Ode to The 21

Posted on August 27, 2026 by tosabarbell

I recently realized that starting next year, I will no longer be throwing the 21# weight for distance and WOB in the Scottish Highland Games. You see, when you get old in Heavy Events, the weights get lighter. Aren’t I the lucky one? At 60 years old, yes 60, my heavy weight goes down to 14#. I have no idea how to throw a 14# WOB, it will be interesting. My light weight goes from 14# down to 9#. 9 pounds, practically a wiffle ball. It’s already hard enough to feel the 14# weight, I can only imagine the amount of time it will take me to learn how to throw a 9 pounds weight. Uffda.

I threw a world record here in Portland but the weight came in slightly lighter than 21 pounds. So I threw further the next weekend at Enumclaw where I got paid for that World record. Yeah me. Also, 10×10 squats are shit on your hormones but disco on the legs. photo credit: Victoria Wechter

Since I won’t be throwing this year due to the new knees, my time with “heavy” in the sport of Heavy Events has come to a close. I’m not too happy about that but I know the day will come when I am. It took me a while to love the 21# from the 28#. I loved the 28 pound heavy weight. I loved being able to consistently throw it over 40 feet for years. I loved being in my 50’s and still throw the 28# further than real throwers (I wasn’t a real thrower. I started throwing in my forties with zero experience and a hard hate for the word, “orbit”, when other stupid throwers kept telling me I had to put an implement in the right ‘orbit’ without telling me how the fuk to do it) who were, at times, nearly 20 years younger than me. I liked that. I know, we’re supposed to be humble and wave away accomplishments that come from hard work and great coaching from the sport’s best. But I like the truth and the truth is, I fucked shit up with the 28 pound weight. Score one for the old lady.

In 2016, I threw in the Women’s World Championships (senior women, not Masters.) My weights showed I belonged. Also, I bombed out on WOB. THAT, was humbling. photo credit: Mr. Macdonald

My first full season of throwing the Highland Games was in 2013. The year before that, I dabbled a bit with a Games here and a Games there and decided that I liked it. But I was green. Brand new. Didn’t know many people and knew even less what I was doing. I had the advantage in that the first time I threw a full Games was down the road at the Wisconsin Highland Games. I received coaching from some of the greatest to throw the Games. Kerry Overfelt, Mark Valenti (his now wife, Erin, at one point was annoyed enough with him that she took a running start and tackled him out of his chair. It was one of the first hints that the people in Highland Games are a bit nuts, in a good way.) Jeremy Gillingham, Craig Smith, Coach Mac. I walked away with an understanding of the events and an even bigger understanding that I didn’t know what I was doing and had a lot to learn. I realized that I loved the work and had the world’s greatest supporter in the (now) HHH.

At this time, I had no knowledge of the Masters World Championships. I had no knowledge that there was a storm brewing with Masters women throwing the 28 pound heavy weight and some throwing a lighter 21 pound heavy weight. All I knew was the 28 and I was throwing in Wisconsin, Illinois, and Minnesota where the Masters women were also throwing the 28. There was nothing on my radar about some infighting on which Masters women classes should be throwing the 21 vs the 28. I was blissfully unaware that I was about to step into it by supporting the organization that throws the Masters World Championships (by the way, the boss gets to make the decisions. You may not like it, it may piss you off, and if it does I highly recommend you start another organization where YOU get to make the decisions that piss other people off. Have fun.)

When Matt and I saw that the 2014 Masters World Championships were scheduled for Inverness, Scotland in 2014, we looked at each other and said, “hot dog!” Or something like that. Matt was still traveling internationally for work and we could put a trip together where I met him across the pond for a week of throwing and visiting strong friends from Matt’s time competing in Strongman Champions League. HOT DIGGITY DOG! It was my first championship, in Scotland, with my new husband. What could be better?! Around the time that we started fishing around for plane tickets, I noticed online that there was a brouhaha about master’s women throwing the 21# weight for the first time at a world championship. However, since it was brand new, the athletic director chose to have the women in the 45-49 age group and above throw the 21 pound weight and the 40-44 throw the 28.

