Fri, 14 Aug 2026 17:01:01 -0400WeeblyTue, 28 Jul 2026 00:08:29 GMThttp://www.tammybulsonwriting.com/blog/unsupportedCan we talk about bras? Gentlemen readers, unless you’re very empathetic to the fairer sex, you may want to skip this month’s post.

I debated writing this one. Probably isn’t appropriate. Half of my readers (the male half) can’t relate. Totally unprofessional. But hell, I’ve never been afraid to go out on a limb for a worthy cause, and this topic needs some time in the spotlight. So… bras, brassieres, over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders, or whatever term you like - those uncomfortable contraptions that society tells us we must wear.

I’m going to be honest, during the heart of COVID when none of us were leaving our homes, my bra got zero wear time. And it was heavenly. I can totally understand why the bra burning era was so popular. If I’m not going out in public, or planning on having company stop by, I’m probably not wearing a bra (a/k/a manmade torture garment).
It feels so good to throw on a nice soft t-shirt without putting on anything underneath. It’s so freeing. When I decide to leave the house and step out into public, my initial thought is, “This better be worth having to put on a bra”. I know wearing a bra is not a written law, but societal pressure makes it feel like one. Plus, I guess we do look better…umm…supported?

I did some research because I thought for sure the bra must have been invented by a man – someone who would never have to wear one but could make a ridiculously uncomfortable constricting garment for the opposite sex. But alas, I was wrong. (Again). The bra was invented by Herminie Cadolle, a French woman who reportedly made a fortune with her lingerie business. According to Wikipedia, she filed a patent for the invention in 1889, and it was originally called a corselet-gorge, a new alternative to wearing the traditional one-piece corset. 

I’m pretty sure Herminie was thinking her invention would make life more comfortable for women. And I’m sure it was a huge improvement over a traditional corset, but friends, it’s been 137 years, it’s high time for us to pump up our comfort level once again. 

I’ve tried so many different bras and not even one has been super comfortable. My favorite bra is the least uncomfortable one I own and even that one doesn’t feel great. I’ve come to the conclusion that a truly comfortable bra is a unicorn – it simply doesn’t exist. Could we convince society that bras are no longer necessary and it’s okay if your breasts hang down to your bellybutton, waist or knees? Probably not likely.

So, in the meantime, I’ll be aligning to the societal demands and wearing my least uncomfortable bra. But if anyone out there wants to start a braless revolution, sign me up. I’m your girl! I’ll be happy to be the first one to toss my bra into the fire of our future. 

​Until then, friends, love each other, be kind, and men...know that if the woman in your life seems a little grumpy, it’s probably because her bra is cutting into her skin, her bra straps are slipping down her arms for the hundredth time, and she’s stuck wearing an additional layer of clothing in this heat. Take my advice and tread carefully. 
]]>Mon, 29 Jun 2026 22:43:00 GMThttp://www.tammybulsonwriting.com/blog/2026-please-do-better2026 can kiss my ass. There. I said what I said. And I mean it. 

I know I have many blessings in my life and I am not taking them for granted. I should be focusing on the positive, but it’s hard to do with so much negativity getting doled out the first half of the year.

In my six decades on this earth, I have experienced great loss, worked through unimaginable sadness, and struggled to understand why bad things continue to happen to good people. I’ve worked through those difficult times and tried to find the good; to lean into the wonderful things in life. 

But the first half of this year has been brutal. We have lost so many people who have been fixtures in my life and in the lives of those I love. It’s been a nightmare with one loss after another, back to back, with no time to find steady ground in between. Hence the reason I really want to throat punch 2026. You hear that, 2026? It’s time to get your shit together. Give us some peace. Give us some time to heal before pulling that rug out from under us with more bad news.

And it’s not just me. Everyone is saying the same thing…they’ve never seen so much loss in such a short period of time. The first person who tries to tell me it’s because I’m old and need to realize none of us are getting out of here alive…is asking for a throat punch too. 

I know there are areas of the world dealing with devastating loss - earthquakes, wildfires, hurricanes, tornados, etc. And when I think of those poor people I’m hesitant to whine about the first six months of this year here on the homefront. But damn, enough is enough.

So, I’m going to throw this out into the universe and beg 2026 to deliver a better second half. To slow down on the tragedy and loss, to give us some breathing room. And in case it doesn’t, we need to pull together and help each other navigate through it. We need to be kind, be gentle with each other. Give a hug, a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on…or just be there for people who need it. Be more understanding. Because you truly never know what people are going through. Let’s give some grace and do our best. 

