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The hair salon I go to has a vibe. There’s just no denying it. You can feel it the moment you walk in the door. The owners are sisters. The employees who work there, and their clientele, are a special lot. I can’t help but wonder how this even happens? I mean, it’s a big salon. How does a place get a vibe so palpable that even the slow kids in the back (raising my hand here) can feel it? There are a lot of customers. How do you gather a large number of just the right employees and the right customers together under the same roof and end up creating such a vibe?
I’m only there every eight to nine weeks, yet it’s like I’ve only been gone a few minutes each time I return. The people there are positive, supportive and real. And I’m not talking about just the people who work there. Hell, they probably have to be nice or there wouldn’t be any paying clients. I’m including all of the people who are in and out of the place. There’s the local man who hasn’t had an easy life. He might come in quietly and listen, or sit on the bench and read. He doesn’t seem to have much, but the sisters make sure he has warm boots and a jacket for the winter months. There’s the daughter of the lady who styles beautiful clothing displays at the salon. The daughter’s been planning her sweet sixteen birthday party for months, putting in her requests for the best celebration ever. She asked her mom for a throne for her party. I learned about her request last time I was there. We all laughed. “Can you imagine? A throne?”, we all said. We laughed and rolled our eyes. Today I learned her mom is going to make it happen. Not because it’s easy, not because there’s a limitless budget, but because the people there are amazing people. They make things happen. Even if it’s hard. The clientele and staff are open and supportive. It’s like a community with estrogen that links everyone together. Maybe it’s the sharing of the trials and tribulation of being female, like one big support group? But then I think of the man who comes in to sit and read, or the man that came in today while I was there. He didn’t have an appointment, but someone said they’d be able to fit him in, he’d just have to wait a bit. No problem. Five minutes into his wait, he was already joining the conversation. So it’s not just the female connection that makes the place work. I think what makes it work is the owners. The sisters. They’re friendly, gritty, energetic, passionate and real. We all know life is not a bowl of cherries, but evidently they check their negativity at the door, and it sets the tone for the place. They learn about their customers. They treat them with respect and encouragement. They find the common threads that link us all together as humans and they pull those threads through and weave them into a community. Their mom came in today while I was there. She is like her daughters, vibrant and friendly. She had obviously taught them well, because at the end of a day, a place doesn’t just have a vibe. It’s created, nurtured and solidified. There’s something we can all learn from that. If you work with the public, or heck, even just interact with the public, be your best. Help create the right vibe.
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It all started when I was student number twenty-three in grade school roll call. From that point forward, the number twenty-three has stuck with me like a shadow. Back then, I lived on route 23. My sports jersey numbers were always twenty-three. Door prize numbers, random stickers in my garments, twenty-three just started showing up everywhere. Even today, my current street number has twenty-three in it. I’ve come to expect that number in my life. At first I thought it was my “lucky” number, but then one rainy, hot summer night I was sideswiped by a drunk driver going the wrong way on the highway, it was on the twenty-third of that month. So, I started thinking of it more as my “life” number than a “lucky” number, a number that just seemed to follow me around.
However, I remained hopeful that it was still going to be a “lucky” number for me, since twenty-three and I seemed to be inseparable. Especially as the year 2022 came to such a tragic close for our family, I had high hopes for 2023. Those hopes were soon dashed as bad things started to snowball, avalanche style. We experienced more tragic losses of friends and family members. I lost my job with my employer of 40+ years. Had a milestone birthday that reminded me I’m well over the hill. So as the year comes to a close, I’m ready to boot it to the curve. Of course, there are always things to be thankful for, and I’m truly grateful for the blessings in my life. But I’m done with this year. Completely and totally done. So, on this last evening of the year, I’m rubbing my hands together in greedy anticipation, hoping things look up in 2024. In fact, I’m writing this blog post to throw positive thoughts out into the universe, so that maybe good things will manifest themselves in the year ahead. Goodbye to 2023 and good riddance. Happy 2024 to all. May the year ahead bring all you’ve ever wished for. Till next year…… It all started when spell check wasn’t working on my laptop. I’d spent two days weaving words into a couple of solid chapters. I loved how the story was unfolding, proud of the twists and turns I’d built in. The dialog was engaging and the plot was flowing. But my nemesis, called perfection, couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie. Nope. I had to stop and make sure there were no spelling or grammatical flaws in what I’d recently written.
