Picking a gym in West Chester

So Kate and I have been looking for a gym that we can go to in our copious spare time. We’ve been evaluating two of them:

  1. West Chester ACAC (“Ay-See-Ay-See?” “Ack-Ack?”) Ten minutes away by car, colossal facility, includes family changing rooms for the pool, a magical centrifugal bathing-suit dryer, and a Starbucks inside the facility. Before we visited, I was envisioning banks of treadmills arranged next to cunning artifical brooks, with carefully-tended rubber trees all around and massage cabanas hidden amongst the palm trees, all under a high-arched air-conditioned roof. To my complete amazement, I WAS EXACTLY RIGHT. Oddly, there were not as many SUVs with “Bush 2004” stickers in the parking lot as we were expecting. The ACAC just opened a forty thousand foot facility just for childcare, with a separate entrance.
  2. Mitch’s Market Street Gym, also in West Chester. Ten minutes away, but on foot — it’s just around the corner. Mitch’s is a local gym inside an old laundry facility, with cool skylights, big windows, and an old, scarred, but polished hardwood floor. No pool. Fewer treadmills, no cunning mountain streams, no cafe, and child care consists of a big room packed to the rafters with battle-scarred Fisher-Price toys.

Now, usually at least a part of the decision is made on whether or not the club is intimidating, and believe me I hate to give up any chance to work the “scrappy band of misfits” angle, but both gyms seemed friendly and unintimidating, full of regular people doing regular workouts. (I used to belong to the New York Sports Club in Soho, but even there the population was only about 40% cyborg. Maybe it’s an east-coast thing.) Also, the personal trainers seemed about the same in both places (West Chester University has a really good phys-ed program. That and early childhood education, so it’s a good place to live if you want babysitters and someone to spot your reverse curls, or whatever.)

So in the end we chose Mitch’s because it’s closer and it feels more local. Plus, running to the gym with a jog-stroller seems a little more Rocky, and driving to the gym with the air-conditioner on seems a little more Ivan Drago. On Saturday, Lydia spent her first twenty minutes ever in a multi-child childcare environment happily banging away on an old Fisher-Price cobbler’s bench, and I spent the same twenty minutes upstairs remembering that a ten-minute pace is not my baseline speed any more. Gasp, gasp, gasp.

Picking a gym in West Chester

HOMF! HOMF! AAAAAARGH!

Last week’s weight: 220 lbs.
This week’s weight: 220 lbs.
De-bigulation stalled at 22% complete, due to 48-hour Taco Bell/Ben&Jerrys incident.

I’ve got a bad habit of not really eating anything (a cup of coffee, an Odwalla bar) up until it’s time to get on the train and go home at 3:10PM. By then I’m a highly-tuned eating machine and I’m ready to start yelling when I eat, like Cookie Monster: “HOMF! HOMF! AAAAARGH!” Thursday, I hadn’t really had anything at all until afternoon (dumb idea, I know), and I had 24 points to burn. Six hours later, I was on the far side of 66 points, groaning like Templeton the Rat after a trip through the fairgrounds.

Now, I’m not really ashamed of myself — I wasn’t, like, sitting in my car and crying while I ate three supersized number ten meals, or anything — but I’m starting to realize that one of the main reasons I was skinny in college was that I didn’t have any money. Now that I’m a Rich White Man with a wallet stuffed with oof, I’d better not have my eat on when I walk past Taco Bell, or I’m gonna do some damage.

Okay, my wallet isn’t really STUFFED with spondulix (except compared to college), but ten bucks is enough to halt your Weight Watchers progress for the day, and then when you bring home Ben&Jerry’s for your beautiful wife who has a cold and needs a treat — and you don’t have the iron willpower that comes from a couple days’ momentum — why then, you eat the other half of that pint of mint chocolate chip, don’t you? Yeah. Yeah, you do. And you go ahead and go for the tuna melt the next day, with the fudge brownie afterwards.

I’m reminding myself that this is a long-term project, and that these will just be blips unless I let them derail me for good. Which I hope doesn’t happen; looking at all that camping equipment that’s gone unused since 2003 makes me want to get outdoors more, and not in a puffy, sweaty, my-waistband-gets-tight-when-I-tie-my-shoes kind of way!

HOMF! HOMF! AAAAAARGH!

Andale, mas pequeno!