SIDEBAR: The Highland Games does not have a governing body. There are many fantastic regional associations and such who run the Games; have their own judging clinics; and do all of the work for the rest of the world to come and play. Some are highly organized, some have minimal communication, so when you throw in their Games, you have to be comfortable with winging it. Many are not comfortable with winging it but we got used to it in our region so learned to just go with the flow and if it were annoying enough, we just didn’t sign up for those Games. See how easy that is? I believe, more so each year, that because there is no governing body with a specific set of rules that each and every Games must follow across the nation, throwers tend to get their panties twisted fairly easily when a decision seems off the beaten path by those who disagree. There is very little bend for a sport where very heavy weights and telephone poles are involved by people who also may be having some bevvies while competing. Also, it is a sport where many “athletes” join in the fun later in life with very little experience of how athletes actually behave. Anyone can buy a kilt and step on the field, that is a good thing. However, a small percentage of people actually invest their time and personal finances to make these Games happen so maybe slow your roll about decisions you find repugnant and see how things shake out. Thank you for attending my Ted Talk.

Anyways. back to the hullabaloo of the 21/28. When the A.D. decided to split the weights among the women’s classes, the Hiroshima sized shit hit the fan. Ooooooo, chicks were pissed. How DARE he! The audacity! My opinion was that he kinda got to do what he wanted; if you can’t throw the 28# very far or very high at the spry age of 40-44 you, should probably get a bit stronger and STFU about it. I commented a nicer version of that on a thread on the topic, or at least I thought it was nicer (take note, I can always be more direct or as others say, “bitchy”) until I gave the A.D. a break from being the target of “hate” (we can say that when people disagree with us it is “hate” which is stupid and moronic but it works both ways so I get to use it too;) and suddenly I was the bad guy. Which is fine, it’s a role I’m familiar with. This social media shitstorm got big enough among the masses that the word, “lawsuit” entered the conversation which set off the A.D. enough that he posted if there is any hint of a lawsuit for his decision for HIS Games, he’ll shut down the entire meet.

Now, I know where that comment came from. It was posted by a husband of one of the throwers, not by a thrower. Kevin’s (Kevin is the A.D. He is also a competitive weightlifter and he and his wife are two of my favorite people. I didn’t know them at this time, hadn’t even met him, but have been fortunate enough to spend some time together and I try to be nice enough to him to receive some of his world famous homemade Mead. It’s amazing) post received even more backlash and claims that the word “lawsuit” was never uttered. Those posts were wrong. The word was uttered on a private Facebook chain, by a Bro whose wife wasn’t even going to Scotland and was old enough to throw the 21# weight so why are you even involved dude?

One of our judges with the first 45-49 age group to throw the 21# in a World Championship.

Kevin kept to the plan, everyone in Scotland had a blast and no one died from the women throwing different weights in Scotland. Well, actually, one of the women almost died but that was from a car wreck heading to the field and Erica Hay made it and kicked ass in spite of her broken nose. Ouchie. Other than that, we survived, had an amazing time, and outdrank our local pub of their Scotch of the month in one weekend. Yeah us.

I continued to love to throw the 28# weight for years afterwards. I didn’t mind throwing the 21# at times, it went further than the 28 and that’s always fun. Eventually, the 21# became the norm and I practiced with the 28# less and less. In 2019, when I wanted to a World Championship in two different strength sports a few months apart, I was happy as could be to throw the 21# because I only had a few weeks to get my throwing together and even the 14# light weight felt heavy. Now the 14# IS my heavy weight. Life is funny.

I had a good run with the 21 pound weight. I hit some good numbers, set some world records with it and I was recently pleasantly surprised to see that I actually still have a record! It will fall, records always fall. But it has stood far longer than I thought it would and for today, I’ll enjoy it.

I don’t know what my future as a thrower is. I think I need more time to build myself back after getting the new knees. I’m getting more involved in being one of those pain in the ass Athletic Directors where now people can bitch about me throwing Games instead of my beating them at throwing. How fun for me. I do know that I’ll still throw the 21# for a little while on the practice field. I have committed to donating a 21# weight to our throwers group equipment inventory for distance and WOB but I may walk back my offer of donating MY weight. I’m not ready to say goodbye to being strong enough to throw it. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be ready but not today. Perhaps my body will be ready by next year in spite of my brain agreeing to it (more likely because I just cramped up my spine erectors from a stretch. We’re at that point.) Dunno.

In 2015, I won Athlete of the Year during our Masters World Championships in Chesterfield, MO. To date, it is the biggest thrill of anything I’ve done athletically. I set three world records; ate my bodyweight in sushi afterwards; and have my name on a Trophy won by the likes of Dan McKim.

