Chocolate yogurt popsicle recipe, more or less

First off, here is a recipe for puddin' pops that I think you might like since I think it's pretty damn tasty. After the break there will be some chit-chat on my part. Please feel free to read that, too, or else skedaddle on over to your kitchen and whip up a batch of these for you and your kin.

INGREDIENTS:

• 1/4 cup whole milk

• 4 oz. milk chocolate chips (I used Ghiradelli milk chocolate baking chips)

• 2 cups-ish of whole milk yogurt


DIRECTIONS:

Warm the whole* milk in the microwave.

Pour the warm milk over the milk chocolate chips and let them sit for a minute and then stir it up. There might still be some chunks, but who cares, right? Those are chunks of chocolate there, not chunks of gravel (despite the appearance).

Stir in approx. 2 cups of whole milk yogurt. Mix it all up and voila, you are done. Pour that yummy stuff into popsicle molds and try not to eat them all for dinner. Although there are way worse things to eat for dinner so I won't judge. And isn't dessert for dinner one of the perks of being an adult anyway?

I will admit that I didn't measure the yogurt because I didn't want to dirty another dish. This isn't rocket science so it's not imperative to get the proportions exactly right. I found that with a fair amount of tasting and then tasting again just to make sure it was really as tasty as I thought on the first taste, this recipe was just enough to make 6 popsicles in the Zoku.

The Zoku is ridiculous and I would never have bought one for myself, but I received it as a gift from my man. And now I can't imagine my life without it. What is worse than having to wait hours and hours for a popsicle to be ready? I can tell you: not much is worse than that.

I was surprised to see some negative reviews on Amazon just now for the Zoku saying it is hard to clean and hard to get the pops out. Okay, people, what is going on here? First of all, I pretty much never clean mine because I fill the molds carefully and then put it back in the freezer where it stays clean until the next time I need it. If I do happen to defrost it to allow for putting other stuff in the freezer, I fill the molds with soapy water and let it sit for a bit and then rinse it out. What is so hard about that?

To fill it carefully I spoon the mixture into a cute little quarter-cup that has a spout on it. That's just about the right amount to fill each mold. I suppose I could use a larger measuring cup, but this little guy has a very pointy and small spout, which is perfect for getting the mixture right into the molds. I read that some people use turkey basters, which I'm sure would work, but I would not want to clean the turkey baster out afterward so that's a no for me.

As for getting the pops out of the molds, if I fill them to the line as instructed (am I the only one in the world who reads the dang instructions? Sometimes I believe this is actually true.) and then use the nifty twisty tool to unstick them they pop right out. What works best, in my opinion, is to twist-twist-twist until the pop unsticks and then twist the tool all the way off the pop instead of pulling the pop out with it. Otherwise the pop comes out of the mold on the twisty tool and you have nowhere to hold on to the pop when removing the twisty tool except by the icy pop itself.

* I am a big fan of only drinking whole milk. A lot has been written on the subject so I won't bore you with it except to say that to make milk low-fat the milk becomes farther removed from its natural state. If you are trying to eat more foods that have not been overly processed, then I recommend drinking whole milk and eating whole milk yogurt and cheeses.

I became interested in sticking with whole milk dairy when I was trying to get pregnant as that is part of a commonly recommended protocol for women trying to conceive. And the more I learned about it, the more I realized that whole milk was what I wanted to stick with for the rest of my life. Jeff was easily brought on board, too, since the full-fat ice cream tastes soooo much better AND is not that many more calories than the low-fat varieties. And of course the whole milk tastes divine compared to the low-fat version.

So very much has been written on this topic and if you google it you will find plenty, but I like this NPR piece on how whole milk will actually keep a person trimmer than low-fat, which makes a lot of sense since whole milk products are more filling and more satisfying (IMHO) so you will presumably eat less of them. A little of something delicious is better than a lot of something mediocre, no?

And here is a blog post on care2 on what happens to the vitamins when milk is skimmed and also what happens to milk when it's homogenized. I'm so lucky that I can get non-homogenized milk in glass jars from a Pennsylvania dairy at a market (Bon Vivant) near me. After paying the deposit on a bottle ($2), it costs $4.50 per half gallon, which is in the exact same range as the organic homogenized milk from the grocery store.

Interestingly, I am reading on the site listed on my milk bottles that the dairy does make skim milk. I am curious to learn more about their process! They mention that they're required by law to add the vitamins back in to the low-fat milk and I suppose with enough demand for the low-fat milks it would be silly for them not to sell it as well as the wonderful full-fat version that comes with cream on top that you gently shake to mix in. Yummmm.

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I forgot to mention that I used regular yogurt, not Greek-style. I have been making my own yogurt lately and straining it right after making it, but the whey that gets strained off is super healthy, so in preparation for making puddin' pops this week I left it unstrained. If using Greek, you'd perhaps need to use more milk. So, if using homemade, just keep the whey in and you're good to go.

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I don't purport to be a food blogger, but I am a lover of food and of cooking. So I spend a fair amount of time hunting around on the internet for recipes. What I have determined is that food bloggers like to talk a lot. And often not about food. Fine! Blog! Who cares? But don't make me scroll through what color you're thinking about painting your living room just to see a simple little recipe.