Starting weight: 230 lbs
Current weight: 220 lbs
Target weight: 185 lbs
Re-de-bigulation complete
Overall debigulation: 22% complete

Okay, so far so good, I guess: I’m back on track, having reached the lowest weight I hit last year, the lowest (for me) since college. Which is definitely a qualified measure of success, since the highest weight I hit in college (216) caused me to have conniptions and embark on a three-month stairmaster crusade in order to get back to 185 then. Which I was able to do, mostly because Earlham had one of those stairmasters that looks like a pulpit where you’re actually climbing stairs and you’re up above everyone else, continually climbing climbing climbing (very evocative), which I did for 45 minutes a day for three months. So getting back to my “OMG CONNIPTION!” weight is not a bad thing, but definitely not time to start resting on my laurels yet, especially since there’s no stairmasters on Amtrak. Though I am looking for a DVD copy of the 1991 Tamilee Webb Abs of Steel video. Don’t laugh. Okay, fine, laugh, but that video was badass. Not that I’m going to do it on the train; I thought I might do it in the evening to get my metabolism up. Though the shrieks of pain might wake the baby.

Anyhow, the summer of, uh… 1994? I went to Newfoundland to help build a house with my brother Sam. Over the course of that next year, I put on a lot of weight — when I went back to Trinity the next year, I walked through the front door and the Bellows exclaimed (imagine a rolling Newfie accent) “John, my son, you look like the old Elvis!” (It’s impossible to take offense in a Newfie kitchen: nobody gives a damn what your weight is, they’re just happy to see you; you could walk through the door with a second head on your shoulders and they’d simply clap you on the back and say “Ah, John! How are you? So, what’s that rig for then?”)

Anyhow, I’ve been at the “old Elvis” weight for over ten years now, and the Union Theological Seminary entrance photo (1994, young Elvis weight) — which is also on my Citibank credit card, so I see it often — was starting to look like a distant memory. Hopefully, no more!

Andale, mas pequeno!

The Voice of Binky as philosophical muffin arbiter

The Meyers-Briggs Personality Type Indicator, which was part of the very air I breathed during my childhood, classifies personality into four binaries: (I)ntrovert and (E)xtrovert, i(N)tuitive and (S)ensing, (T)hinking and (F)eeling, (P)ercieving and (J)udging. (I’m a fairly strong INTP, which is news to nobody.)

The process of dividing things into binaries, then assigning things placements on that scale, of course, is already a pretty rationalist way of thinking about things. Like the goofy philosophy-major T-shirt: “There are two kinds of people in the world: those that think there are two people in the world, and those that don’t.” (Obligatory ThinkGeek reference)

My own philosophical schism — and by philosophical, I suppose I mean the inner framework that I use to decide what’s important to me, and how I’m going to weigh values when making choices — is kind of hung up between two places, which I’ll oversimplify here (not that I could get it right if I had the space):
The Stoics (Seneca, Marcus Aurelius): “You must control your desires! Control your desires, and you won’t live in a state of frustration and disappointment!”
The Epicureans (Epictetus) “Your desire for pleasure and tranquility is good! Arrange your life so that you can achieve this state of happiness.”

When I have a choice to make, I usually hear from both camps.

To this, I’ll add a third incredibly important formative influence from my childhood, a Roz Chast cartoon from the New Yorker (click to zoom, new window):

Okay, here’s how Binky is applied in my case. I’M HUNGRY A LOT OF THE TIME, which causes you to rethink your values. WHY am I not eating that 10-point Au Bon Pain cranberry muffin, the one right there by stairway 3? Right, so I won’t cringe when I see pictures of myself (yes, I know I am not a ham beast, but I’m not skinny, either.) But… aren’t I really being unrealistic about this weight-loss project?

