Learning a dead language for no good reason

I'm teaching myself Latin. By reading a book. The book is called "Latin for Dummies." I'm doing it because I thought Greek would be too hard.

Everything in that first paragraph is true. Or, as our ancient Romans friends would have said, "Omnia in illa prima paragraph verum est." I think. My Latin isn't very good yet.

I do a lot of things that no one else would bother doing. Learning Latin from a book is one. Walking 17 miles to work is another. Rooting for the Cleveland Browns is yet another.

None of those activities has a useful purpose, which is why I do them. I remember useless stuff. I engage in useless pastimes. I think about useless things. I am completely useless (or again, as a native Latin speaker would say, "Ego sum prorsus inutilis.")

The problem I'm finding with Latin is that it seems to have little connection with English in terms of word order and verb conjugation. That's probably not entirely true, but I'm early in the learning process and my head is spinning trying to figure out stuff like cases and declensions.

"Latin for Dummies" tries its best to give you Latin phrases you might actually find useful, but that's the problem with a dead language: There are no useful phrases. I don't foresee running into one of the Caesars any time soon, so whatever knowledge I gain in this process is going to be gained for the sake of....well, knowledge.

This is an actual sample conversation offered up on pages 68 and 69 of "Latin for Dummies" (I am not, I assure you, making this up):


PATER (father):  Nepos noster uxorem cupit. ("Our grandson wishes for a wife.")

MATER (mother): Pater filio puellam aptam inveniet. ("His father will find his son a suitable girl.")

PATER: Era difficile fratri meo ubi coniugem filiae suae petebat. ("It was difficult for my brother when he was seeking a husband for his daughter.")

MATER: Sed fratris tui filia est non pulchra! ("But your brother's daughter is not pretty!")

PATER: Screw-us you-us! ("I disagree!") (NOTE: This last line is one that I may actually have made up.)


I'm trying to think of a situation in which knowing these sentences would be useful in any language.

Because that's the general problem with language instruction, isn't it? They teach you all kinds of vocabulary and phrases that are, like me, useless.

I took 14 years of French instruction. That's right, 14 years. Everyone in my school took it from 1st through 6th grade, then most of us continued on in middle school, and a dwindling number continued on through high school.

During my senior year, there were two of us (me and Michelle Dillard) who took the comically unnecessary French V. It wasn't even a class offered during regular school hours. I had to come in at 6:30 on Thursday mornings to take it (by myself...Michelle did it at a separate time) with Madame Whitehorn, a saint of a woman who put up with the 98% of kids who didn't care at all for French to enjoy teaching the 2% who did.

Anyway, I went on to take a few semesters more from the Jesuits at John Carroll University, who at least had the decency to offer up a native French speaker (Monsieur Aube, an aging and hilarious French-Canadian) to teach those of us who tested into 300-level French.

My point is, through all those years of French, I learned maybe four or five things that had any practical value. And by "practical value," I mean stuff I could actually use if I spent any amount of time in Paris.

The French textbooks refused to impart this type of knowledge on us. Instead, they focused on unrealistic classroom situations in which everyone asked for pencils, erased blackboards, and opened and closed doors and windows. And that was about it.

I spent nine hours in Paris once, and not once did I have a need to erase any blackboards or ask anyone for a pencil. I did open and close a few doors, but I didn't bother to inform the Parisians of my door-swinging intentions.

Here are five things that WOULD have been useful to know in French during my short time in Paris, had I figured out how to say them:

(1) "Wait, you're an old woman and you're going to stay here in the men's room cleaning while I stand over there and pee?"

(2) "Really?"

(3) "Because it's awfully hard to pee with you in the room."

(4) "I'm just saying."

(5) "I've missed the last train back to my hotel in London? Is there a particular patch of sidewalk where you would suggest I sleep tonight while I wait for the first train tomorrow morning?"

By the way, I was going to render one of those suggested French sentences in Latin, just to continue the ongoing joke and all. And I realized there was no way I would know the Latin for "pee," so I looked in a Latin dictionary. It turns out the word for "urinate" is "micturio." Finally, something useful!

Cats vs Dogs - Let's Call It A Draw

I am neither a cat person nor a dog person. I'm a cog person. Or a dat person, if you prefer.