Hopefully 2026 will learn by our example and deliver the rest of the year in a much kinder form.

​]]>Fri, 29 May 2026 21:13:31 GMThttp://www.tammybulsonwriting.com/blog/book-four-out-the-doorI’ve been keeping my nose to the grindstone with my writing and a few weeks ago I finally typed “The End” in book four. And I’m not going to lie, it took far too long to get this book written. I was still working when I started writing it, so it was super slow going at first, trying to squeeze in writing weeknights after work (can you say brain dead?) or on weekends. Not only did my pre-retirement life have limited hours for actually sitting down and writing, sometimes the creative juices refused to flow within those precious hours. I figured it was because I was so consumed with my job. I thought retirement would find me banging out words like popcorn in hot grease. Exploding thoughts going onto paper. Bing. Bang. Boom. I was wrong.

I finally hit my stride the last couple of months and was able to sit down and write without feeling like the entire process was torture. For so long it seemed those damn characters of mine wouldn’t behave. They wouldn’t tell me what they were thinking or what they were going to do, so I really had to push to keep them in line.

But it still felt good to type “The End”, even if it’s really just the beginning of the publishing process. First I had to complete edits. If anyone tells you they actually enjoy editing their own work, I want to meet them. No…I want to be them. Because for me, it’s pure agony. 

But, I got through it. With the first round of edits complete, it was time for the alpha readers - the people who are reading the book in its roughest form. Those brave souls who look for major plot holes, find my stupid errors (like calling a character a name that doesn’t belong to them - a name that doesn’t belong to anyone in the book), and help me get the book in decent enough shape for a round of beta readers.

It’s hard to explain how it feels to share your writing with readers for the first time, but it’s probably akin to going out in public without any pants on. Not that I have done that. Well actually, I almost did that once in high school when I was hurrying to get out of the locker room to go to softball practice. I had my t-shirt, socks, spikes, and softball glove and was heading into the hallway when luckily a friend stopped me and pointed out I wasn’t wearing any pants/shorts. (I’ll be forever grateful for that one. Thanks, Lea!) So I almost know what it would feel like going pantless in public and I think sharing a new piece of your work leaves you feeling equally exposed.

Because you aren’t just sharing your work, you’re sharing a part of your soul. You’ve been alone with your characters for months (actually years in this case); you’ve created the story, woven plots, written and rewritten scenes. You’ve worked hard and what you’ve constructed is like your very own baby. You’re protective. You want to guard it to some degree…because nobody wants someone to tell them their baby is ugly. But it needs to be done. If my book baby is ugly, I need to know.

While I’m waiting for the rounds of readers to complete their work, I’m working on my query submission package. That means writing a compelling query letter, creating a solid synopsis and researching which agents to query. It’s about as much fun as a root canal, but it needs to be done.

Once all the feedback from my readers has been returned, another round of edits begin to incorporate that precious feedback. Once all edits are complete, and the submission package is polished and ready to roll, it’s into the query trenches I go. Those trenches are pretty much pure hell. I mean, you’re putting yourself out there knowing you’ll likely get rejections. Writers going the traditional publishing route need to mentally prepare themselves for lots of folks telling them their baby is ugly. The key is continuing the journey and trying to find the perfect agent who thinks your baby is beautiful. Or at least pretty enough to take a stab at representing you.

So, that’s where I’m at. Ready to throw some salt over my shoulder, light some candles and rub my lucky rabbit’s foot. I’ll keep you all posted on the progress. Hopefully in the not too distant future, I can share some positive publishing news. Fingers crossed.

​]]>Thu, 30 Apr 2026 18:09:59 GMThttp://www.tammybulsonwriting.com/blog/cornhole-and-retirementOver my 40+ years of working, I often dreamed of what retirement would be like. There would be sandy beaches to travel to, new places to explore. Home life would include languishing in my gardens by day, drinking cocktails on our back deck by night. A life of relaxation and bliss - my well-earned reward after years of working in corporate America.

Instead, we’re playing cornhole. In leagues. At bars. Year-round. One or two nights a week. Plus the occasional game in a backyard, or in a pole barn when the weather doesn’t allow the outside games. I definitely didn’t see this being part of my retirement dreams.