“Stick to your 26 points for victory!” says my inner stoic, appearing in miniature on my right shoulder dressed like a narrow spinster in a Salvation Army uniform. “By controlling your intake of food, you control your weight, and therefore your destiny! It’s simple!” But then, in a small puff of smoke on my left shoulder comes my inner epicurean, played by Socrates from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, except he’s wearing wraparound shades and a turned-up collar like the cool kids from an eighties movie (hey, I can’t explain it either):
“Come on, you know, if you’re too hard on yourself now, you’ll just quit after a few weeks. Just eat the muffin” he says, his eyes turning into spinning whirlpools superimposed over the terminator shades: “Eat it, you know that the idea of mastery over desire is the product of an overly neoplatonic interpretation of the stoic agenda introduced by that rotter Descartes, John, and it doesn’t take into account the realities of being human.”
I start to weaken, thinking of the three dollars in my wallet that could buy that there cranberry muffin, and Socrates presses his advantage: “Haven’t I seen you reading the phenomenological work of Alison Jaggar, pointing out the dangers of nonmaterialistic dualities that don’t value or respect the needs of the corporeal body? E-e-e-e-e-at the muf-f-f-f-innn. Heidegger is here, and he says ‘eat the muffin’ too.”

Then I just think of Binky, and go “fuck it, I’m not eating that muffin.” Whew! Thanks, clown.

The Voice of Binky as philosophical muffin arbiter

No good deed goes unpunished



Starting weight: 230 lbs
Target weight: 185 lbs
Current weight: 222 lbs
De-re-bigulation in progress
Overall de-bigulation: 18% complete



So each fifty calories, or each twelve grams of fat, in a food comprises one Weight Watchers “point”, according to their sekrit formula. (I reverse-engineered their Javascript, but it turns out that you can just read their patent application.) This is an open secret; I mention it simply to be able to point out that it’s not much. A slice of bread is two points, fer Chrissakes. Bread. Two points.

The more weight you lose, the more Weight Watchers’ implacable software reduces your target point total. Just this morning, I saw the good news that my new year’s fatty assault is working so far. Hurrah! But I get the news that, were I to offend Cardinal Richielieu and get thrown in some kind of dank, nitred French dungeon, I’d now have to eat only some of the delicious crusty bread they throw into my oubliette each day, otherwise I’d come out at the end of fifty years as soft and middle manager-y as I went in.

Damn you, Weight Watchers, cruel taksmasters! Damn you, Richielieu, and your delicious crusty French bread (2 points/restaurant slice), maybe with some butter (1 point/tsp), or some olive oil for dipping (1 point/tsp)!

No good deed goes unpunished

There’s no bonhomie at the wheatgrass bar

Starting weight: 230 lbs
Target weight: 185 lbs
Current weight: 226 lbs
Re-big-ulation in progress.

So, in my last blog post on the subject, I was all going on about how I’m motivated by success, and I don’t handle setbacks so well. How prophetic! I got distracted by other stuff (er… like whole-milk lattes, I guess), and now I’ve managed to put back on six of the ten pounds I lost. Which isn’t all that surprising, considering where I’ve been getting my calories (Dear god! The raspberry scone I had this morning should have been a third of my total intake for the day, according to the numbers.)

So the whole thing about sticking to my plan by blogging about it didn’t work so well. Well, unless you count me getting back on the #$@#$$@ bean-sprout wagon now, three months after I fell off it, while I’ve still got a net result in the right direction. Off to go stand in line behind the sweater-set crowd for a healthy sandwich, instead of Genuine NYC Banter with the guys at the pizza shop. (The old guy inflates your price by a factor of one hundred: “That’ll be four hundred and seventy five dollars” — I guess he’s waiting for somebody to pay it someday. If you hand over your five bucks saying “take it outta five hundred”, you get VIP service the next time you come back. But nooooo, I gotta go talk to the humorless folks at Ashby’s now. Sigh.)

There’s no bonhomie at the wheatgrass bar

Respect for Richard Simmons.

Like Quicken, except even MORE fun.
Starting weight: 230 lbs
Target weight: 185 lbs
Current weight: 220 lbs
De-big-ulation process: 22% complete

I’m motivated by success — if I feel like I’m doing a good job at something, I like to devote more effort to it to see if I can do an even better job. If I’m doing a really good job at something, I try really hard to see if I can do that thing the BEST THAT IT’S EVER BEEN DONE IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD. The converse of this is that I handle setbacks really poorly, so I’m not about to start recording my own series of self-help CDs.

Luckily for me and my motivational style, the weight loss has been going quickly, even though I haven’t been able to run a tithe of the times that I’d like to. My self-appointed (and very much appreciated) coach Will Ronco has examined my workout log and helpfully suggested that I run more, though with my current schedule I’m despairing of success at that, and trying to think of solutions: If each Amtrak car is 90 feet long, times a 12-car train, eight round-trips jogging up and down the center aisle would be a 5K. But think of the bruises from newspaper readers’ elbows.