But spellcheck was finding no errors. How could that be? The realist in me knew that was impossible after two full days of writing. Realizing there must be an issue, I reached out to the wizard of all things, my number one answerer of all questions, Google. The old wise sage of the internet suggested a shutdown to re-engage spell/grammar check. So, I immediately followed that advice, shut down my computer, restarted it, and quickly called my document back up to try it again. And….drum roll, please……..it was still not working. Deciding I’d wasted enough time troubleshooting the issue, I decided I would worry about spell check later, and get back into the writing rhythm before I lost my mojo. I hurried to the end of my document, excited to pick up where I’d left off. Except, the end of the document wasn’t where I’d left off. The page count showed 168 pages. That wasn’t right! I was already 200+ pages into my masterpiece. I checked previous versions. The last date it recognized any updates was two days prior. Auto-save is always on. In fact, as I type these words I can see “saving” is flashing on my screen. So, back to Google, searching, “most recent changes not saving in Google docs on HP Chromebook to look for solutions”. I try all the suggestions, but my latest updates are nowhere to be found. On my last valiant Google search, I found an article that pretty much says, “Hey, if you tried these things and none of them worked, sorry, but you’re SOL." I scream out loud. I raged at the writing Gods above. My husband hurried into my office, worried I may have accidentally stabbed a letter opener in my eye, or stapled my hand to the desk, or somehow suffered some other random office accident. He finds me pacing the floor, yelling, “No. No. No!” He tiptoes back out of the room before I turn the bad words I’m now spewing in his direction. I continue to try to find solutions. He tiptoes back in again, several times, asking, “Any luck?” After about his fifth trip, receiving my “no” and ugly glares in answer to his inquiries, he quietly mumbles, “That sucks”, and mentions there’s somewhere he has to be before tiptoeing back out and leaving the house. And probably the town. And the county. Anxious to put some distance between me and my dour mood. After hours of trying to restore my lost words, and cursing the computer, and myself, I finally decide to handle it like any reasonable person. I closed my laptop and walked away. I went in search of high calorie junk food and a Hallmark movie. That was eight days ago. Eight days since I have touched my manuscript. The sting is finally starting to dull, and I think it’s time to stop licking my wounds and get my fingers back on that keyboard. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I probably can't recreate the words exactly as I had them, but I will just have to do my best. Because that’s what we do after we learn a tough lesson. We pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and get back in the saddle. I will never trust that auto-save message again. I’ll copy to another document, close that new document, reopen it, make sure it's saved, and then, and only then, will I shutdown my laptop. Learn from my miserable experience, dear friends. Don’t assume that because words exist on your screen, they will exist later. Lesson learned. Onward and upward. It has been almost a month since my unanticipated breakup with corporate America. As I mentioned in my last blog post, the plan was to try and learn who I was without the tie to my job, to up my domestic goddess game, and spend more true quality time with friends and family.
While I’m still working to do all that, if I’m totally honest, I’m finding that I’m feeling a little lost. Not because there isn’t plenty to do to deliver on my plan, but I just don’t know this person who isn’t someone’s employee. Combine that with the uncertainty of what comes next and I just feel untethered, and tired, and maybe even a little sad. Don’t get me wrong, I am getting stuff done. My fitness app is sending me “what the hell is going on” messages as it detects more movement than ever before now that I’m no longer tied to my desk for ten plus hours a day. I’ve had more time to prepare decent meals and bake goodies. I’m going out to breakfast with my husband. And as planned, I’m spending more time working on my current book-in-progress. All wonderful things. Yet, I’m having trouble “adjusting”, which seems so odd to me as I’ve always been a change agent, and typically an early adopter of all new things. But this change just feels off. My husband tells me I’m not giving it enough time. The reality is, I was totally immersed in my job. I worked so many hours and was thankful for my ability to juggle many different things and hopefully make a difference for my employees and my company. I liked looking back at the end of the workday and reflecting on all I had accomplished, pat myself on the back for the good fights I’d fought, and focus on what was top priority for the next day. Mulling over what I could have done better, even waking up in the middle of the night noodling through some work challenge I was facing. Now I find myself wondering how my team is doing, what’s going on with each person’s career, their mother, father, child, life. Was the advice I left them with at all helpful? Are they doing okay without me? I think this is what happens when you pour your entire self into your job. (Highly do not recommend). I think the transition would have been so much easier if I had been a coaster. If I just didn’t care. If it was just a job. If I had done the absolute minimum to get by. So where do I go from here? It’s likely I need to just keep working through it; give myself grace when I’m feeling sad or tired or unmotivated. Pour my heart into my writing. Remind myself to be thankful for all the blessings in my life. Talk to people who are early in their careers and caution them to remember it’s just a job. That they can be replaced, and the company will still go on. Remind them that they must be true to themselves and know what brings them joy outside of their job. Encourage them to know and understand their non-career selves. I think I need to make sure I continue to exercise and eat right. Because it does make me feel better, damn it! Even on those days I just want to curl up on the couch with a half a dozen cookies warm from the oven, or drink so many margaritas that the tequila and salt trucks start arriving at my door, I need to just keep going. I need to keep my fingers on my keyboard, let the thoughts flow out of my head, and just keep writing. Keep querying the books I’ve finished, polished and shined. Keep searching for the literary agent out there who will be my perfect match to help me get published. Keep my eyes on the prize. Squints and pictures her books on shelves of major retailers. And tell myself it’s okay that it’s taking me more time to adjust and figure things out than I had anticipated. That I don’t have to have all the answers, that it will all be okay. I’ve been employed my entire adult life. No break between gigs, the most recent one lasting over 40 years. Full time work. No short weeks. No time off even during COVID. But soon, I will be unemployed. It’s hard to wrap my mind around this. I don’t know how to do adulting without being someone’s employee. I’ve been so dedicated to my job for so long, I don’t know how to untangle the “work me” from the “non-work” me. I’ve been all in, giving my job all I have. I worry I’ve tied my existence too tightly to my position. So where do I go from here?