What I'm trying to say is, I like them both. I grew up with dogs, now I own cats. Four cats, to be exact. I thought we had capped the number at three, but a month or two ago, along came Bert.

Bert is an angry-looking gray cat that is actually about the sweetest little guy you'll ever hope to meet. He was rescued from near-death in a combined effort by Elissa, Terry and Chloe.

Elissa was driving near our house on a cold and snowy night when she saw this bedraggled cat sitting essentially in the middle of Eddy Road, which is one of those dark, narrow and hilly streets on which animals of all sorts are regularly run down.

Being Elissa, she stopped her car and got out to try and save the cat from being squashed by a Buick and/or from losing some key paws to frostbite. Scared by another passing car, the cat ran under Elissa's car and stayed there. Elissa called her mother to come and help, and Terry managed to get the cat out from under the car and safely back to our house, where he enjoyed warmth and abundant food for probably the first time in weeks.

As soon as he came home, I knew he was there to stay. Elissa had to go back to school, so Chloe immediately took charge of his care. The first thing she did was to dub the cat "Bert."

This caused a bit of a kerfuffle in the family partly because "Bert" is, by almost any standard, a strange name for a cat, but mostly because it's not a name that appears in the Harry Potter books.

The policy we've adopted in recent years is to name pets, particularly cats, after Harry Potter characters. And specifically members of the Weasley family. Our pre-existing cats − Fred, George and Charlie − all followed this useful convention.

But because Chloe devoted so much time and energy to nursing Bert back to health in his early days with us, the grudging consensus was that she should have naming rights. And so "Bert" it is.

Anyway, as I was saying, I don't count myself a member of either the dog camp or the cat camp. I just like animals in general, which is good in a house with four cats, two chinchillas, a guinea pig, a gecko lizard and a fish. Or at least I think we have a fish. There are pets that will live here for months at a time without my knowledge of their existence.

There are lots of reasons to love dogs. Off the top of my head:

- They're insanely loyal and devoted to you.
- They do tricks.
- They generally aim to please.
- They take care of their bodily functions outside.

That last point is key for me. I am the designated cat litter box cleaner in our house. I do this job every day. Every. Single. Day. Without fail. It's one of the first things I do when I get out of bed. And while not a particularly arduous job, I can never get away from it.

This is why I was the only one who raised any real objections to the idea of keeping Bert. His presence wasn't going to affect anyone else in the family like it would affect me. Needless to say, my opinions were officially registered for the record and summarily dismissed.

Still, I really have come to love cats over the years. They do, as a species, tend to believe they're superior to you in every way. But they're also much more affectionate than they're generally given credit for. And they're great for entertainment when they interact in little cat herds. There's always an alpha male who establishes himself as head cat honcho.

The title of alpha male is currently up for grabs among our cats. Before Bert, Charlie was the clear-cut Big Guy. He ruled the roost, and he did so in a comical way, keeping Fred and George on their toes by constantly jumping on them, biting them when they weren't looking, swatting at them as they passed by, etc.

Bert has submitted his application for the position, though. And Charlie is not happy about it. The two of them have fought a couple of times, but it has been pretty low-key. Almost like they're feeling each other out. Superior size and an "I don't sweat guys like you" attitude will probably mean Bert eventually comes away the victor.

Speaking of dominance, what I don't get is why dog owners and cat people feel the need to establish their choice as the "right" one. This is an ongoing, eternal battle in which everyone involved comes away looking a little...obsessed. And maybe a tad psychotic.

Can we just agree that whatever pet you choose to own (dog, cat, fish, elk, spider monkey, etc.), it does nothing to enhance or diminish your status as a good person and respectable citizen? Is that OK? Good. I'm glad that's settled. I was afraid you crazy dog people would be your usual weird, obstinate selves and mess the whole thing up.

This is my wish for you

My wife just walked into the room as I was sitting at the computer, and I smiled.

It took me a second to realize I was smiling. Then it took me another second to realize why I was smiling.

And that made me smile even more.

I am blessed beyond measure in my life. I have an incredibly long list of things for which to be thankful.

Right near the top is that I have someone who makes me smile just by the mere fact that she's there in the same room.

Apart from virtually anything to do with my kids, the only other time I smile spontaneously out of simple joy is with giddy anticipation in the seconds before the opening faceoff of a hockey game. I realize this says more about me than I would care for you to know, but there you go.