If you’re not familiar with the sport of cornhole, the object is to throw four one-pound beanbags (or corn-filled bags) into a six-inch-diameter hole positioned nine inches from the top of a two-foot by four-foot raised board, twenty-seven feet away. Sounds easy enough, right? I mean I throw wadded up pieces of clothing from one end of my laundry room to a wicker hamper on the other end all the time. How hard could it be?

My husband got the cornhole bug first. He picked up on it quickly and was making cornholes (getting the bag in the little circular opening) almost immediately. I, on the other hand, couldn’t even hit the board. My bags would land in the grass (or mud or concrete) far away from the board. It was like there was a magnetic field surrounding the board, not allowing my bags go near it. 

So I started studying my husband as he threw his bags. The way his hand grasped the bag, his perfect follow-through, his confident stride. He even took time to show me how he throws the bag like a frisbee and presto, it lands in the hole. I tried copying him. My bags landed even further away from their target. 

I got frustrated. I hated the game. Where were my sandy beaches and fancy cocktails anyway? I didn’t like playing this stupid game. But he insisted. “You’ll get it. You just need to practice more.”

So I did. I practiced and got worse. Maybe I was overthinking it. I mean, overthinking is one of my toxic traits. But I like a challenge and I don’t shy away from doing hard things. So I kept at it. I tried new strategies. They didn’t seem to help. So I got creative. Maybe drinking alcohol would help. It didn’t. Although it did make me care a hell of a lot less. So we signed up for leagues and started playing anyway. Eventually I started to at least hit the board sometimes. Which is nice since the bags stay a lot cleaner that way. Plus, you score a point if you hit the board. Three points if you actually get a bag in the hole.

Eventually we purchased our own board and bags. And we practiced. A lot. My husband wasn’t beating me twenty-one to zero every time we played a game. If I scored a single point, I celebrated. Twenty-one to one felt better - at least I was on the scoreboard!

Now, a couple of years into retirement, we’re still playing cornhole. It’s become a family affair too - our kids, nephews, and nieces all play. Birthday parties and other celebrations often include a few games of shooting cornhole. Even my dad has joined in on the fun a couple of times. And playing in the leagues gets us out of the house. It forces me to be social, even on days I’d prefer being tucked away at home reading a book. We’ve become a pretty good team, even though it’s my husband who usually carries us. We’ve made new friends and have had a lot of laughs. It keeps us active and engaged. 

It’s a far cry from sandy beaches and world travel, but it works for us. I still can hardly ever beat my husband in a one-on-one game, but at least it’s happened a handful of times. He probably had something in his eye or was sick with the flu on those days, but I’ll take victory when I can. 

My advice, even though nobody asked, is sometimes it’s okay to let go of your dreams and try something new. You might find a new, unplanned way forward. And if you’re like me…you might find those clothes you pitch underhand at the hamper, actually going in.



​]]>Sat, 21 Mar 2026 16:50:40 GMThttp://www.tammybulsonwriting.com/blog/hey-scammers-get-a-lifeHey Scammers - Get a Life!

I received the email of my dreams this week. A senior publicist was interested in all three of my books, mentioning each of them by their title. She said what stood out to her about my work was my “passion for storytelling and clear dedication to crafting narratives that keep readers fully immersed”. Yowsa!

The email went on, explaining how she was very interested to learn more about my current writing projects and any upcoming novels I might be developing within the romantic suspense or thriller space. She even said if I was currently represented by a literary agent, she would be happy to continue the conversation through them. If not, she would gladly explore how we might proceed with reviewing further material and discussing potential opportunities.

Eek! My heart sped up. To say I was excited is an understatement. This sounded fabulous. Maybe too good to be true? Yep, that’s what I thought too. In this world we live in, surrounded by deceit, ploys, scams, and dishonesty, one can never be too sure. 

Still…this was a dream come true, if it was legit. Someone in the publishing industry was reaching out, interested in not just one of my books, but all three I’ve written plus anything I had in progress. Yet, there was a little nagging voice in my head telling me not to pop the cork on the champagne just yet. I shared her email with my husband and daughter, and told them I was a bit skeptical because stuff like this never happens. Traditional publishing usually requires a literary agent to champion your work, but dang, she’d even mentioned she’d work with an agent. Like me, they were excited but wary.

So, off to the web to research. Yes, she was really a publicist. The picture she’d used in her email signature matched the one on the internet. She was featured in multiple articles, talking about her love of thrillers. Since she’d mentioned the company she was with, Penguin Random House, I would have expected the email to come from an email address through them. But what really got me, what really raised my suspicion, is that the email came from her name with an AOL email address. I’m pretty sure there’s only a handful of us left still using AOL. (Yes, I also have an AOL email address, but I don’t use it for writing.) I kept researching and found her on Instagram, LinkedIn, TikTok, Facebook, etc. She really did exist and was well known in the industry.