Get back to the basics, food bloggers. Talk about how you created the recipe and *maybe* if it will really add some color, tell a little story about the memories the ingredients evoke for you or whatever. That's all I ask.

Unfortunately, you food bloggers think that because traffic to your site is high that strangers love reading your notions. Guess what! They don't! They land on your little blog because they are trying to find out how to make a recipe, such as puddin' pops, and your blog came up in the search results. I assure you that most people are skimming riiiiight past your living room paint plans and down to the recipe itself.

And then, for the love of all things holy and delicious, why would you agree to put a video ad smack dab in the middle of the recipe?! Criminy, people. Don't delude yourself that your little rant-space disguised as a food blog is going to enable you to quit your day job. Host those ugly ads on your site if you must, but not smack dab in the center of a recipe, especially if it's STILL there on the print preview. That's just rude.

I'm under no delusions that the world needs my blogging talents, whether about food or otherwise, but since I know all too well how skimpy the search results for chocolate yogurt popsicles is, I am adding my contribution to the fray. You're welcome.

So I did wind up chit-chatting a fair bit, but if you came upon this blog post to learn someone's experience with making puddin' pops, you learned that right away at the top of the page and if you're reading this now (and we're complete strangers), then I'm glad I didn't bore your pants off.

Australia tidbits

If there were a way to sum up how young white men dress in Sydney, Australia, it would be summery metrosexual. So many peg-legged pants and shorts that seem a little too short paired with tattoo sleeves and Birkenstocks or flip flops.

Okay I take that back. That was in a particular neighborhood reminiscent of Bushwick or Greenpoint.  But there are still a lot of shorts and Birks. Lots of shorts on women, too. I looked like a middle aged German man wearing capris. Oh well. Gesundheit.

Australia gets the concept of drinking water with your alcohol. Almost every bar we went to had a reservoir of water which patrons can help themselves to. In one bar's restroom was even a sign reminding ladies that water with your beer helps keep your head on straight. Sponsored by Diageo no less.

Many bars are located in what were formerly hotels or are still small boarding houses upstairs. "The reason dates back to late nineteenth century when, after pressure from conservative Christian groups known as the Temperance Leagues, new liquor legislation were implemented with a lot of restrictions, one of them forcing pubs to also provide accommodation. The presence of a few rooms (rarely used) and the "hotel" name then gave some impression the rules were being followed."

I can't be the only one who hears kangaroos referred to as roos by an Australian and assumes those are the babies. Kanga is the mom, obviously.

I'm so in love with passion fruits. They are the funniest little fruits -- a crunchy slushy in the ugliest shell.

Despite the news of Uber gouging desperate people trying to flee the hostage situation in Sydney a few months ago, Uber is not that well known in Sydney or Melbourne. Every driver we got was brand new to the job, some by only days. All were exceedingly polite and offered us mints and water.

It's hard to pick what to drink when everywhere we went there was such good beer and wine to drink. Australia does some lovely dry Rieslings, I discovered.

A lot of cool bars in Sydney are in hotels. Either former hotels or ones that have some simple lodging available -- old school pub style apparently. Don't quote me on this. That's just what I've pieced together.

Tasmania has the most micro climates I have ever encountered anywhere. When it rained, which was every day, it was only briefly and usually while it was sunny as well.

After practicing driving on the left in Scotland, it was much less harrowing this time. I even did it, with relatively few mishaps. I admit that I did turn into a grocery store parking lot on the right side of the road. I'm sure I got dirty looks but no one was hurt.

It didn't help that in the car we rented, the windshield wipers and the turn signal were reversed. Every stressful turn included a bit of wiper action. That was just a given.

See more photos here.

Scotland in a nutshell

Scotland is not typically a destination of choice in January, but I highly recommend it if you happen to find yourself needing to go there in the middle of winter (which is what happened to us). Jeff had to do research on whisky (it's whisky over there, not whiskey like it is the US) for his book. He was going to go in November, but I didn't want to miss a trip to Scotland so I asked him to postpone until after my job ended.

I've been to a lot of snow-covered places, but Scotland wins hands-down at wearing its snow the best. Somehow it manages to snow there almost every day, but not a lot and some of it melts off, so there are not huge, dingy banks of snow on the side of the roads. And driving isn't too treacherous. It is rather scary, however, to drive on the "wrong" side of the road for the first time on snowy roads. We survived that and only got stuck on a giant rock when Jeff tried to eat an ice cream while driving. That might work with an automatic transmission, but you'd have to be an octopus to manage that with a manual. Luckily, we were on a farm when it happened and a kindly farmer was nearby with a tractor.

I'm not a fan of whiskey or whisky so after tagging along to a few distilleries I went off on my own, which really is the perfect scenario anyway since I love having my own time to tool around on trips and Jeff had his own adventures driving down narrow country lanes in search of whisky.

Cullen skink is smoked haddock in a milky broth with chives. Doesn't sound too appetizing but after trying it in two different restaurants I am sold on in wholeheartedly.