I think I’ll start with trying to get the air back in my lungs and my feet back underneath me. Try to learn who I am without the tie to a job. I never understood people saying they needed to "find themselves”. But I do now. Then I want to attack my house with a vengeance. Do all the things I haven’t had time to pay attention to with all the hours I’ve worked. There are walls to paint, closets to clean, cupboards to sort, deep cleaning to do. My hope is that I’ll find clarity in the mundane; that inspiration will strike with the stroke of a brush, a swipe of a dust-rag, or a push of a broom. I hope I’ll be able to focus more on my family, strengthen my relationships, and be more present in conversations; without all the work stuff buzzing around in my head. And finally, find time to pursue my passion, my writing. I want to spend some time on the characters swirling around in my mind just begging to tell their stories. Get them out of my head and down on paper. Spend more time in the query trenches soliciting representation on the books I’ve finished and go full speed ahead on the one I have in progress. I may look back on this and laugh at my naivete. There’s a chance things may not go as planned; that the sequential order I’ve outlined will be laughable. Mainly because I know myself. I’ll likely try to do them all at once, simultaneously, then learn what works and what doesn’t. But having a plan gives me a sense of security, and that’s the best I can do for now. It’s been almost seven months since losing my brother. When we were at the funeral home and asked to share thoughts or memories of him, I couldn’t. There was no way I could speak. I felt like I could barely breathe, let alone talk in front of a packed funeral home. Luckily my sister had the foresight to write a beautiful remembrance which was shared with those in attendance. My husband, and my father, both shared memories. I’m thankful for them all, because he deserved to be remembered. But I just sat there, unable to speak. So many thoughts ran through my mind, but I was incapable of speaking at that moment. I was just trying to survive the service, go through the motions, and somehow get through it without ending up a blubbering mess. In retrospect, maybe being able to talk would have helped me heal faster. The parts of my heart are as raw as they were that day, whenever I think of him. And not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. So I thought if maybe I got it all out, put it down on paper, maybe I could move forward a bit stronger. I was just shy of seven when he was born, the perfect age to be a little mother hen to my baby brother. I remember holding him, kissing those delicious chunky cheeks, feeding him his bottle, rocking him to sleep. Then he was a toddler, peddling his big wheel around with reckless abandon, his little legs pushing those pedals as fast as they’d go. I remember his little green pajamas, his favorite. I remember him wanting Santa to bring him a “pwane with pooples in it” (a Fisher Price airplane with passengers). I remember him trying to pet our goldfish. I recall feeling sick when he fell on the hard tile floor in elementary school, breaking his front teeth. His teenage years were tough, discovering a mental illness that would plague him for the rest of his life. But even then, in the absolute worst of it, I could always see the real him underneath when other people no longer recognized him. Eventually he grew into a good sized-man, dwarfing his older sister. Somehow stepping into a silent protector role, someone I knew would be there in a heartbeat if I was ever in a jam. As we settled into adulthood, he was the quiet one, and the most artistic. He was the only one of us siblings who could pick up a guitar and make music with it. The only one of us who could pick up a pencil and sketch. He knew music, he’d quickly pick up the words to songs and remember who sang them. I remember I’d hear a song and think, “I’ll have to ask Kirk if he’s heard this one yet”. He was the only one who was tall enough to adjust the top of my canvas gazebo when we set it up. It was always his job, up on the ladder, adjusting the netting. I’m not sure I’ll ever put it up again. Everywhere I look I have memories of him, so many things he created that he gave me over the years. Always prized possessions, but even more so now. I miss the random text messages he’d send me out of the blue. I miss hearing him talk about the details of life that he’d pick up on that others would never notice, some subtle thing in a music video or an ad on television. I miss how grateful he would always be for the smallest things, even as the cancer consumed him with pain, he somehow still found things to be thankful for. I will always remember how he loved dogs and how dogs loved him. I’ll remember his caring and his kindness. I’ll never forget how he always used up the entire real estate on an envelope, stretching the letters from corner to corner, and how the ones he gave me always said “Big Sis”. Seven months later, and I wonder how long it will be before I can remember these things and not feel them like a stab to my heart. Will there eventually be a time when I can remember these things about him, and instead of feeling the pain of the loss, just feel the warmth of the memory? I’m hoping that time will eventually come and in the meantime, I’m glad to get the memories down on paper, to throw them out in the universe, because my brother deserves to be remembered. Kirk Douglas Corsette, 3/10/70 - 12/17/22
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AuthorTammy Bulson Archives
June 2025
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