drowning in boredom if we're something to see.

AuthorKaren Rutherford | CommentPost a Comment | | | Print ArticlePrint | in
Sunday
21Jun

Moving Out of the Taj Mahal, The Trilogy

DateSunday, June 21, 2009 at 10:57AM

I’ve always heard that bad things come in threes. Since Friday at high noon, I’ve had my three and it better damn well stop there. (It's important to mention how much my kooky landlord thinks of his 1968 3BR, 2BA ranch-style house (although he doesn't spend a dime on maintenance of it - he's complicated like that). He has called me several times over the past two years to check on critical things like the paint, the bushes and the dishwasher. I pray that someday this man has children to worry about this much - no, scratch that, he'd ruin 'em.) 

Friday AM: Landlord receives email I sent Monday about lease non-renewal. He’s ticked. I can hear it when he tells me I’ll be showing the property, he’ll be “inspecting” the property for damages, and that he already has 20 inquiries he’s told to drive by and look at it.

Friday 5PM: First prospect he's given the address to pulls up in driveway, looks for cars in the parking area behind the house, looks in dining room window and leaves.

Friday 7PM: Kitchen sink explodes. When I turn the garbage disposal off, a Yellowstone geyser of water shoots up. Email to landlord (telling him it could indeed be our fault, not sure) and explain again about reasonable notice and my disdain for peeping toms.

Friday 10PM: Tree falls on power line to house, cutting power, cable, phone wires. It’s still 86 degrees outside with 75% humidity.

Saturday 11AM: Cancel my plans to leave for Charlotte. Make reservations at nearby hotel that accepts pets. Call insurance for ideas, etc. High volume on everything due to storm. May hear back next week.

Saturday 2PM: Call landlord about tree. It was like his own limb had been cut off. “We’re fine. Thanks for asking.” (to imaginary "How are you guys? Is everyone okay?")

Saturday 3PM: Check into hotel and cool off. Kindly send pics of tree to landlord for his homeowner’s insurance. “You’re welcome.” (to an imaginary "Thank you.")

Saturday 7PM: Drive back to house to pick up something I had forgotten. Note in the door from someone named Mark who wanted to see the house. Call Mark to find out what landlord had told him (apparently "Stop by! Knock on the door! Look in the windows! Check it out!"). Mark is drunk. And Mark left a trail of roofing nails in the driveway. Leave landlord another voice mail about this idiot and BEG him to make appointments after July 1st (45 days from move-out date according to lease) and not to give out the address anymore.

Saturday 8PM: IPL pulls up while I’m fuming at the house and restores power.

Saturday 11:30PM: Landlord returns call from 7PM and leaves pissy voice mail telling me all the things I owe him because he's been such a good guy. ("Remember how I had the heater replaced when it died that one dead o' winter time?" "Remember how I lowered your rent 6.84% the second year to keep you from moving after the first year?") 

Sunday 7:30AM: Check out of hotel, return things to fridge, and leave for work.

Sunday 11AM: Still trading email barbs with landlord. He thinks he’s done me great favors and I think he's silly. He's ticked that I'm ticked and now I'm ticked that he's ticked. He has now added “lawyer” to “inspector” on his list of professionals he’s going to contact about me. Uhhhh, okay.

Is this still just three? 

Update: Sink issue not my fault or responsibility. Looking so forward to another shit storm of whine from landlord when he gets rent check (less costs). 

This post was tedious, just me venting and has nothing to do with anything. I know this and am now as bored with myself as anyone reading this. 

AuthorKaren Rutherford | CommentPost a Comment | | | Print ArticlePrint | in
Friday
19Jun

Who Me?

DateFriday, June 19, 2009 at 07:44AM

I turned in a freelance assignment that I thought was pretty good. I added a little pizzazz, a little TGIF flair, if you will. Hip, happening, now kind of stuff. Just the right amount of (subtle) cuteness.

Of course, like any insecure writer would, I kept checking the site to see if he had posted it. Finally, around 9pm, there it was. But it didn’t sound like my piece. Truth be told, I didn’t even recognize it.

I was a little discouraged, because he must have edited the heck out of my work. And, if I’m honest, it was a whole lot better his way.

And then……

I opened up my original and he had only changed two words! Combined a couple of sentences with an “and”, but only changed two words.

So, two things: (1) I don’t even recognize my own writing and (2) Either he was that tired or I was that good. You can imagine the conclusion I have to draw here.

AuthorKaren Rutherford | CommentPost a Comment | | | Print ArticlePrint | in
Thursday
18Jun

What'cha Doin'?

DateThursday, June 18, 2009 at 11:11AM

I guess with age comes the loss of things. Most notably friends. Lives change, people change, goals change, heck, even our personalities change. I’ve lost eight friends in the 21st century and, even though I’m sure it’s natural and the way God intended, every ending has stung a bit.

Last night, I woke up from a sound sleep at 3:18 AM thinking of one former friend in particular. Now, of course, I will worry about her for days and never know why.

There were signs that year that things were going to end. She was busy, and I think I became more of an obligation. We had less in common and were growing apart. I think we both knew it was time. We didn’t exactly lose touch, as they say, we just stopped all forms of communication. There was no talk about it, no warning about it, it just happened. Our last conversation was Thanksgiving Day 2006.