Bar tabs aren't allowed by Scottish law, to keep people from drinking too much. If you order food, however, it is allowed. The legal alcohol limit in Scotland is only 0.5, whereas it's 0.8 in the rest of the UK and in the US. That's like one beer. At one of the distilleries Jeff visited, he was told they don't give tastes to anyone who is driving as that will automatically put them over the limit.

There's no rhyme or reason to where people park or pull over. This seems to be a pan-European phenomenon that I will never understand. I saw someone parked in a bus stop, facing the opposite direction as the cars on that side of the road.

One day Jeff dropped me off in the small town of Grantown (pronounced Granton) while he went to a distillery nearby. First I took a walk down a lovely snowy path and then I poked my head into a cafe that didn't look too inviting so then I poked my head into a bar. Three gents were sitting there and they welcomed me happily. One was named Norman (last name of Grant, whose family is original townsfolk). The one with the mustache is Davie (don't ever call him David) and the third one is Iain, who had a voluminous beard. Davie's partner owns the bar but he works it when she's out. He kept up with the rest of us in beers, however.

They wouldn't let me buy my beers and they kept me thoroughly entertained. The only other bar in town is the Craig but they assured me it was not as good as the Claymore. I believe it! These 3 tease each other mercilessly. I get the impression most Scots are like that. For example, to tell Iain apart from another bar patron with the same name, he is called Upside Down Iain since his hair is below his head. There are various things they bet on in the bar and he always writes his name as U.D. Iain now. "It was easier to just go along with it," he said.

I was so eager to try a local speciality, squat lobsters. But, sadly, they are only available in the summer. A fish and chip shop owner told us it's just not worth it to prepare them in the winter for not much demand. And they aren't exported due to their delicate nature. Some day we'll have to come back in warmer weather, check out some of the islands and eat squat lobsters.

I managed to nearly eat my weight in other types of seafood, however. Smoked trout, smoked haddock, salmon, fried pollack, fried shrimp. And all local!

Women eat heartily in Scotland, thank goodness! Although if one is feeling less hungry (due to all the other eating), waitresses will try to tell you that you haven't ordered enough food. No salad for main courses! Maybe you want the haggis, too?

Speaking of haggis, it's fairly palatable, but I can't get over its components. Beef and ale pie is more my speed.

I will possibly never be able to see a “TO LET” sign without mentally inserting an i.

I sure love the existence of half pints. Not so much real ales, though. I just can't get used to beer being served that warm. Sorry, beer aficionados.

You know how in many parts of Europe if you want to drink water you have to order a bottle of if and even so it tastes funny? Well, in Scotland not only does hardly anyone buy bottles of it, but the tap water is top notch!

The only real downside to a wintertime trip is that there are going to be days that are just too yucky for being outside. Luckily in Scotland there always seems to be a welcoming pub or old bookstore.

The name Craig is all over Scotland, mostly as parts of longer words. I have never seen most of my name on so many signs! It was fun introducing myself as Craige as well, especially to the gents I met in the bar in Grantown.

So, that's Scotland in a nutshell. I absolutely want to go back, perhaps in slightly warmer weather, because I need to have those squat lobsters and because the ferries to the islands run only about once a day in the wintertime and I'd love to get out to the islands. Otherwise I'd absolutely go in the wintertime again!

Lodging:
Apex City Hotel, Edinburgh
The Gatehouse B&B, Inverness
The Ranald Hotel, Oban
CitizenM, Glasgow
Edinburgh City Hotel, Edinburgh

In which I learn doctors aren't magicians (part 2 of my infertility story)

If you missed part one, you can find it here.

When I first went to see a specialist about why I wasn't getting pregnant I hardly told anyone. It was taboo. It was inappropriate. It was nobody's business. It was embarrassing. It was unprofessional. And there were also a million other reasons for why I was sure I couldn't tell anyone. Friends who were pregnant were right out. People at work were mostly out. Extended family was out.

I know many other women who have had difficulty or have not been able to conceive. But everyone I knew who had trouble seemed to have had a diagnosis. Either blocked Fallopian tubes or endometriosis or ovarian cysts or something along those lines. My diagnosis was: for some reason the few eggs I have aren't growing. As it turns out, there are many mysterious reasons why some women can't get pregnant.

Best laid plans (my infertility story, part one)

When I was a kid I imagined that I would get married at age 28, have 2 kids and live in a white house with a front porch. I got married 3 weeks into age 29, so not too off the mark there. 

Then the idea was to start having kids a few years later. We bought the condo and I was worried that it wasn't big enough for a baby (because babies take up soooo much space). And so I said we should wait a little longer and Jeff agreed that was wise. He had a rough time with turning 40 and worried that a baby needed a dad who was at a certain point in his career which was not the point he believed he was at. Babies are so demanding! With all their wanting two-bedroom apartments and dads with perfect jobs. 

Needless to say, it wound up being 7 years after we were married before we convinced each other that maybe a baby could forgive us those things. 