Looking back, I could say that I did well with the 21# but I’m not quite ready to see it in the rearview mirror. So I’ll take advantage of this beautiful weather and throw it around as I can. I’ll buy a 9# lightweight to play with and as I write this, I’ve just realized that in my head, I’m just not ready to NEED to throw those lighter weights. I’m only 59, I’m way too young. Heehee. Today, I’ll tip my Stetson to the 21. So long friend, you were grand.

Age is no barrier. It’s a limitation you put on your mind. Jackie Joyner-Kersee

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Comfort Food

Posted on July 2, 2026 by tosabarbell

The last 9 days around here have been days of super fun, and super ick. Matt’s folks and Uncle were in town so mom and I got to do some Uptown lunch and a Patina run (IYKYK.) We dined by the lights of a North America Curling center which was pretty fun.

The Chaska Curling Center serves as the national training center for USA Curling.

The crew came out to the house the next day and after some deck bevvies, we treated them to the fine dining of our local Elks Club that Matt and I have recently joined. There was lots of love and lots of laughter, and a Jules who was barely hanging on. On Wednesday, I didn’t feel great. Not sick, but not not sick. On Thursday morning, my stomach was doing somersaults. Again, not really sick but not healthy. By Friday evening, I was a hot mess. We had one more something fun to attend the next day to celebrate our Grandson’s birthday in the cities and then I came home and went right to bed. Where I stayed. For days.

Until Monday afternoon where I couldn’t take the pain and the constant, erm, bowel irregularity (I ai’d how to describe that delicately) after four days. Anyways, it was bad. I was able to stomach a piece of toast per day now for 5 days. Working with my bonus daughter who is a nurse, she said I needed to go in. Urgent Care first and if they decided I needed the ER, they would send me over. I did and they did. One of the questions the nurse had was about food poisoning. I didn’t think this was it. I’ve had food poisoning. Bad food poisoning that was no bueno and this wasn’t it, especially the timing of it. So tests, an IV that helped a lot, some pain meds that helped more, but briefly. A tummy CT scan with some concerning results. Concerning enough that the doctor wanted to transfer me down to the cities until I could be seen and get some more tests. Now, the biggest thing I know about hospitals is that they are a very good place to go if you are very sick but the risk to reward starts to blur when you’re “pretty sick.” I was pretty sick and I knew my strong immune system was beat down enough that whatever additional germs I was about to walk into at a major hospital were not the best thing for me. The next offer was staying in the local hospital. Nahhhh, it’s less than a mile from my home. Might as well go back home with some meds and a plan for future action.

I won’t know if that was the best decision. It was certainly not the easiest. It would have been much easier to take a ride into the cities with lights on the vehicle; been taken care of; and had the tests and doctors face to face. Instead, I came home with promises to follow up in the morning with scheduling appointments and tests and more pain. EZPZ. Except it’s not. Even with doctor referrals in the system, it’s taken me no less than 7 phone calls and I believe more to get the right departments. I’ve been hung up on twice, forwarded to nothing at least twice. Given appointments by specialist scheduling only to be told that “I” scheduled with the wrong person and had the appt. canceled.

Thankfully, a final test out of the hospital showed that I actually did have a bacterial infection, likely from bad chicken, and antibiotics were prescribed. I’m on day 3, and I hope, turning things around. At least, I’m finally confident to walk more than 100′ away from my bathroom. And I’m hungry. Like, super hungry. Like, I want all the food. But it’s scary, cuz, it’s been a lot. I do not want to pay for eating food. But I daydreamed about food and if I could eat without thought, what would it be?

Loco Moco is my #1 comfort food every day of the week.

My top food that would fill my sad tummy and be followed directly with a long nap is Loco Moco. It has everything good in life. Also,

The best biscuits and gravy I have ever had was in Cody, Wyoming the morning we set up camp in Yellowstone. It kept me going all day and was absolutely delicious.

biscuits and gravy. Basically anything with some carbs, gravy, meat, and eggs. On THAT note…

Shit on a Shingle. God Bless America.

As it is, I don’t get a comfort meal yet, But I got some soup from our local diner and it wasn’t toast, so it was the best thing I’ve ate in a week. I’ll take it.