However, I did find a mention in LinkedIn about her changing publishing houses last fall. Ding, ding, ding: Red flag number two. I found an email for her through her previous job at Penguin Random House, and another email from a site she uses to share her excitement about her favorite thriller reads. I used those to forward the email I’d received to her, questioning its legitimacy. In less than five hours I received an email reply from her indicating it was a scam and she was sorry I’d been targeted.

The very next day I received another email. This one from an Editorial Director at Bloomsbury Publishing. She said my novel The Seaside Crosses had recently been brought to her attention by a colleague who believed it might be of particular interest. She said she was immediately drawn to the title…blah blah blah. This time the email address had the Bloomsbury publishing house name in it, but still using an AOL email. So, back to the web to research. I found a gmail email address for this Editorial Director and forwarded the email to her, questioning if it might be a scam. In less than two hours she confirmed it was.

I’m not sure whether they are targeting manuscripts to try publishing them as their own work, or if they will extend offers to publish and ask writers for money up front. But, somehow they were going to end up with money, if only us gullible writers would go along with their schemes. 

I have to admit they are good. They must have some pretty nifty data mining tools to come up with specifics about people’s books. They said all the right things, had knowledge about the genre I write in. Both emails were unique, not repeating the same phrases. If only they weren’t cheating bastards it would have been wonderful. 

But, lesson learned. Like they say, if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. That was definitely the case here. 

Fellow writers, beware. There’s some bad actors out there trying to make money off our hard work. Be wise and verify and never give them any money.

Dear readers, thanks for taking the time to read this month’s blog post. I hope that soon I’ll be able to share news that at least one of my books has been published. Legitimately. In the meantime, I’ll continue to write the stories and do my best to navigate through the swindlers. Take care and love each other.




]]>Wed, 25 Feb 2026 14:00:00 GMThttp://www.tammybulsonwriting.com/blog/cheers-to-42-yearsI stood outside the church trying to keep my wedding dress out of the way as my cousin fed me a spoonful of Pepto-Bismol. We were hoping the medicine would help quell my nervous stomach, knowing any errant drips of pink would be hard to miss splashed against the stark white of my dress.

The organ music spewed out of the open church doors letting in the cold February air and my soon-to-be husband stood inside, waiting at the altar. I wasn’t nervous because I didn’t want to get married, in fact, that was all I wanted. What I didn’t want was all the pomp and circumstance that went along with a wedding. I didn’t care about the color scheme, the flowers, the seating charts, or the special dances. I would have rather been married on home plate of a softball field as we had joked about, but that’s a no-go during winter in the Northeast.

As it turns out, I didn’t pass out or throw up during the wedding ceremony, but just barely. We made it through that day, and through the next 42 years, side by side. We never could have imagined how our lives would unfold on that long ago day. The highs and lows, the joy and tragedy that lay ahead.

The odds were certainly stacked against us. We’d started dating in the fall, married in the winter and had our first baby in the summer. We planned our wedding in just six weeks. The reception was at the VFW, less than a mile down the road from the church. Food was brought by family and friends, spray-painted beer bottles held silk flowers for centerpieces and a one-man band supplied the music. People said we’d never make it. They didn’t say that directly to us, but the comments eventually reached our ears. We just ignored them. Perhaps we were an unlikely match, but love ignores such details.

We moved from our parent’s homes to a tiny mobile home we rented. We quickly learned how to shop for groceries, cook meals, and keep a household running. I’d followed my mother around with a notebook and pen jotting down recipes in the days before our wedding. I’d never had the responsibility of planning and cooking all meals and I didn’t want to screw it up. I still have those pages I’d jotted down back then, tucked away in my cookbook. They’re tattered and worn, and even though I no longer need them, I’ll never be able to throw them away.

Together we have navigated through whatever life has thrown at us. And man, has it thrown us some curveballs. But we have stood side by side, a united front, solid and unmoving as the tides of life (and sometimes near tsunamis) have washed over us. Somehow we’ve made it through mostly unscathed, stronger than ever. And don’t get me wrong, it certainly hasn’t been a cake walk, in fact some days have been more like walking over hot coals in bare feet, but we always make it to the other side.