Decode me

Do you ever wish for someone to decode you completely? Everything that makes you tick -- the good and the bad -- to be laid out in black and white. Why must we settle for creating those blueprints ourselves, when we are so hindered by what we hope is true for our best selves as opposed to what is truly true of our real selves? How can a person possibly describe herself completely, know herself fully, from the inside? When we look down at ourselves we only see a portion and even with a mirror it's an incomplete view. Certainly we can't describe ourselves completely from this angle. She possesses great empathy and is kind to all, I would begin. But that's not how it appears from the outside, they say. No? Then you tell me how it appears. We see you as an extrovert. Oh don't be ridiculous. I'm a complete introvert. Really? But you do so well in social situations. That doesn't mean... Oh never mind. Maybe I will just do this description myself. 

Going toes up

I have begun using a technique to fall asleep and it works miraculously well. I start with my toes. I think about them, from the outside, from the inside. Then I work my way up my feet, my legs, doing the same at every pause. As I do this often one of my legs begins to spasm. It starts in my knee and it tenses up momentarily and then let's go again. I find it works best to just go with it. It's doesn't hurt and it doesn't last long.

The promotion

I got a promotion. I honestly didn't expect it to ever appear. I was certain that it was just a carrot on a stick in front of me and I was the fool for not realizing it. My superiors would probably say "how could you have doubted us??" But things that are promised don't always come to fruition. Remember when I was on the brink of booking my plane tickets and putting my cat in quarantine so that I could head to Singapore for a year or two? It took me a long time to stop wondering who put the kibosh on that. I finally realized that it matters not in the least.

But this is real. An email went out explaining my new role (senior editor, social media) and the congratulatory emails began rolling in. That was the best part: all those coworkers, many of whom I barely know, telling me how well deserved this promotion is. If I could just bottle that up now…

It is so funny how these things turn out. Last week I was miserable all week. I worked late every night and still had so much unfinished work. I felt like everything I did was wrong. And then on Friday I got word of my promotion. I admit: I burst into tears. (I was working at home.) I suppose my unhappiness all week was related to how much effort I'd been putting into my new role even before I officially had it. I was told in the fall to do the job I want to have to prove I can do it. As much as I hate sports analogies, I think that's "be the ball" or some shit, right?

My years as a young mole

I get a little sad when I remember my grade school as it was when I went there since it's nothing like that now. The school is still standing at least, but it's nothing like it was in the 1980s.

A lot of the school was dank and dark. Lots of my grade school memories are lit only by weak light bulbs. In my memory the whole school was in a basement. Is it possible that much of it was only a single story and all my classes were underground? That seems strange so perhaps I just don't remember those well-lit upper stories.

The lunchroom was in a semi basement, halfway under ground, with windows near the low ceiling. Even as a kid those ceilings were low. I only have a couple fragments from that cafeteria.

1) We could buy ice cream treats for a pittance. My favorite (and still is when it comes to those sorts if treats) was the chocolate cookie crumble covered vanilla one on a stick.

2) In that cafeteria in the 2nd grade, Amy R. quizzed me on who my favorite band was. I didn't have a favorite band. My only source of music at that time was a stuffed dog with a little radio in its belly.

3) In the back of the cafeteria was the lounge for the upper schoolers. I think we were allowed in there to use the vending machines but I'm not sure. The older girls would use it as their smoking lounge.

Oh now you tell me

I caught a glimpse of the top of my head in the harsh light of the work bathroom and realized I have several obviously grey hairs. I've gotten pretty damn far without any noticeable greys and now here we are. Every dark brown haired woman I know who's my age has been covering up her greys for years. I always thought silently, "sucks to be you! I guess I'll never go grey." (Denial is one of my abilities.)

When I went for a haircut a few weeks ago, my hairstylist said, "Damn girl, you need to keep up with your highlights! Unless you're going for the ombré look." I made an appointment to get them done and then I cancelled because I had to work late and I was thinking, you know, maybe I'll just grow them out. And it takes sooo looong to get them done.

But that was before I saw the greys. I've had way longer than most to figure out my stance on going grey but I never came to a decision. I could easily say well them's the breaks and go natural if it weren't for the fact that I get them for free in exchange for doing the salon website. So really I'm just whining about not wanting to sit through it.

City pride!

After almost 7 years living in this apartment I finally compiled a list of all the places we go to, pick up from or order from for dinner. This way when it comes time to choose, it won't be the usual dance of what do you want I don't know what do you want well do you want Italian I don't know what about Chinese I guess you decide. Enough of that!

It's comforting to see the same people over and over on the PATH train platform. There's the woman who has the blue purse I like but now she's switched to a brown one with fringe that I don't like. There's the woman who's always reading a first gen Kindle. There's the woman with the long skinny braid who carries the same water bottle I do.

I recently passed the Kindle woman while out running. I felt like giving her a high five as I jogged by or even just a wave. I wound up smiling and she looked right through me. I suppose it's possible that seeing one's fellow commuters out and about town is not as comforting to everyone else.

I also find it comforting to see progress on new storefronts in my town. Progress! Our town is getting even better by the day! Sometimes I question whether living here is worth it and then I see a sign for a grand opening of an indie bookstore and even though if I buy books, I buy them on Amazon, my heart swells with city affection. I resolve to buy books from the store when I can and to definitely patronize their cafe instead of Starbucks even if they don't serve those gigantic cups of iced tea that I love. City pride trumps caffeination! Right?