I promise I’m not starving myself: yesterday I had a burger on the grill for lunch and some salmon salad that Kate made for dinner. I’ve cut out a lot of the ancillary calories during the day: for the last year, I’ve had a slice of pepperoni pizza and a slice of hawaiian pizza for lunch, then as a snack going home a bag of doritos, etc. Oh, and one of those big cafe muffins for breakfast. Which if I entered into WeightWatchers now, the points values would roll over the meter like a seventies gas pump.

For no good reason, I tried the FitDay software last week. The best I can describe it is like Quicken for your food and activities, with a nice, streamlined interface and a real depth of reporting (my “overview” screen is above.) I think I’ll go back to the WeightWatchers web interface for two reasons, though: FitDay’s database of food isn’t quite as deep as WeightWatchers, and it’s a pain in the ass to have to save your wasabi pea wrapper and type in all the info from the food label. Also, I think it’s just a case of too much information. While it’s good to be able to know what percentage of my calories are coming from carbs, and whether or not I’m getting enough niacin to complete my RDA, I’ve got bigger, fatter fish to fry. WeightWatchers does a good job of hiding the complexity.

I’m boring myself (and, probably, you) with this post, so I will now tell a true Richard Simmons story. At age seventeen, I worked at a marketing company in Malvern, Pennsylvania that was one of the pioneers of the infomercial. They sold a countertop water filter, a hands-free phone, and most of all they had filmed “Sweatin’ to the Oldies” as a part of Richard Simmons’ “Deal-a-Meal” package. I worked in the customer service office, opening mail and handling returns. Many of the letters were addressed directly to Richard. Most were normal customer-service stuff, but some were raw outpourings of misery: “Richard, help! I’m so fat I can’t use an escalator!” read one. “Richard, I’m miserable! I can’t fit through the door!” read another. How do you react to that at age seventeen? You laugh, nervously. “Hey, here’s one from someone who can’t use an escalator! Er, ha ha ha! What should I do with it?”

Customer Service manager: “Oh, those? Those go in the ‘Richard’ box.”
Me: “Okay, and what happens then? Do they get thrown away, or something?”
Manager: “No, Richard reads them.”
Me: “…”
Manager: “And he answers them. Every month, Richard picks a letter out of the ‘Richard’ box, and he calls that person every month. For TWO YEARS.”

That was just a showstopper. Far from being a ridiculous joke, Richard Simmons turns out to be, well, a ridiculous AND COMPLETELY GENUINE PERSON. When he was visiting from California, he’d run up and down the halls singing (he really did wear those Dolphin track shorts all the time.) He was out and completely up-front about it, too, though, though he’d tease you mercilessly if he detected that you weren’t comfortable: when driven to the airport by Sweatin’ to the Oldies director Ed Shipley, he fell to the carpet and grabbed Ed’s feet, sobbing hysterically “Don’t LEAVE me, Ed! Don’t LEAVE me!” This just to embarass Ed, who was an ex-Navy pilot and fairly uptight about that sort of thing.

Richard’s energy, fearlessness, and generosity with his time was really inspirational, and made me feel guilty about spending clocked-in customer service hours making eight-hose hookahs out of water filter parts. Here’s to you, Richard! May your ‘fro grow ever larger!

PS. That wasn’t the last time that Richard made a scene in an airport; in 2004, he slapped a steel-cage-wrestling Harley salesman for being snide (the case was later dismissed.) Go get ’em, Richard!

Respect for Richard Simmons.

Bragging, blogging, dieting, and determination


Starting weight: 230 lbs
Goal weight: 185 lbs
Currently: 223 lbs
De-big-ulation: 16% complete

I’ve been doing pretty well on the Weight Watchers points — I use the online tool to track what I eat, which is the most valuable part for me. I would probably do just as well if I wrote everything down in a book using a pencil, but I wouldn’t actually *do* that, so it’s moot. I had ambitions to keep a journal (a diary journal, that is, not a weight-loss journal) since I was eight years old, but it wasn’t until the Internet came along that I actually started to write something regularly. Mark Twain talks about this in The Innocents Abroad, describing the writing saloon in the steamer Quaker City on the first few days of their trip, when everybody was writing ten pages a day:

Alas! that journals so
voluminously begun should come to so lame and impotent a conclusion as most of them did! I doubt if there is a single pilgrim of all that host but can show a hundred fair pages of journal concerning the first twenty days’ voyaging in the Quaker City, and I am morally certain that not ten of the party can show twenty pages of journal for the succeeding twenty thousand miles of voyaging! At certain periods it becomes the dearest ambition of a man to keep a faithful record of his performances in a book; and he dashes at this work with an enthusiasm that imposes on him the notion that keeping a journal is the veriest pastime in the world, and the pleasantest. But if he only lives twenty-one days, he will find out that only those rare natures that are made up of pluck, endurance, devotion to duty for duty’s sake, and invincible determination may hope to venture upon so tremendous an enterprise as the keeping of a journal and not sustain a shameful defeat.

Twain was writing with his tongue in cheek, since the reader knows that he, Twain, wrote half of the book in the two weeks following the end of the journey from sketchy memories. If Twain had the ability to brag and tell lies and get read on a daily basis, like bloggers do, I’m sure he would have considered the problem solved. (He liked to show off his prodigious speed on the typewriter, a new invention, but only on the single phrase he had practiced over and over: “the boy stood on the burning deck.” This, of course, is by his own cheerful admission.)

Anyhow, the ability to write regularly about my delardassification progress is helping immensely. Weight Watchers is warning me about the fact that I’m losing more than two pounds a week, but I’m not starving myself, promise. If WW offered outside links, I’d show you my food intake. I’m managing to run a fair amount — yesterday, when we arrived home, I found the second jog stroller waiting in a huge box. I assembled it and took it out for a spin, which Lydia quite likes. Though with the humidity, going for a run is like wrestling with a warm, wet, dishrag.

My plan is to stick to the Weight Watchers points plan as much as I can, and run 3-4 times this week, taking it easy and not worrying at all about my pace, which is glacial. Once I get ten workouts under my belt, I’ll start thinking about setting a target pace, or doing one of the Runners-World approved regimes, like pushing one minute out of five for a week, then pushing two minutes out of five, etc. Wish me luck! Encouragement gratefully accepted! Here’s a link to my workout log, so that those of my friends who are superhuman triatheletes can give me helpful tips: “I suggest you should run more often! For longer distances! Oh, and faster!” (As Will points out, this advice is best delivered through a megaphone, with a thick accent.)

PS: Apparently my great-grandmother Anna Thomas did have a nature made up of “pluck, endurance, devotion to duty for duty’s sake, and invincible determination”, since she was able to keep, and complete, a grand tour journal. It’s possible that she wrote it all in a hurry on the trip home, of course, switching pens after each entry. Both approaches have precedent in my family.

Bragging, blogging, dieting, and determination

Gonna fly now! Flying high now!

Ivan Drago never had it so good.
Starting weight: 230 lbs
Goal weight: 185 lbs
Currently: 227 lbs
De-fatassification: 6.7% complete

So this morning, I got up, put Lydia in the baby stroller, and strapped on a constellation of electronic devices: My FS-1 Fitness Speedometer, a radio-linked foot pod accelerometer, a radio-linked heart rate monitor strap, and a Garmin eTrex Legend GPS receiver. Hey, any excuse to pretend I’m Ivan Drago.

A very slow 50 minutes later (30 minutes jogging, 20 minutes walking), Google Earth had a nice picture of my course, and the bad news that my watch is being outrageously optimistic about my distance (I have to recalibrate it from actual-runner mode to shuffling-newbie mode.) My heart rate (in red) was not in imminent-death territory, and my pace (in blue) was the part where the watch was telling me big white lies. 10 minutes, my ass. My 15-minute-mile ass.

Due to an eBay accident, I now own two Baby Jogger strollers — the one given to me by our very nice neighbors whose kids have outgrown it, and the one that I accidentally won for twenty bucks in Michigan because I didn’t read the “local pickup only” part. So the Michigan one is getting shipped after all (actually, not a bad deal even with the shipping) and I have the choice whether to give back the donated stroller (rude and unnecessary), re-sell the Michigan stroller, or possibly create some sort of Voltron Jogging Stroller Zord. Now that would be a montage. Honey, where’s my welding mask and my montage music?

Gonna fly now! Flying high now!

Are you “fed up” with seeing the huskies walk off with the best of everything?