So, this month’s blog post is dedicated to my husband and our marriage. Forty-two years together and I still laugh at his jokes, even when I don’t want to. Dammit, it’s hard to be mad when someone says something hysterical. He’s my rock, my safe harbor, and the other half of my heart. I simply couldn’t do this life without him and I look forward to having him by my side for whatever life throws at us in the years ahead. Happy Anniversary, my love.

]]>Sat, 31 Jan 2026 00:25:46 GMThttp://www.tammybulsonwriting.com/blog/the-intriguing-world-of-idiomsI’ve been feeling under the weather for the last couple of weeks. When I thought about starting this month’s blog post with that sentence, I started wondering where that particular idiom came from. I’m certainly not standing outdoors in the snow and cold to be literally under the weather. (In fact, there’s no way in hell I’d be standing outside currently, the wind chill at the Watertown airport was 48℉ below zero this morning. Your eyeballs freeze open in that kind of weather.)

So, curious minds want to know, right? Well…at least my curious mind did, so I did some research. I learned the term “under the weather” comes from a nautical reference where sick sailors were sent below deck to get out of bad weather, so they were literally under the weather. While the healthy sailors manned the ship, their sick crew mates went under deck to get away from the weather.

This knowledge led me down a rabbit hole of exploring other idioms and their origins. Yes, I know that the whole rabbit-holing thing is a risk for those of us with a growth mindset. Just because I’m cognizant of that, doesn’t mean I avoid it. Nope. I shrug my shoulders and dive in with reckless abandon. And because I did go down the idiom rabbit hole, I can now share some of my favorites with you.

“Let the cat out of the bag” - This one goes back to the 1700s where people selling pigs would sometimes slip a cat in the bag with the pig(s) to make it heavier, tricking the buyer into believing they were getting more/bigger pig(s) than they actually were. If the cat got out of the bag, the seller’s fraudulent trickery would be revealed. 

“Wet blanket” originated from the fact that water-soaked blankets were used to smother fires, a practice going back to the 1600s. So when a crowd had gathered for a celebratory fire, someone putting a wet blanket on said fire would end the fun for those celebrating.

“Armed to the teeth” is believed to refer to 17th century pirates who wanted to make sure they were prepared to fight. Those pirates would have a gun in each hand, a third gun in their pocket while holding a knife in their teeth. Hence, they were armed to the teeth.

“Cut corners” or “cutting corners” indicates a person using a shortcut leading to negative results. This one is quite literal in its origin and comes from carriage drivers trying to hurry when turning from one street to another, cutting the corner too short and hitting the curb resulting in potential damage or at least a bumpy ride.

There are many more idioms with interesting origins that I’d encourage you to check out. Why? Because that type of curiosity provides innocent fun and that’s something we all need right now, something that can temporarily remove us from the chaotic world we’re currently living in. A good diversion that allows us to understand sayings that have been passed on for generations, used by our ancestors and still being used today.

With that, it’s a wrap on the January blog. Remember to love each other and be kind. You never know what someone else is going through. 
]]>Thu, 18 Dec 2025 18:27:31 GMThttp://www.tammybulsonwriting.com/blog/dishwasher-dramaOur dishwasher died. Well, technically it’s still alive, but hanging on by a thread. It’s begging to be put out of its misery. I know this is uniquely a third-world problem, but I really like my dishwasher. It's been telling me for quite some time that it needs to move on, to go to the big dishwasher heaven in the sky. The plastic on the whirly thing that shoots out water from the top has been broken forever, soon followed by pieces of the racks falling off, which happened around the same time it wouldn’t run unless you held in on the door. I didn’t want it to give up, even though we had to rig up several heavy items to hold the door shut so it would run. But when the door stopped nicely opening and began free-falling to the floor each time it was opened, I knew it was time. It gave us nearly three decades of clean dishes, it was time to let it go.

Enter Black Friday. Great time to snag a deal on a dishwasher. Add in the fact that I could shop for one online, read reviews, compare models, and finally choose “the one”, right from the comfort of my own home. I found a decent one for a great price, so I decided to buy it and also splurge for the delivery, installation, and removal of old faithful. It was well worth the money to protect our domestic harmony. If you’ve been married for a long time, I’m sure you’re tracking here.

They provided the delivery date when I placed the order. It would be delivered between 8:00 am and 5:00 pm on December 10th, less than two weeks from when I placed the order. I couldn’t forget the delivery date because I received many emails reminding me of it, along with a checklist to prepare for installation. I was surprised to see one of the checklist items was there “must be a clear path to the installation area”. I mean, dishwashers go in the kitchen, as a rule. Hoarders aside, why would anyone have to clear a path to their kitchen? But, a checklist is a checklist, and this rule follower was prepped and ready to meet our new dishwasher. 