I would so move if only I could move

After thinking about it a bit I realized that maybe I was doing the morning pages wrong. Maybe they're not supposed to be a journal. Maybe you're not supposed to make sense. I don't know. Whatever. It's not for me. Anyway there's not a lot to just pop into your head first thing in the morning besides dreams and concerns of the day.

The artist's way is not my way

I started reading a book called The Artist's Way that prescribed doing “morning pages” every morning upon waking. At first it seemed like a good way to get back to writing, but it's not this kind of writing that I have trouble with. I could write in a journal all day long. There's always more to blather on about. 

I attempted to do the pages for a couple weeks (not very successfully) and then came to the conclusion that I really despise writing longhand and that forcing myself to journal upon waking is pointless.

I thought that book would be the key to getting back into working on my novel. But since it's not specifically for writers, I don't think it would. I have three books on writing coming soon. Maybe one of those will get me going. I submitted some random pages to my online critique group over a month ago, got great feedback, and then didn't write a single new word. I wish I could figure out why I did that. I guess positive reinforcement doesn't spur me on? But negative reinforcement doesn't either... 

Buenos Aires impressions

The dogs are very friendly, both rhe strays and ones with owners, many of which walk off the leash. The strays are smart about crossing streets, even busy ones. We watched one dog pace at the side of a busy street and finally go when there was a break in traffic. Apparently there are no rules about picking up the poop, or else they're not enforced. We both stepped in piles.

The sidewalks are universally in bad shape, a mishmash of different types of tiles and concrete, much of which is coming apart. I'm certainly glad I didn't bother bringing anything besides comfy walking shoes. It would be very slow going in heels.

My Mary Jane flats are more than sufficient anyway, even at night. We had heard that due to the European influence, Buenos Aires is a city where one dresses a bit nicer for dinner. The first night I wore a dress with leggings and was massively over dressed. Jeans and a nice top is ideal.

They eat crazy late here. Many restaurants here open at 8pm and going before 9 is like going at 6 at home. 11pm is when a place would be jumping. Clubs open at 1am or later. A friend who has lived here a while told us that when he used to go clubbing they'd arrive at 2 and wonder if the place was going to be dead all night long. Eventually around 3 people would start showing up. Where they would be before that is a mystery to me. One bar had a sign that happy hour is from 8-9pm.

The street art is amazing. Unfortunately, much of it that I'm seeing is from a speeding taxi.

Empanadas are delicious, as long as they are not bought from a woman selling them cold out of a basket on the street. Choripan is a sort of chorizo on bread and it's yummy. Fernet is an herby, spicy bitter that Jeff tried on a dare knowing full well it would be disgusting. (It was.) Coke and Pepsi not made with high fructose corn syrup are so good! Although I'm glad we can't get it at home since that makes it easier for me to avoid. Dulce de leche is of course popular. We've had it in filled cookies and pastries, as a condiment with bread at breakfast, as an ice cream flavor and as an ice cream topping. There were 5 varieties of dulce de leche flavors at an ice cream stand but we couldn't make out the differences.

A bottle of Argentinian wine costs less than two glasses of macro brewed beers.

There are no stop signs, only lights at some corners and speed bumps at the rest. The cars manage to artfully ease into the intersection and not hit each other and a couple cars from one direction go and then the other.

No one wears bicycle helmets. Traffic lanes are a mere suggestion. A street named Thames is pronounced Thomas.

Domestic flights are quite expensive, so a slew of bus companies offer luxury overnight trips with fully reclining seats. Without very good knowledge of Spanish, the gargantuan Buenos Aires bus terminal can be a nightmare. Our bus was delayed and no info about it was displayed on the monitor. We spent a harrowing 15 minutes running around trying to find people to ask who would actually know what was going on.

We spent the first two days seeking Yerba Mate, the local caffeine-free tea. We'd see people drinking it out of the traditional gourds as they strolled, but none for sale to sample. On the evening of our second night we met up with a friend of a friend who initiated us in the ways of mate. We liked it a lot so we bought a bag of the loose tea and two gourds (one traditional and one modern). We only need one since the way it's drunk is shared between people, but apparently locals collect different cups for it anyway.

We are tired of steak.

College admission

I chose to attend the college I attended because the editor of the school paper was hot and smart. (He reminded me of Ezra Pound.) There are probably worse reasons to attend a particular school. Because of him, I did wind up getting involved with the paper and perhaps not too surprisingly, my senior year, after he had graduated, I did not work on the paper. Had I finally decided to concentrate on my studies? Yes, that is likely. But without Jens to gaze upon, perhaps my desire to work on the paper waned a bit.

I once borrowed Steve's car so that I could drive Jens to Albany so that he could interview Governor Pataki at a press briefing. I took photos of Pataki. That was ostensibly my role, but in reality my role was not so subtle stalker. He slept the whole way there and the whole way back, presumably to avoid talking to me. My desire for him was so intense and my ability to woo someone I admired and feared was nil. Consequently, whenever I was presented with the opportunity to have a conversation with him, I blew it. In my mind, Jens only enjoyed discussing the politics of the Russian revolution or something and so any effort on my part to be interesting was going to fall vastly short. Of course I did not believe in what I had to offer and was certain that the only way to his heart was the Russian revolution or whatever. Being myself, whatever that meant, was surely not the way.