Regardless, here's what I hope you'll do:

If you have someone in your life whose mere presence is enough to make you happy, be actively thankful for that person.

If you don't have someone who fits that description right now, understand they're on their way into your life. I believe that wholeheartedly. It may take them awhile to get there, but they're coming. And they'll be just as glad to see you as you'll be to see them.

I'm smiling as I type this.

One way to save your children from having YOU as a parent

I don't have many theories about raising children, mostly because I'm pretty much winging it as I go. I've been winging it for close to 19 years. And so far none of my kids have:

(a) committed a felony (or at least there have been no convictions)
(b) lost their lives while under my care
(c) been abducted by a man in a windowless white van

These are my criteria for parenting success. I'm not sure I'm capable of much more.

Which is why, as I often say, Terry cannot die. Well, eventually she CAN die. I have no say over that. But it absolutely must not happen in the next 15 years, because she's the one who instills actual values into our children and teaches them practical stuff.

My role, other than to eventually get another job and resume my duties as Chief Provider, is to teach them things like:

- Why hockey was meant to be played 4 on 4
- Why the 3,000-mile oil change is a scam
- Why 1983 was the greatest year in the history of music
- Why you need to pour milk into a cereal bowl in a certain way such that every single piece of cereal gets milk on it BEFORE you start eating. This is vitally important.
- Why you should never put your hand on the table.

Regarding that last point, I'm thinking it has been covered before in this blog, hasn't it? Hold on a second while I go and check...

Ah, yes, this tradition of mine was described in a post last April (see point #8). In case you have no desire to click on that link (and honestly, I wouldn't be that motivated if I were you), I've been doing this thing with the kids since they were little in which I try to get them to put their hands flat on the kitchen table. When they do, I pound their hand − hard − and say, "NEVER put your hand on the table!"

Why, you wonder? And I ask, "why not?" It's to the point that I have to trick them into actually putting their hands on the table, and I'm lucky if I can get even one of them to do it in the space of a year. They're clearly on to me.

But every once in awhile I'll put on a stern face when one of our offspring is sitting at the table and say, "Did you spill milk here? I can't believe you spilled your milk." And the kid will indignantly say, "I didn't spill my milk! What are you talking about?" And I'll rub the table and say, "Well, then, why is it so sticky here?"

And then, if the stars align just right and the child forgets who they're talking to, they'll get an annoyed look on their face and rub the spot I show them. And in the space of 8 milliseconds, my fist will come crashing down onto their hand and I will triumphantly remind them NEVER TO PUT THEIR HAND ON THE TABLE.

This is the greatest feeling in the world, and it actually teaches them a valuable lesson: Namely, that you can't trust ANYONE in the world, not even your crazy father. Maybe especially your crazy father.

The point is, I clearly won't be writing a parenting book any time soon. And if I do, it will be called "Never Put Your Hand on the Table: And Other Things I've Tried to Teach My Poor Children." It won't sell well, but I'll be a hero to dads across the world who make it their mission in life to show kids the value of pain.

Still, I will say this: If I have learned anything from nearly two decades of dad-dom, it is the value of confidence in a child. You cannot, in my view, overestimate the value of a child's self-worth.

Now, before you conservative types get your panties in a bunch, please understand that I'm not talking about the cheap, feel-good brand of self-esteem our society so often tries to pump into kids these days. I'm not for everyone getting a trophy, no score being kept (in most circumstances), etc. etc. etc.

I'm talking about the very real benefits of simply helping a kid believe they're worth something. And that they can do whatever (realistic) task set before them.

I think there's value in doing this for every kid, but especially girls. I coach a lot of girls sports, and I've found this unfortunate fragility that creeps into the psyche of female athletes starting at about the age of 10 and often lasting well into their teenage years (and beyond).

You have to be very careful how you deal with them. Criticism absolutely needs to be offered in a positive, constructive way. This is not to say they're not tough. They absolutely are (and vicious, too...I'm telling you, girls soccer games are as rough as any football game in which I ever played).

But Lord knows these girls are bombarded daily with the not-so-subtle message that they're not good enough. They're not skinny enough, they're not pretty enough, they're not smart enough, and on and on and on. They don't need to be beaten down on the athletic field, too. They should feel empowered by sports.

That doesn't mean I won't be tough on them. I will. I'll let you know if you're not playing to your potential. You can't help lack of natural ability, but you most certainly can help lack of effort.