A humble bowl of chicken noodle soup. We’ll take baby steps here in introducing the tummy solid food.

Do you have a kinder, more adaptable friend in the food world than soup? Who soothes you when you are ill? Who refuses to leave you when you are impoverished and stretches its resources to give a hearty sustenance and cheer?… Soup does its loyal best, no matter what undignified conditions are imposed upon it. You don’t catch steak hanging around when you’re poor and sick, do you?” — Judith Martin (Miss Manners).

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One Year to Make it Your Own

Posted on April 10, 2026 by tosabarbell
Nurse Glitch, reporting for duty!

One of the things I did prior to my first total knee replacement, a.k.a. new Knee, was to get on a couple of Facebook pages to try to get some tips and tricks. I actually did read a few things that I applied that helped in recovery among the posts upon posts that show how absolutely horrible other humans take care of themselves. Overall, I did my best to “recover” and now, 8 weeks later, I would consider myself to have been fully recovered for a while now.

One thing I hear repeatedly, ad nauseam, is that IT TAKES A YEAR TO RECOVER!!! I believe if I audited every post comment section, this statement would be in there somewhere. OH! Also, there are so many nightmare stories on the Facebook page that it’s a wonder anyone reading actually goes through with the surgery. While I have had smooth sailing so far, I can’t get cocky yet because I’m a few weeks away from getting the other one done and I need that to go as well before I can be a total dick on the internet about how these really aren’t so bad. Wish me luck.

Anyways.

One of many Facebook groups you can join if you truly want to be terrified to have a knee replacement.

I contest, and I’m right of course, that it in fact does not take a year to recover. We’re not using our words here and you KNOW how much I hate that. While “recovery” is a bit subjective, we can probably agree that we are recovered once we are back to our daily lives prior to the surgery. We’re walking (without a limp because we did the excruciating work of getting that knee straight immediately), we’re driving (even to Arkansas 6 weeks post op so I could bring my ice machine and pillows), we’re back at work (if that’s your thing), we’re making sure we’re kneeling on the knee (even just with pillows or the bed) to condition it, we’re squatting (truth be told, we started box squatting at 3 weeks with a 15# bar and went up each week from there), we’re constantly rubbing on it to desensitize it and wake up the nerve endings that are still happily sleeping. We’re recovered. BAM! Done-zo. What’s the big deal?

At week 2, the HHH took me to the gym (THE gym, not MY gym. I also have a membership to a local gym to use the machines which has been instrumental in getting me on track in MY gym.) The owner made a comment such as, ‘you poor thing’ or some shit and I told her I’m actually doing awesome and super grateful for it. She repeated to be “patient” during recovery, but I already knew that recovery wasn’t the issue. Other than those initial first few trips to P.T. (getting in the car and holding my leg just right the first two P.T.s was incredibly unpleasant) and getting my leg straight (it made me cry), recovery is just physical work aided by happy drugs and a super sexy deliriously sleep deprived nurse HHH encouraging me along the way. Talking to the gym owner, it occurred to me and I said it out loud, “I think the work comes when I have to make this knee my own.” It was pretty profound, for me, but ya know I was still on the Oxy so it probably wasn’t as impressive as I think.

On this one, I didn’t bruise but a little bit on week 3 in my ankle. I hope the next one will be the same but bruises fade if not. Except that inner bruise from the tourniquet, that one is a motherfucker.

See, this isn’t my knee. It doesn’t have the pain of my knee (on day 5, I was toddling around the house on my walker and put my full weight on my right side. It was the first time I stood without pain in at least two years.) It doesn’t have the giving out (I mean, after the first week or two when my quad would just think it could take a second or two off) of my knee. It doesn’t wake me up at night from pain like my knee did. Other than the aforementioned straightening tears, it doesn’t make me cry like my knee did. This is not my knee. It’s hard (the feel of it really grosses me out. I massage a lot just so I can get used to the new feeling but it’s a little barfy. And hairy because I can’t feel the razor when I shave and don’t want to jam it into my skin, so I miss parts of the knee. There are worse things in life) much harder than me knee. It feels like there is a titanium beach ball in my knee. It’s not my knee. I have to make it my knee. And I’ll give myself time for that. Maybe a year. I hope sooner but we’ll see. (I started and ended the paragraph with the same word. I’m cool like that.)