And so, nothing ever transpired between Jens and me. Because many people who go to college in upstate New York wind up in New York City, it seemed fair to assume that I would see him walking down the street one day. After a while I stopped seeing him in crowds on 7th Avenue and would just think of him a few times a year, no longer angry at him for not acknowledging me beyond stern reminders to get my stories in on time.

It's still a ridiculous reason to have chosen a college, but it also fit all my other criteria: no Greek system, far from home, good English program, not too large. Thank you, Jens, for unwittingly luring me to my college. 

Better late than never: Alsace

How do you not OD on cheese in France? We have OD'd on cheese, but we are pressing on and not giving it up now. We did have a couple of cheese mishaps but if we didn't accidentally order the wrong thing in France at least once, what would the fun be?

The cheese of Alsace is Munster, which is not quite as boring in France as it is at home, but still tends toward the milder. So, when in a cheese shop, we asked for a cheese that was "plus fort," and we were offered the strongest Munster. The thing stank up our fridge and then when the door was opened the whole apartment began to stink as well. I began to think we had gone a bit too far. We both tasted it and agreed it didn't taste nearly as bad as it smelled, but we couldn't figure out how to keep it without stinking up the place. So out it went. Cheese 1, us 0 for that round. But we have had many others that have been divine, so we think we still win.

I had heard (and the internet backs me up) that doggy bags are more common in France now. But that's definitely not true everywhere. I asked for my leftovers last night and the waitress said she'd check on that. She came back stammering something about sanitation and security. Oh well.

At the same meal we had French onion soup. Come to find out there was no cheese in it, you crumble your own toast into it, it includes a dollop of creme fraiche and it's more brothy than ours at home. Definitely different from what we're used to, but we liked it.

A common bar snack is a salami on a board with a serrated knife. Pay 3-5 euros for this and get a quality salami for which you'd easily pay twice that in a grocery store at home.

French people ride their bikes on the sidewalk and tend to not wear helmets. Pedestrians who get in the way get dirty looks. However, I saw plenty of French getting dirty looks, not just us.

The way it seems to work is the American tries to speak coherently in French and the French person plays along until the American begins to make no sense and then the French person switches to English. Since I always begin in French I have never experienced a French person pretending to not understand English as some Americans say. But maybe that's because I always try in French first.

Written on November 24, 2012

A life list item I wasn't counting on

Well now I can check off my life list “being in an operating room,” not that that's probably on too many people's life lists. It wasn't on mine. But if it were: check!

After not going to the dermatologist in five years, despite being rather moley (that's a technical term), I learned that a smallish and very dark brown one on my upper arm was very irregular and needed to go. Instead of just zapping it off and giving me a single stitch there in his office, my doc sent me to NYU medical hospital. I have a good friend who went to medical school there when we were in our early 20s, so I have plenty of memories of roaming around that building in the wee hours of the morning after carousing around Murray Hill. But I had never actually been there as a patient.

Upon arrival I was repeatedly asked the following: who is picking me up after my surgery and does anyone at home hurt me. The answer to both was no one, of course. I gather that both questions are standard, but still, a bit alarming. I hope that the repeated questions about domestic abuse might help someone out there who is afraid to report a bad situation but happens to find herself getting a mole cut out of her arm.

I changed into a paper gown as instructed and put all my belongings, including my glasses, into a locker. I then waited in a small changing room with just a People magazine and no Chapstick for I have no idea how long. The more I thought about not having access to Chapstick, the more dry my lips became.

The awesome thing about this gown, however, was that it had a port for injecting hot air with a vacuum hose! So I read People magazine right in front of my face, with chapped lips, and while wearing a gown puffed up with hot air.

Finally a nurse came for me. She asked if I needed a wheel chair. I said I certainly did not, aside from not being able to see that great and possibly bumping into and knocking over an IV stand. She laughed and said she'd guide me. Apparently the nurses at NYU are prepared for bad jokes. They also took it in stride when they asked me if I have any metal in my body. “No,” I replied, “but I'm not certain the aliens didn't implant me with any when they abducted me.” There was a pause and then the nurse laughed and said, “ha okay, good. And I'll make a note to give you a referral to a psychiatrist as well.” Hmm, I'm pretty sure she was joking back.

Anyway, I followed the nice nurse through a maze of hallways to the operating room. I told her on the way that I felt ridiculous taking up everyone's time for such a minor procedure. She said not to worry, every procedure is important. Aww. A point for her.

When I arrived at the room, all the nurses and my surgeon were wearing masks. The nurse who had walked me there asked me to introduce myself to everyone else, which I did. They all said, “hi, Craige,” like it was my first day of kindergarten.

I had been told that I could leave my underpants on, but as I was climbing on the table, the nice nurse said, “sometimes the elastic in underpants has a small amount of metal, so maybe you should take yours off, just in case.” FYI, when getting a mole less than the width of a pencil eraser removed from your arm, you may want to ensure you are not wearing ancient pink and white striped underpants. It's just not one of those things one considers. So off they went and into the hand of the nice nurse. CRINGE. In an attempt to reassure me, the nice nurse said, “it's just that an electrical current will be coursing through your body, so you wouldn't want to get burned.” No indeed. My surgeon said, “don't tell her that!” Ha.