Ultimately, though, these girls need to hear five positive things for every one negative. And the "negative" shouldn't even be negative as much as a guideline for improvement. Yes, one day they'll need to be ready to deal with a tough boss, and yes, we need to prepare them for the roller coaster ride of life.

But to my way of thinking, the way we do that in these adolescent years is to build a base of self-confidence that will naturally breed toughness, strength of character, and all of that other Girl Scout stuff that actually means something in life.

So I take every opportunity I can to praise my daughters. I do it with my sons, too, but I don't think they're fighting the same battles as my girls.

And besides, my boys instinctively KNOW a 2005 Honda Accord can go 5,000 miles before it's time to change the oil...

Apparently I'm supposed to hate the snow

I have lived my entire life in Northeast Ohio. More specifically, I have lived my entire life in one small city in Northeast Ohio.

You can say a lot of things both good and bad about the place I call home. But the one thing out-of-towners always mention is the snow. And they don't say it in a kind way.

"Cleveland? Oh....You guys get a lot of snow, don't you?"

Yes, I suppose we do. The annual snowfall totals vary drastically (less than 40 inches some years, over 100 others), but the average is about 57 inches a year. Multiply that by 43 (my age), and you get roughly 2,450 inches of snow that have fallen here in my lifetime. That's more than 200 feet. That's a lot of snow.

And I love it.

Very rarely do you hear me complain about snow. I am a graduate of the school of thought that says, "It's Cleveland. In February. Snow is going to fall. If you don't like it, go someplace else."

A lot of people do just that. It's fashionable for Ohioans to head south in the early months of the year. Some even have winter homes down in Florida, where they flee for several weeks until the snow (mostly) goes away, then they return.

These are not, in my estimation, real Ohioans. At best they're honorary members of the state. You're an Ohioan - and more to the point, a Clevelander - only if you stick it out winter after winter. Anyone can live here in July when it's 80 degrees every day and we get relatively small amounts of rainfall. That's enjoyable. But if you scurry off to Tampa at the first flakes, then you're not really one of us. Sorry, that's just the way it is.

Our precipitation totals are padded every year by what meteorologists call "lake effect snow." It has something to do with the moisture from the relatively warm lake being swept up into the atmosphere and adding a few inches to every snowfall.

But honestly, we still don't get nearly as much snow as they do three hours east in Buffalo or the rest of upstate New York. Syracuse averages 115 inches a year. When we get that much (which is rare), we act like we've survived a nuclear holocaust.

The snow really only affects my life in two ways:

(1) A few times per winter, it makes my drive to work (you know, when I actually am working) a little slower

(2) About 10 times per winter, I have to go outside and snowblow and/or shovel it away

And really, that's about it. I don't think that's too much of a reason to complain. But complain we do. Oh my goodness, people here whine and moan about snow like it's some completely new and entirely unexpected climatic phenomenon. Can you believe it? FROZEN WATER FALLING FROM THE SKY? WHAT?!? NO ONE SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THAT!

I get especially annoyed by people who used to live here and post snarky comments on Facebook like "It's 85 degrees here in Phoenix! Hope you Ohioans are enjoying the ice and snow!"

Guess what? I am enjoying the ice and snow. And I really don't care how warm it is in Arizona. Or Florida. Or South Carolina. Or whatever southeastern and/or Sun Belt state you moved to. I've chosen to live here. I have the means to live virtually anywhere I want, but I want to live here. I like it here. It's nice here.

Because it really is. Cleveland is a great place to live, despite what you may have heard. The people are friendly, the change of seasons is enjoyable, the amenities are nice, etc. I've traveled to a lot of different places, and I've liked nearly all of them. But you couldn't pay me to live anywhere else.

Yet societal expectations dictate that I should complain about a weather pattern that established itself here centuries ago and is not likely to drastically change anytime soon (even with the warmer winters we've been experiencing). It is what it is, people. Deal with it.

My, my, I am cranky today, aren't I? Must be the cold and snow that's making me irritable...

Don't worry, I probably can't beat you at SongPop

Do you know this game SongPop? It's an app that people play on their phones. I guess you could play it on your desktop computer, too, but I have yet to meet anyone who does it that way.