I still can’t snatch or clean, even a power clean, because the fast change of direction needed while moving my feet out into a different position is a pain that I’m not willing to tolerate, yet. Pushing weight off of the ground is getting better. Jumping without weight is getting better. The range of motion for jerk dips is getting better. But we’re not there, and I have time. I asked my brilliant surgeon (I say that because I’m going to print this off and give it to him, but he really is quite awesome) how long it takes the implement to heal enough where pain is the only preventer of training, and I can’t damage the knee. 6 weeks was the answer and I’m plus two weeks on that. I can squat to depth which I do while holding on to the squat rack because the last thing I want to do is build up fluid in the left knee and have that pop right before surgery. But I know that when that left one is ready, I’ll be squatting without pain for the first time in years. I’m pretty stoked. All this comes with a compromise with my body that we’re going to make these new knees our own. And it will take time.

I’m recovered, but the knee isn’t mine. Yet. It may take a year for that to happen, and it is something that I will need to push if I want to get “back” to where I was (which I don’t. I want better. I’m greedy like that.) If I were to give advice to someone getting a knee replacement, I would tell them that, you will recover fairly quickly but you need time to make it your own. Take the time, enjoy the journey.

Sleeping on the job!

Success is the sum of small efforts, repeated day in and day out. Robert Collier

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2026 The Year of Harsh Truths

Posted on January 12, 2026 by tosabarbell

I looked back at the blog and am rather impressed with myself on how many posts I made a in 2025. I didn’t post at all in 2024 which now makes me question what the hecks I was doing in 2024. I must have been super content or super pissed off. It’s a crap shoot which one that made it so I didn’t even bother to tell the world. And here we are (you’re never supposed to start a sentence with And, I’m rebellious that way), 2026. I’ve labeled 2026 as the year of harsh truths. Here we go.

My weightlifting girls are some of my best girls.

But first, a recap of 2025. 2025 was the year of weightlifting. Literally. USA Masters Weightlifting, Inc. was going to be involved in the big 4 Master’s meets of the year. Nationals in Boise, ID; Pan Americans in Baton Rouge, LA; IMWA Masters World Championships in Las Vegas, NV; and the Howard Cohen American Masters in Louisville, KY. I realized the bulk of my travel would be weightlifting meets other than a few trips down to Texas to squeeze the tank of a grandson as much as I could and a trip to celebrate the HotHunkyHub’s 50th birthday.

Pepe’s Pizza Tomato Pie will make you weep with gratefulness that you get to taste such goodness.

In general, I love to travel. I’m a fairly decent traveler as long as I can overpack. I am an excellent overpacker. When I went to Vegas for two weeks, I overpacked my standard amount of stuff and then brought another suitcase full of kitchen crap so I could cook as much as possible in my room. In addition to being an excellent overpacker, I am now qualified in being able to crockpot full, delicious, meals in hotel rooms. Yeah me. Anyways.

I made batches of hotel crack chicken in Las Vegas. It was crackalicious and supplied me great food to eat.

The fact that 2025 travel revolved so much around weightlifting was a bit daunting for me. See, I’m not really a weightlifter. I didn’t grow up with this stuff. Some of the rules are stupid. Some of the people are stupid. Any weigh-in I need to work before 9 a.m. is stupid. Being in a weightlifting venue, sitting on my arse, from 6:30 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. is stupid. I’m supposed to be on vacation and I generally don’t work very hard on vacation. Add in the fact that I needed to walk miles throughout the day at these meets on two very bad knees was very stupid. Pain makes me less fun. Immense amount of pain makes me crabby enough that tempers can run short in an atmosphere that requires patience. I also wanted to ensure that my mood/energy didn’t rub off wrong on someone else who was going through their own stuff or competing and was working hard themselves to stay pleasant.

This is my favorite 2025 picture of the PollyPocket. We had just finished a weigh-in and were enjoying some peace and quiet before we went back down to the venue. I’m sure she had shoes on at some point.