So there I was, completely naked for the removal of a very small mole, electricity coursing through my body for some reason, a paper tent covering my face so that I could not see what was going on (dammit!). I would much prefer the option to look away if it's too much. My surgeon asked over and over how I was doing. I guess he wanted to ensure I hadn't passed out or something, who knows. That was disconcerting. “I'm fine!” I said in a weirdly high voice each time. I felt pretty calm overall, I think, although at one point, the nice nurse put her hand on my other forearm and said soothingly, “I'm right here.” Maybe I had seemed stressed? I realized I had been fiddling with the pulse monitor on my finger.

The whole thing was over pretty fast. When I sat up, my upper arm was covered in a bandage and I couldn't see the wound at all. Annoying! I want to see! I could make out a pile of bloody gauze in a bucket on the floor, but without my glasses I couldn't tell specifics. I was bummed that I couldn't see more.

So that was my Wednesday morning. By the late afternoon I was noticing bright red just under my skin around the outside of the bandage, which freaked me out. My friend, Schuyler, who is a doctor (ref: friend who went to NYU med) kindly reviewed many texts from me as the area got redder and redder. It seems I'm just a champion bruiser and now it's turning a lovely shade of snot yellow.

I felt something under my shirt that seemed odd that afternoon and thought oh my god, they forgot one of those ECG stickers on me. I went to the bathroom and peeled it off. That night at home I found TWO MORE.

Anyway, operating room visit: check. On Monday I get the stitches out and I get to see the damage. It looks like there might actually be three holes, two alongside the original mole area.

My so-called new year's resolution

I'm not big on new year's resolutions and never have been. However, I have nothing against deciding to try to do something fun and/or creative every day for a year. I took a photo almost every day in 2010 (350 out of 365 days) and found it to be great for my creativity. In 2011, I tried doing a video a day, but I had bitten off more than I could chew with that one and I gave it up after two months. I started 2012 by taking four photos a day and putting them into a grid, but that also became more work than enjoyment, so I decided to let that go and just take a lot of photos and post them on instagram. Around that time I was also losing interest in flickr and instagram was really tickling my fancy. (I'm morsels on instagram, by the way.)

This year I'm doing something different. I'm attempting to write every day. I use an app called Day One that allows me to post from my phone or my laptop. I have a couple of book plans in the works, but I haven't been able to get it up for them lately. For the past couple weeks, I've just been trying to journal privately every day. I haven't been very successful (doing it about 5 days out of 7), but it's been a good exercise. Initially I had planned to work on the book/s every day, not just write about my day. But since I had not been feeling the love for those book ideas, I figured journaling was the only way I was going to get any writing done. As the days passed I was feeling this real urge to do some creative writing. But about what? Coming up with story ideas every day is not going to happen, I know that. And then I had an ah-ha moment.

What I've been doing for the past couple days is what I'm calling free writing. I imagine a character in a simple situation. Or I see someone on the street doing something as routine as unlocking the gate to a store. And I just start writing about him. I don't worry about where it's going. I just write. So far it's been hugely enjoyable! I have no idea if this is "a thing" that other writers do. I'm sure it is not something I invented. Who knows, maybe one of these characters will turn into something more. I won't worry about that right now, though. For now, I'm just saving each one in a folder in Evernote.

Zurich surprised me

Within an hour of arriving, I saw horse meat for sale. It was one of many offerings on a wall of cured meats, mostly containing beef and pork and also chicken bites (that looked the least appetizing).

The yogurt selection is amazing, naturally. I can't wait to stock up when I know for certain that we have a fridge in our room and have located a spoon. For the time being, I settled for a raspberry lassi, partly because no spoon is required and also because lassis are delicious. This one did not disappoint. And I picked up a bag of gingerbread flavored potato chips because how could I not?

When there is an up escalator vs a stair case, just as many people walk up the stairs, even carrying rolly bags.

I will never, ever fully comprehend why Europeans choose a standing table over a sitting table when there is no price difference. And please don't tell me that it's a cultural thing. I'm aware of that. What I'm saying is that I will never understand it.

Zurich has really surprised me with how cute it is. The old city is vast and there are plenty of other areas that are full of winding cobblestone streets, too. I always thought it was just a business center with a fancy shopping area. We happened upon the shopping area, which is basically a Rodeo drive but in much older buildings. And then we delved back into the little winding streets.

I do love a country in which various types of cheese are considered dinner entrees. We had fondue one night and raclette the next. And the day before I left home I put away an entire container of chèvre because I was afraid it would not keep until we return. In googling to find out what the people at the table next to ours were doing when they dipped their bread into a small glass before dipping it into the fondue, I learned that it is kirsch (as we guessed) and there is a reason they were drinking black tea along with their white wine. Oops... a little late for us...

Fondue is not just for tourists in Switzerland. At the cheese store, there are several varieties of grated and mixed cheese. I do love a country that takes cheese seriously.