I own a smartphone, but generally I'm not a big "app guy." I should be. I mean, there are lots and lots and lots and LOTS of free apps that are cool and useful. And the ones I do have are great. But I don't go to the app store and just shop around or anything like that.

I did, however, download SongPop. And I love it. The idea is that you listen to snippets of songs and try to identify them (or the artist who recorded them) as quickly as possible. You get points for doing this, and you go one-on-one against another person to see who can get the highest score from a set of five songs.

This appeals to me for three reasons:

(1) I love music

(2) I love games

(3) I'm inordinately competitive

The thing is, I'm not a SongPop genius or anything. I win about as often as I lose, which makes me the SongPop equivalent of almost every Cleveland sports team I've ever rooted for. But I still enjoy the game and make a point of playing it at least once a day.

I have a small circle of people I play against. Most of them are pretty good at SongPop, but none is as good as my nephew Mark. Mark is the New York Yankees of SongPop players (NOTE: This analogy would have worked better a few years ago when the Yankees were actually good. I wanted to say "the Montreal Canadiens of SongPop," but only my hardcore hockey fan friends whose memories extend back to the 70s would have any idea what I was talking about).

Anyway, Mark is really good at SongPop. To the point that part of me thinks he's cheating. He not only guesses every tune correctly, he does it in an average of something like 1.2 seconds. And some of his answers happen in less than a second. I can't process the song in less than a second, let alone identify the correct answer from the choices given and then select it by touching the screen. This whole sequence takes me an average of, I would say, 3 seconds. Occasionally I get under 2 seconds, but for the most part, I'm slow.

Is this because I'm old? I ask this seriously. Do you start to lose your reflexes and brain processing power in your early 40s? If so, then it's happening to me. I don't mind it so much except that it means I constantly lose to Mark. And to Kathy Ciciretti. And to Mike Pugh. They're all very good at SongPop.

Chris Dorazio is also good at SongPop (EDITOR'S NOTE: Do we need a refresher course here? Since it has been more than half a year since I was regularly blogging and mentioning Chris Dorazio? OK, for those who don't know, Chris Dorazio is my daughter Chloe's boyfriend. He's Vietnamese. But he has an Italian last name. And he juggles. And he is always referred to as "Chris Dorazio." Got that? OK, good. Let's continue.)

Chris Dorazio is good at SongPop. And he plays it a lot. He and I have these really tight games. If one of us finds himself too far behind the other on the weekly scoreboard, we'll select a musical category where we know we have an advantage. I should have mentioned for those who haven't played SongPop that you can select a musical category or genre, and the songs you have to guess will all fall into that category or genre.

Like, for example, if Chris Dorazio wants to stump me, he'll pick "Modern Rap" or "Glee." He knows my knowledge in both of those is lacking, though occasionally I'll get lucky and beat him. If I need to shut him down, I'll go to one of my favorites: 80s Collection or New Wave or Jazz. It becomes a Battle of the Musical Generations.

And let me say this: I actually do know a LITTLE something about modern music and all of that. I have five kids, three of whom are teenagers and one of whom is within a year of becoming a teenager. So I have no choice but to be at least passingly aware of current music. But I never remember who actually sings what.

For instance, there's a rapper named "Flo Rida." His name is pronounced "Flow RIGHTA." But I, being the Clueless Adult, initially looked at the spelling of his name and said "Flow RIDDA," with a short "I" sound. You know, like the state. The child to whom I said this − it may have been Chloe − laughed at me. Derisively. I was so proud.

And there are acronyms involved in modern pop/R&B music that I can't follow. There's a group called LMFAO, right? Or is it ROTFL? There's a hip hop artist called B.o.B. And there's a band called Fun, but they're just plain "Fun," not "F.U.N." Who has time to keep track of all of this? Not even the unemployed, I can tell you that.

There's also the fact − and please understand how much it pains me to say this − that so much of what I hear on the radio these days sounds exactly the same. Like it's the same song just sort of remixed and maybe refashioned with the same synthesizer-based instruments and a slightly different melody. I don't want to think like this, I really don't. It's straight from the Old Guy Playbook, but I can't help it.

Back in my day (April 1986 through June 1987), even the hair band songs were all distinctive! You could tell Ratt apart from Poison in an instant. And the lead singers at least wore different colored lipstick so we could distinguish them from one another, which I always thought was very considerate.