I expected a call or an email the day before, narrowing down the broad 8:00 to 5:00 range with a more precise estimate. I didn’t receive either and that’s when I started to feel the first stirrings of worry. I know, worrying is what I do. And I’m damn good at it too…I’m like a worrier extraordinaire. But I told myself I was worrying for nothing, reminded myself that most things we worry about never come to fruition. 

The morning of December 10th came. We hadn’t made any plans to leave the house that day, but I still hoped for a more precise time range estimate, in case we wanted to. There is something unnerving about being held hostage in your own home waiting on someone to show up. What if we wanted to run a quick errand? What if I wanted to run around the house half-dressed? (Okay, I never do that, but what if I wanted to?) After checking both my emails and text messages, I was sad to find no new messages from the store or the installer. My worry meter cranked up a couple more notches.

By 11:00 am, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I called the store. The man who answered the phone was difficult to understand, I’m pretty sure he was trying to speak with a broken jaw. I could only make out bits and pieces of what he was saying, so I just kept repeating myself. “We’re expecting delivery and installation of our new dishwasher today and haven’t heard anything. I’m getting worried.” He asks for my phone number and confirms he can see my order. He can also see that the dishwasher hasn’t been picked up by the installer yet. This is after I tell him I’m not picking up the dishwasher, the installer is. (My worry meter moves up another notch). He seems confused and asks me to hang on while he talks to someone else. That someone then gets on the phone and confirms what the first person told me. I’m a little more at ease as the second guy is a bit easier to understand, but he doesn’t see a time range either, so he transfers me to “appliances”.

After a couple moments a lady answers the phone with, “Appliances. How can I help you?” I repeat who I am, what I’m looking for, and again provide my number on file. After a few moments, she tells me she can’t see anything other than it’s scheduled for delivery and installation today. But, if I’d like, I can call the installation company myself. She kindly provides their phone number and tells me if I don’t get an answer from them, I can call her back and she will call them herself. I’m not sure why she just didn’t offer to call them on my behalf right then, but I guess sometimes my customer service expectations run too high.

By now it’s almost noon. I dial the phone number she gave me for the installation company. Once again, I provide all of my information, tell the lady who answers the phone why I’m calling, and share my concern that we haven’t heard anything from the installer. She tells me she can see my order and asks if I can hold while she reaches out to the installer directly for more information. I agree and wait on hold for 18 minutes. 18 long minutes during which my worry meter continues to tick up several more notches. She finally returns to the phone and proceeds to tell me the original installer couldn’t make it, so she’s contacted their service department to see if someone else could deliver and install the dishwasher today, and someone will call me back. She tells me she’s sorry. I tell her I know it’s not her fault and thank her for her time.

Well, as I type this it’s now nearly 5:00 pm. Nobody has called me back. No texts. No emails. My worry has morphed into impatience. I gripe to my husband with “nobody does their job anymore”, and I know that I sound like a crotchety old woman when I say those words. And lately, I say them a lot. I honestly believe that customer service is not what it used to be. Customers shouldn’t feel “lucky” if things actually work out the way they’re supposed to. A job is just a job to people nowadays, nobody takes pride in their work. (Oh no! I really am a crotchety old woman!) So, dear readers, stay tuned to see how my dishwasher drama plays out!

December 11 - Nobody called or showed up yesterday. So today, I waited until 1pm for a call back. When none came, I called the installation company back again, went through all of my information, why I was calling, etc. After another long hold, the representative tells me I’ve been rescheduled for next Thursday, December 18th. She also informed me I could stay on the line to complete a brief survey, as did the lady I spoke to the day before. Are you freaking kidding me? I know it’s not the representatives’ fault, not directly. But ladies, you really don’t want to hear what I have to say at this point. I mean, I’m so frustrated I’m writing an entire blog post about the experience. Trust me. You do NOT want me to share my thoughts with a brief survey. 

December 17 (Day before our scheduled install): I wait until 2pm to call the installation company because…call me paranoid, but I haven’t received a call from the installer yet with the narrower time frame (it’s currently scheduled between 7:00 am and 7:00 pm). The lady that answers the phone tells me not to worry (clearly she doesn’t know who she’s talking to), that the installers usually make their calls in the evening, providing a 2-hour window for the install. If I don’t hear something before 6:20, I can feel free to call back and they can reach out to the installer. (Insert eyeroll here).