Traveling abroad with an iphone or ipad

It took me years -- seriously YEARS -- to figure out how not to pay an arm and a leg to use my iPhone when traveling out of the US. It can cost a lot of money if you don't prepare your phone and your plan properly, so I'm going to share with you what I have learned.

First of all, if you have an iPhone, you cannot live without your iPhone, so the concept of only using wifi while you're traveling is ridiculous. So, don't listen to those fools who say "simply turn off all data roaming unless you have access to wifi!" Those people probably have Blackberries. (Obviously, do your best to find a hotel that has free wifi so that you can surf like mad when you're in your hotel.)

You can use data, but it will cost you a small amount of money (and come on, you have an iPhone already; you can afford to spend $30-$60) and you will need to ration that data. It's really hard, I grant you, to not check Facebook, CNN, Tumblr, Pinterest, Instagram and whatever else you're addicted to every 5 minutes. But I have found -- and I know this is going to sound crazy! -- that not being able to check my phone more than a couple times a day is actually conducive to enjoying my vacation more.

Step 1: Add international features

I don't know how it works on Verizon's website, but on AT&T's, under the Wireless dropdown, there is an option to Add or Change Services. Click on that.

Scroll down to International Features and then scroll to the bottom of that section until you see the international roaming data info. I find that 120 MB is doable for a week if you ration.

Also in that International Features section you can add on international roaming messaging (not international long distance -- that's for sending from the US to other countries), but, if you are lucky, all your friends and family also have iPhones and so you can text them for free from anywhere in the world. If you text other poor souls a lot, you might want to add on that feature for $10/month. Here's more info on the cost of those plans and what it costs to text and send photos via text when abroad.

As for voice plans, I'm not an expert on that since I rarely use my phone for actual phone calls when I'm traveling except maybe to make a dinner reservation or two, so I always just pay for the cost of the call. There is a bunch of info on voice plans, here, though, if you need it.

Step 2: Ensure the international plan covers the whole pay period

This is the tricky part and where I have gotten stumped many a time. When you sign up for 300 MB of international data, to get the whole 300 MB, you will need to apply the plan to your whole pay period. So, if your pay period starts on the first of the month and you add on the plan on the 10th and then you go away from the 15th to the 30th, and you don't backdate the international plan, you will only get 20-ish days of the data plan, ie, 2/3 of the 300 MB that you signed up for. This can work to your advantage at times, but for this, it does not because you want the whole 300 MB. So, you must ensure that the international plan is applied to the whole pay period.

You can ensure that by signing up for the int'l plan in advance of the billing cycle during which you will be traveling. Add on the int'l plan during the pay period prior to your trip and you will be able to select the following pay period when you go to add on the int'l plan. Or, you can call 800-331-0500 and simply ask the customer service agent to backdate the plan for you. I'm not sure what the cut-off date is, but early on in the billing cycle you can backdate the plan yourself. I'm 2 weeks into my cycle right now and I am unable to backdate it on the site. I'll check back periodically and update this if I find out more details on that.

Step 3: Calculate how much data you are using

Just before you turn off your phone when you are on the plane on your way to your fabulous foreign destination, go to Settings -- General -- Usage -- Cellular Usage. Click Reset Statistics. While you are on your trip, check this screen frequently to keep track of how much data you are sending and receiving. It's pretty reliable.

Step 4: Turn off all unnecessary data suckers

Under Settings -- General -- Cellular, turn off Data Roaming. On this same screen you may want to also turn off the other items that are using cellular data, such as iCloud docs, iTunes, etc. (Note: you may need to turn this on again periodically if you need to look something up, but it's best to keep it off when you aren't using it.)

Under Settings -- Mail, Contacts, Calendar, click on Fetch New Data and switch Push to OFF. Then change the Fetch option to Manually so that you have to manually pull in new emails. You can then wait to do that when you are in a location with wifi. And if you need to look something up in an email that you already downloaded, you can open up the email app and look at the email without all your new emails downloading automatically.

Turn off all alerts or at least most of them. I don't want to miss out on the CNN breaking news alerts, for example, so I keep those on, but I turn off notifications that it's my turn in Words With Friends. Go to Settings -- Notifications. Click on the items listed in Notification Center and change to Off.

If you really want to conserve data, you can turn off Location Services located in Settings -- Privacy. Or, instead of turning off the data for all the apps, you can just turn it off for the ones you don't use often and leave it on for the camera, Yelp, and maps, for example. According to the interwebs, the location services itself doesn't use a ton of data, but why not turn it off anyway? That's my philosophy.

That's it! Have a fabulous trip! And relish the fact that you can't disappear into your tiny pocket computer during every moment of downtime. You may even find it to be a wonderfully novel experience reminding you of the good ol' days and you may think you will surely keep this up at home. (You won't, but that's okay. That's part of why we travel.)

Just one more thing. Not to confuse you, but I did mention above that sometimes you don't want to backdate a plan add-on. For example, you may want to add on a mobile hot spot for an hour. You certainly don't want to pay for a whole month's worth of hot spot use. It requires some math or if you're not a fan of math (like me) then you can just turn it off again a couple days later and assume that was plenty of time to include the amount of megabytes you used.