There were perks, as there tends to be. I was able to spend weeks and weeks of time with most of my favorite people. I just woke up and there were my friends that usually require a phone or Teams call to connect with. I got to eat fun food that is far off my daily ground beef or chicken and jasmine rice. I rely on the PollyPocket to find fun food and she never disappoints. I met more people from around the globe and have adopted the most amazing family from Puerto Rico who epitomize the word, “family.” Liza and Julio show up each day; work hard; smile (mostly, they’re not robots); parent their two amazing (and strong) children; kick total ass; and look great doing it. I’ve even vowed to head down to Puerto Rico the next time Masters Pan Am’s are scheduled there and withstand the heat that I hate, just to see their beautiful Island and spend some time with them at a weightlifting meet. Spending time with new friends along friends of old is the greatest perk of this weightlifting thing. The hugs, the sometimes tears, the laughter, the espresso martini’s, the sugar, the exhaustion. All of it. I wouldn’t change a thing, except for better knees. Which brings us to harsh truth number one for 2026.

My newly adopted sister from Puerto Rico, Liza during her final training session before becoming a World Champion two days later. She is, in short, amazing.

New knees. I haven’t been able to put together a strong enough training block to compete since the 2022 Worlds debacle. Sure, I’ve played a bit at a few Highland Games but I wasn’t able to “Just be Juli” on a consistent basis and that pisses me off. However, I was able to train and that has seen me through more than one pissy moment. Until now. Actually, until the last 5 months or so. Each time I get my squats back up around 100kg, I blow out a bakers cyst in the back of my left knee. For the record, the left knee is my “good” knee. Which means now I’m limping around on my right knee and if you remember correctly, that is my “bad knee.” I do that until the soft tissue damage is healed up on the left and I can go back to limping around on that knee. Since I was blowing out the back of the good knee often enough this past fall, I decided that maybe I shouldn’t be doing that.

Las Vegas breakfast of champions

Also, I can not extend off the floor because of my left knee. I can block pull like a mothertrucker but floor work is out. For the first time in at least 20 years, I can’t train like I’m used to. I do work and I’ve joined a gym so that I can get on the machines as pain allows and be grateful that there is a lot of work that I can do. But I’m not squatting. I’m not pulling off of the floor. I’m not “just being juli” and it annoys me. So I need to fix it.

Number one harsh truth subpoints: I like my legs. Like, I really like my legs. God granted me a good set. My biological mother had cankles. I was that close but I guess it skipped multiple generations so my daughters and granddaughters can give it up to the Big guy for that. I haven’t liked that a portion of my legs have been so painful that I can’t train but thankfully I can do enough so that they look decent. Not as great as those 10×10 squat days but still okay. Now I’m losing that. No, it is not the end of the world but it is a truth that I still needed (okay, need) to address and be honest about.

Toups Torchon

Number two subpoint, I’m afraid of the pain. Yup. The pain in my knee wakes me up now. It prevents me from doing what I want to do. At the moment, I can’t find a position to ease the sharp jolts without putting my leg in a position that produces a deep ache. How much worse will post op pain be? It’s concerning. Matt continues to remind me that the post op pain is temporary (glory is eternal. IFYKYK.) Nevertheless, the harsh truth subpoint is that I’m afraid of the pain. Boohoo. The pain of surgery, the pain of recovery, the pain of “getting back.” I’ll do it, but it’s going to hurt.

Truth subpoint, I am blessed. I have resources; the best support crew a girl could ask for; a husband who picks me up off the figurative floor when necessary; family who are not only awesome but super useful too; and a God that has given me all. Aren’t I the lucky one?

When Marshalling, it is important to be professional AND comfortable.

Harsh truth number 2. I get to do it again later this year. Yes, some do both knees together but my surgeon doesn’t and he is the right surgeon for me. Harsh truth subpoint number one for harsh truth number two (are you still following?) What if that one is worse? Or better? Or has different complications? OR? OR? OR? Psalm 56:3, When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. On the sunset of the day, God has all of my harsh truths. I’m sure some of them get an eye roll here or there (one question I asked was if I could keep my nails pretty. Sure, it’s low on the totem pole of necessity but it’s importance to me was worthy of asking.) Heh. And at the end of the day, all of the uncertainty that I am labeling as harsh truths, is just that: uncertainty. I can, and at times probably do, let my head roll with all of the “what if’s” or I can, and in all times most definitely do, prepare as best as possible and trust God with the information and environment and people that He has given me.

One of the best “meet” meals. The fact that I had to drive was the only thing between Michael and a thousand dollar bar tab for my bourbon tastings. You’re welcome, Michael.

There is only one way to happiness, and that is to cease worrying about things which are beyond the power of our will. Epictetus

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