At about 4:30 in the afternoon, I received a call from the installer. We’ll call him Tim. (Because that really was his name). He tells me he will be here between 1:00 and 3:00 tomorrow to install my dishwasher, although they often run early. Great news!  I cross my fingers, light candles and rub my lucky rabbit foot.

December 18th - Tim and his helper show up at 12:30. The old dishwasher is removed, the new dishwasher is installed and they are out the door by 1:03. They were polite and efficient. The actual install was the only part of this entire experience that was smooth. But alas, our dishwasher drama is over and we got our happy ending. Me and my dishpan hands thank the dishwasher Gods above. 

Happy Holidays to you and yours. Thanks to all my loyal readers for taking time to read my chaotic ramblings throughout the year. I truly appreciate you.]]>Tue, 25 Nov 2025 21:13:16 GMThttp://www.tammybulsonwriting.com/blog/a-growth-mindsetBack when I was still gainfully employed, I learned about the difference between having a growth mindset and a fixed mindset, and found the topic riveting. If you’re not familiar with this thinking and would like to learn more, this blog post might help.

​So what is a “mindset” anyway? A mindset is how an individual sees the world, what they believe in, and how those beliefs shape their perspectives and behaviors.

With a fixed mindset, you believe your talents and abilities are something you are born with and can’t be changed. A person with a fixed mindset sees failing as confirmation they weren’t blessed with what they need to succeed. They believe they can’t change their destiny, either you have talent or you don’t, it’s simply determined by the cards you are dealt. Something that cannot be changed. When I think about this mindset, I picture Eeyore saying, “Ho hum. It is what it is. Woe is me. Why were other people given natural gifts that I wasn't given?” Okay, so that is probably a lot of words for Eeyore, but you get the drift.

On the other hand, a person with a growth mindset believes they can do anything they put their mind to. If they fail, they pull themselves up, dust themselves off, take note of what they learned, and try again. Learning is key to a person with a growth mindset, they’re typically lifelong learners. They believe with hard work and time, anything is possible.

And because humans are dang complicated, we’re not always one or the other. We can waffle back and forth between mindsets. For me, I believe I am mostly in the growth mindset camp, the majority of the time. Here’s a handful of examples to demonstrate how I know this to be true:

• I love to learn. I’m naturally curious. 
• I believe I can do anything I set my mind to. 
• If someone tells me I can’t do something (implying I’m not able), I will do it. Heck, I had people tell me I’d never be able to write a book. That I was a dreamer. Hey haters, I’ve written three books and am working on book four. So, put that in your pipe and smoke it.
• I think that someday I could learn to play an instrument, right now I’m leaning towards drums or piano, but haven’t ruled out harmonica or guitar.
• I built my website with zero skill or experience. It’s not going to win any awards, but it gets the job done and I can always improve it over time. I built it because it was something I wanted to do, and I wanted to prove I could do it on my own.
  
  
  

There are disadvantages to having a growth mindset. My insatiable curiosity can lead to serious rabbit holes. I don’t give up, even when I probably should. I’m like a dog with a bone. If there’s a puzzle to be worked out, a problem to be solved, a question to be answered, I’m not stopping until I’ve succeeded. Even if it takes hours or days. It can be an annoying trait. Or so I’ve been told. (Insert shrug and guilty smile here).

What’s really interesting is that anyone can develop a growth mindset, and scientists believe that a growth mindset is key to success. Many educators are trying to instill a growth mindset in their students. And believe it or not, the language we use with children makes a difference too. Let’s say a child gets excellent grades. Our first instinct might be to say, “Good job. You’re so smart.” But that means we’re reinforcing that success happens only because of talent you were born with. If we instead say, “That’s great. You must have worked really hard on that.” Or, “I bet you studied hard to get those grades”, we’re reinforcing that hard work yields positive results. If we compliment the process used for achieving success, rather than attributing results to genetics someone is blessed with, it helps them see anything is possible. Focus on the effort, not the end results.

With even a small grasp on these mindsets, you will recognize the differences we see in people and their various approaches to life. If you’re like me (or even only half as nerdy) and want to learn more, I recommend learning from Carol Dweck. Dweck is a psychologist who is an expert in mindsets and how they impact our lives. There are many online articles, like this one. Or if you want to dive deeper, I’d suggest Carol’s book, “Mindset: The New Psychology of Success”.