At the time, I thought it was especially bad timing, because she had recently won somewhat of a genetic lotto. Her father sold his business, and each of his three kids received millions of dollars. To this day, I’m afraid she may think the friendship ended because of money. Ironically, we had a lengthy conversation not too long before about how she’d soon find out who her real friends were.

Looking back on it, though, God knew what he was doing and ended this relationship at the perfect time. There’s no way we could have lasted. I’m a single mom, working multiple jobs, saving, paying for college. In a nutshell, she’s not. I would not have reacted well in any conversation about grand vacations and surgeries and jewelry and days, weeks, months, years with little to no responsibilities. I was happy for her, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think I would have been able to appreciate the details. I’m probably wrong and small for that, but maybe I get points for honesty. Plus, I'm awfully glad I didn't have the opportunity to embarrass myself.  

She was so important to me during the divorce from my father. She made jokes at all the right times. We came up with elaborate and hilarious schemes for his (and his wife’s) demise (yes, two middle-aged women sitting in a parking lot planning all sorts of Fargo-type things) . She just sat there in silent and supportive agreement when I busted out in uncontrollable crying in the middle of one conversation I’ll never forget. She made the hurt of it all more bearable, and she made me feel validated and like I mattered when I knew I didn’t. Heck, even her mother got on board, and she was sure to let me know that at least one parent on the planet wuv’d me! I like to think I was a good friend during her nasty separation and divorce from her ex-husband and oodles of recurring family drama.

She was funny, sharp as a tack, and the most effortlessly kind-hearted person I know. I hope she’s well and happy and enjoying her life, her son, her new house and her family. I miss her. And I know it’s the way it’s meant to be.

But I do wonder what she might have been up to at 3:18 AM.

AuthorKaren Rutherford | CommentPost a Comment | | | Print ArticlePrint | in ,
Friday
12Jun

Hauntings

DateFriday, June 12, 2009 at 10:24AM

**This post could have typos, grammatical errors, meandering thoughts that go nowhere, bad words and more. This is what we professional writers call free-write form. Actually, it's nothing of the sort. I’m just lazy and taking a break from the precision that is me.

The Carradines

Idiots. If I were a Carradine and knew David at all, I think I would have left well enough alone and gone with the suicide theory reported by the media. I mean, why get all haughty and say, “How dare ye? This will sooo be investigated! David would never have committed suicide!!!” Maybe not, but the man had death-defying, kinky sex, apparently all by his lonesome, hanging in a Thailand hotel closet with fishnet stockings on and rope around his winky. I bet they wish they had some suicide dignity back. David’ll probably Kung-Fu haunt ‘em and who could really blame him.

Tw*t

Why are the porno women following me on Twitter? What about me screams online lesbian? I wonder if this has anything to do with the Kansas City golf course hooker, Karen Rutherford?

Twit

My eyes are still burning. I don’t know what I was thinking when I typed my son’s name in the twitter.com. I’m a firm believer that, unless bail or a hospital is involved, I don’t need to know much about Austin’s personal life. I mean, I like knowing what he’s doing and who his friends are and things like that, but filtered for a mother. Not the stuff just out there all helter-skelter for his peeps. It’s a different language, a different kid. I didn’t pass the first page – because of the stinging and temple throbbing. This could very well turn out to be one of my life’s little regrets.

The 30-Year Clock

I know this will not come across the way I want it to. It will sound like I’m poking fun. Okay, I admit it, I’m poking a little fun. I like this lady and realize she just has different values and happy triggers than I do (celebrate our differences and all that yes, we can bullshit), but interestingly, those apparent values don’t really support what comes out of her mouth most days about her disdain for her job, her time served and dread about her remaining months until retirement. But, I do like her and am happy for her little clock diversion this week. 

Monday: The clock is on its way! Tuesday: It should be here this afternoon, but I can’t open it. When it arrives, I have to make an appointment for people to come open the box and inspect the clock first. Later that Tuesday: My clock is here!! Wednesday: They’re coming at 2 to inspect the clock. I moved some things in my curio cabinet at home last night. So, I’ll put my clock under its own light and it’ll be so pretty. Later that Wednesday (to an assorted group of folks – some who have passed the 30-year mark and already received their clocks and some who are well on their way): Look at my clock!!! I can touch it now. Two people came to open it up and check it to make sure it was okay. They had gloves on and everything. Then, they gave me a certificate, too. Do you want to see my clock? It’s really pretty. I don’t know, I think it’s brass. It looks like brass (not diamonds?). I’m going to take it home tonight and put it in my cabinet. I'll have to be really careful with it.

I just know I will remember this in my cubicle at the old folks’ home.

Plainfield, Indiana Barnes and Noble Bookstore

There are four to five employees for every customer. And they must be running a contest to see who can help the most. I actually saw one employee carry some poor guy’s books to the checkout stand for him after he followed him around while he did his shopping. The last question I was asked was, “Ma’am. Can I help you? You look lost.” It’s a f-hecking bookstore, you yay-hoo. People browse, people linger, people think and read and look and meander from aisle to aisle. In another store, in another town, and in another time, that is.

 

AuthorKaren Rutherford | CommentPost a Comment | | | Print ArticlePrint | in
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