So begins the famous Charles Atlas comic-book pitch: “The INSULT that made a MAN out of “Mac.” Which is kind of funny, since as a husky, well… I have very little to complain about in life, but my weight bothers me. It bothers me a lot.

Now, this is not a plea for reassurance: I don’t have terrible self-esteem, I’m luckier in love than I had ever hoped to be, and being a daddy has realigned my priorities so that I really don’t mind chasing a toddler around a swimming pool at an extended family barbecue, all pale and love-handle-y. I’m aware that I’ve got other things going for me: at a trial therapy session five years ago or so, the psychologist listened to my worries and fretting and summed up with “well, I don’t think you need to be so worried. You’re young, you’re intelligent, you have [long pause] …a fullll head of hair…” (That was my first and last session there.)

But, to be blunt, I don’t like looking at pictures of myself. Which is why I keep a stock of pictures around that are outdated, obfuscated or not photographs at all. And I have a habit of hiding behind the baby, which nobody minds, really, but I’m tired of averting my eyes from the bathroom mirror when I get out of the shower, you know? Particularly because no matter what, twenty years from now, I’ll probably look at pictures of myself and think “What a handsome young buck! What was I wasting so much time worrying about?”


But that’s the thing about our hangups, isn’t it? We take all our disappointments in life and pin them on the one thing we can’t seem to control. I know that I’ve listened with amusement to the radio commercials where the bald guy is listening to his fully-haired friend describe his yacht and daily jacuzzi parties with a team of supermodels. These guys are twins, intimates the commercial, with pellicular vigor being the only thing standing between baldy and a Hefner-like existence. It’s easy to laugh at that magical thinking when it’s not your issue. But. I’m incredibly lucky, incredibly fortunate, yet if I’m not busy counting my blessings, I feel like I’m only, say, 60% happy with myself. Why? Because of my inability to lose forty pounds for six years. How dumb is that?

Now, I hear you saying (because half of my blog’s readership is made up of parents): “Forty pounds is a lot of weight, John. Aren’t you setting yourself up for failure?” Well, maybe: but I did it once before. In a four-month period in junior year of college, I treadmilled my way from 216 to 185. That was college, of course, and my set-point may be frozen in place now. But in the three times that I’ve managed to stick to Weight Watchers for three weeks, I’ve managed to start and keep momentum that makes me think that I might be eventually successful — no matter how long it takes. I haven’t blogged about it before because, well, everybody hates trying and failing.

Well, screw that! I’m nailing my colors to the mast!

Alright, ladies and gentlemen, here’s the digits: in college, I was 185 pounds. At 185, I strutted around Mexican swimming pools in a pair of size 32 Birdwell Beach Britches and once — I am not making this up — overheard a group of Texan lifeguards daring each other to come over and talk to me. Hell, if that’s not a reason for picking an arbitrary target, I don’t know what is. I have no desire to attract Texans, but I’d like to do some Birdwell-strutting around the backyard pool for my very own lifeguard.

Last Friday, I was (okay, deep breath, blogging my REAL WEIGHT) 230 pounds, which means that I, like other thirty-something middle-management fatties, have to stick to the boxy style of golf shirt (curse you, Ben Sherman, and your switch to darted torsos!), and have doctors to waggle their eyebrows and point to the red-shaded right side of the BMI chart. (“Are you aware that you are morbidly oh-bess?” said an Indian physician to me at a checkup six months after visiting the bald psychologist. Dude. I equate “morbidly obese” with apron fat, which I am nowhere even near, thank you very much. I didn’t go back there, either. But I don’t want to start having heart trouble while Lydia is still in college.)

So my 10% Weight Watchers target goal is 207 pounds, which will then become my new base camp. I’m off to a pretty good start; I managed to stay within my point plan over the holiday weekend, and I ran a 5K race with Lydia in the stroller yesterday. I maintained a glacial, steady, 14-minute pace, but I was talking and feeding cheerios to the baby the whole time, so overall prognosis is good. So I’m hoping that with diet and exercise, I’ll be able to post numbers, charts, graphs, etc to this blog in the next couple of months that don’t make me grit my teeth in embarassment. Wish me luck! Encouragment gratefully accepted! Alternatives to whole-milk lattes cheerfully considered!

Are you “fed up” with seeing the huskies walk off with the best of everything?