As I wrap up this month's post, I want to point out that I realize not everyone is interested in the topics I am interested in. So, dear reader, if you have specific subjects you’d like to see addressed in future blog posts, send them my way. In the meantime, take care of each other, love hard, hate sparingly, and enjoy the magic of the holiday season.




]]>Thu, 23 Oct 2025 18:56:17 GMThttp://www.tammybulsonwriting.com/blog/october-23rd-2025
I live in a small town. The 2023 census showed the population of our town at 1405. A good portion of those 1405 people are related to me. Our entire county, which stretches 1302 miles, only has a total population of just over 118,000. Let me put that in perspective for you. New York City covers a mere 468 miles and has 8.4 million people living within its borders.

Growing up, I never really thought about the fact that I lived in a small town. It was all I knew. I thought everyone lived in an area like I did. But I grew up, started my career, stretched my wings, and met hundreds (maybe thousands?) of people. During that process, I learned that most people don’t live in a rural area like I do. Living in my little town is the exception to the rule.

So, what does that mean? It means my day to day life looks very different from many of my friends and family who live in and near big cities. There are things here I see on the daily, that you aren’t going to see in places like NYC, Atlanta, SanDiego, Toronto, and many of the other cities I’ve traveled to. 

For instance, a few weeks ago I saw two young men driving lawn mowers across the parking lot of a Dollar General. In fact, I had to brake for them as I entered the parking lot. Were they mowing? Heck, no! The machines they were riding didn’t even have mower decks on them. They were clearly using the mowers as a mode of transportation. Speeding along at five miles per hour. They crossed the Dollar General parking lot and headed into the parking lot of an auto repair shop. Maybe they worked there and were reporting for their shift. Or perhaps they were journeying beyond that shop, cutting across parking lots instead of venturing out on the road.

Speaking of roads, ours look a lot different than city highways. They’re single lanes running in each direction, some paved, but some just oil and stone. Some have painted lines, but many have none. Horse excrement frequently lines the edges of our roads, a decoration left behind courtesy of horses pulling Amish buggies. My husband calls it “Amish exhaust”. I love seeing the buggies, carrying a slew of little ones piled in with their parents; girls dressed in their bonnets and dresses, boys in their long-sleeve button-up shirts, suspenders, and straw hats. And the bare feet. The Amish must have the toughest feet this side of the Mississippi. When I visit the stands where they sell their wares, the women and children will come running across the lawn in their bare feet. I don’t think shoes are used until the snow falls.

Amish homesteads aside, technology has finally reached our little neck of the woods, high-speed internet via cable arriving the past decade or so. I don’t miss the days when we had only satellite internet for high-speed options. Gone are the days of throwing on a coat and boots and wading through the snow with a broom to clean off the satellite dish to get a better signal. Technology has provided us with things like local Facebook community sites that share reports of missing chickens, goats, pigs, and most recently some wayward emus.

Transportation is quite different in small towns too, even if you don’t count those utilizing lawn mowers to get around. I remember having a conversation with a coworker who lived in a metropolitan area, and my shock when they said they didn’t own a vehicle. Public transportation was so prevalent, and parking areas so limited where they were, that a car would be more of a burden than a blessing. I had trouble wrapping my mind around this. Where I live, we’re at the DMV the day we turn sixteen (driving age here), getting our learner’s permit. It’s a rite of passage. Although the reality is that many have driven tractors, UTVs, and such, long before they can legally drive a car or truck. Without wheels in this area, you’re literally going nowhere. Stores, entertainment options, medical facilities, restaurants, are all too far away to walk to. I mean, unless you head out the day before, have strong legs, lots of stamina, and no fear of total darkness. Yeah, no street lights in these parts.

A lower residential footprint also means more wildlife. Like the frustrating wild turkey who keeps hammering its head into our basement window. We’ve tried convincing it that it's only seeing its reflection in the window, not another turkey, but alas he’s not getting our message. Driving in this area also requires the ability to see and miss the wildlife that shares our roads. I won’t go into gory detail, but I’ll tell you that unfortunately it’s been a banner year for roadkill.

As I pause typing and look out my window, I see only trees, now dressed in their fiery fall colors, interspersed with evergreens. No buildings. No concrete. No highway noise. No people. It’s only solitude and peace. So I guess I’ll take living in a small town any day, I truly can’t imagine it any other way.

Until next time, love on each other, be kind, and be thankful for all you have, 










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