I used to be a pretty ardent follower of popular music. That all changed circa 1991 when the grunge thing came along and I found that, at the age of 21, I was unable to tell Soundgarden from Pearl Jam from Smashing Pumpkins. It happens to everyone eventually, it just happened to me early in life.

So the result is that I sometimes struggle in SongPop. Actually, I usually struggle in SongPop. I always forget the Gangnam Style guy's name. And I get Justin Bieber mixed up with OneDirection − a mortal sin in my daughter Melanie's eyes. But then again she's 12 and, really, what does she know?

She couldn't name every song on Side A of Duran Duran's debut album, which her old man had on cassette circa 1981, that's for sure. Score one for daddy!

There's less and less of me all the time

I am no longer old, fat and ugly. I'm just old and ugly now, which is a relief.

Over the past few months, I've gotten rid of the "fat" part using Weight Watchers. I've dropped 27 or 28 pounds so far (not sure exactly how much...I weigh in tomorrow morning). And while I don't claim to be an underwear model or anything now, I'm at least back down into a healthy weight range, and I intend to stay there.

I'm a big fan of Weight Watchers, though I never say it's the right weight-loss method for everyone. Most people, yes, just not everyone. You have to be willing to figure out point values for foods and to track everything you eat every day. This sounds daunting at first, but for me it quickly becomes second nature.

The thing a lot of people don't get about Weight Watchers is that there are no "restricted" foods. None. You can eat whatever you want. It's just that, as you might expect, calorie-laden foods have higher point values, and you only get so many points in a day/week. So while that 3-pound slice of cake looks delicious, I would only recommend it if you don't plan on eating again until, say, the middle of next summer.

Because that's the thing: No matter how you go about losing weight, ultimately you're going to have to change how you eat. Whether you're counting points or avoiding carbs or following the Mongolian Yak Shepherd Diet, weight loss has always been, and always will be, a matter of calories in vs. calories out. Burn more than you take in and you lose weight. Go the opposite direction and start shopping for pants with exponentially larger waist sizes.

Speaking of which, I'm experiencing one of those problems-you-like-to-have in that half of the clothes I own are, geometrically speaking, now too big for me. Some are only slightly too big, while others are comically large. The last time I lost this much weight, I came into work wearing a black suit that my kind co-worker Jennifer said "makes you look like you're playing dress-up with your daddy's clothes."

And yes, there was a "last time" for me. I started doing Weight Watchers with Terry in 2008 and lost more than 30 pounds in three months. Then I got cocky and thought, "Well, I don't need Weight Watchers to keep the weight off. I can do it myself." And yes, I said it in the exact moronic tone you might expect.

You probably know what comes next: I not only gained the 30 pounds back, I added a few more for good measure! Because I'm just that kind of a thorough guy!

So this time I went back with the intention of not only taking the weight  back off − something at which I'm actually quite good − but learning mentally and physically how to keep it off forever.

I hate to make this comparison because I don't in any way mean to belittle Alcoholics Anonymous, but I liken weight loss to AA: You're never actually "recovered." That is, I need to stay on Weight Watchers or some sustainable form of it for the rest of my life if I hope to remain relatively lean and healthy. I'm too weak and lazy to just "eyeball" foods and limit portion sizes. Given free rein at the buffet table, I would eat everything there...and the table itself.

So once I hit my goal of 185 pounds in another month or two, I plan to keep on attending Weight Watchers meetings and following the program. Forever. I've given a lot of thought as to how that will work, and it's no trivial thing given that I might live another 40 or 50 years. I really think I will not only do this, but do it with no problem. As I've transformed my body over these last few months, I've been striving to do the same with my mind, and I believe I've made real progress there.

By the way, most people think I'm kidding when I say I weigh 190 pounds right now. That's in clothes and shoes, but still, at first glance I don't look to be 190 pounds. That is the blessing and the curse of my family: We wear weight well. I've ALWAYS been heavier than people assumed, which is handy when you're playing that guess-your-weight carnival game but of little use otherwise.

My primary care doc, the wonderful and inspiring Michelle Spech-Holderbaum, says 185 would be a "fantastic" weight for me and that anything under that is getting toward "you look gaunt and old" territory...though as we've established, there's probably no escaping "old" and "ugly" for me. I'm just looking for "relatively non-fat." That would be more than sufficient, thank you.