Greeting card frustration

I recently tried to buy a greeting card for a friend who was in the hospital. After scanning the row upon row of trite humor and syrupy sympathy I gave up and went home, which is what usually happens when I try to buy a greeting card.

There are whole stores that are devoted to selling greeting cards (and a few other odds and ends associated with giving gifts). They would have you believe that there is a greeting card for every situation: birthday, graduation, wedding, illness or injury, and even death. Cards fall into a few categories: the ones with tasteless or almost tasteless humor, purporting to express something that can only be humorous if it is untrue, and therefore completely irrelevant; the ones with cute animals and fatuous statements; the ones with handsome photos or artistic drawings of the human body; and the ones that are blank. Actually, there are more, but those seem to be the ones I notice.

Each card displays a few key words on the front to make it clear its intent, so a birthday card will start with "This birthday..." and a wedding card will say something like "Congratulations on your wedding" as if to merely say "Congratulations" was not enough for the lucky couple to figure out what it was in regards. This is, of course, because the point of the writing on the front of the card is not so much to express any thoughts to the recipient, but to advertise the purpose of the card to the purchaser. The end result is that the card feels unnatural to the person for whom it is intended.

I inevitably buy the blank cards because, after a sincere effort to find a card that will help me straighten out my thoughts and feelings without actually requiring me to write them myself, I always feel a bit insulted by the simplicity of the commercial cards.

The word greet can mean both to address with some form of salutation and to grieve. This is convenient for the people who manufacture greeting cards, because they create cards not only for happy occasions, like birthdays, but also sad occasions, like the death of a loved one, and disappointing occasions, like injury. Despite the breadth of the occasions, though, there didn't seem to be one card that was appropriate for the one our friend was facing. You see, our friend was in the hospital with the big C. Not the "get well soon" kind, but the kind when the only type of treatment is morphine. The kind when you know the end is coming very soon.

So there I was trying to find a card for when we saw him for what would certainly be the last time. The sympathy cards didn't seem right: I didn't just want to say we were thinking of him. A "Get Well Soon" card would have been insulting. There were cards for when someone has just died, but nothing for someone who was about to die. It was clearly all too immense for the greeting card companies to face. After breaking down in tears, I went home and made a card with a sad face and filled it with my own thoughts about how we were happy we met, that we had become quite accustomed to having him as a friend, and were going to miss him when he was gone. And we do.

Rest in peace Graham.

Land of contrasts

It has been an interesting summer here in Melbourne.  We spent most of the summer trying to keep out of the oven hot temperatures with the hair dryer winds, including three consecutive days in the mid 40s (that's around 110F) with high winds.  In the months of January and February we received only a few mm of rain in Melbourne (normal is about 80-90mm for that period).  At the start of February there was a further windy 40+ day followed by a windy cool change that resulted in the deadliest and most destructive forest fires in Australia's history.

While the drought that started before I moved to Australia 8 years ago wares on, the town of Innisfail, in Queensland, was submerged under flood waters.  Between January 25 and February 25 the tropical town received more rain than Melbourne has for the past four years!  And this week Coffs Harbour, on the North coast of New South Wales, was inundated when some areas near the town received almost 450mm in 24 hours.  Just in case you can't process mms, that's about 1.5 ft of water!  I can't even fathom that much water falling from the sky in such a short period of time.

Finally, to keep us on our toes, we've felt two earthquakes in Melbourne in the past month.

Autumn has come, however, bringing cooler and wetter weather.  The drought is still here, but we've finally had a few good rainfalls, and those fires that were set in February have been contained.  Despite all the sensational news (I mean that in a bad way), we are doing well, as are our friends and family.

Hard to judge how rational the fear is

A recent article in Salon.com about peanut allergy got my goat.  Here's my reaction.

Fear is only irrational if it is out of proportion to the risk. The problem with peanut allergies is that, for many of us, it is difficult to assess the risk of us or our children becoming severely ill or dying from exposure to peanuts. Certainly, for some people, the risk became quite obvious the first time they or their child was rushed to the emergency room, but for many others the allergy is identified in relation to treating less sensational threats, like eczema or asthma. For those people identified through skin prick tests or blood tests as likely to have an allergy, or those who had a reaction to eating peanuts that was not confirmed by a physician, assessing the risk is decidedly more fuzzy.

If the average time from exposure to anaphylactic reaction is 10 minutes, then anyone caring for a potentially allergic person must know how to administer their epipen. Most people have never triggered an epipen and have no specialist training in recognizing an allergic reaction, so for them the best way to control the situation is to prevent exposure to the allergen. This is true not just for parents, but for childcare centers, kindergartens, and schools. For children who are too young to read the ingredients label, or who lack the life experience to know that something called "satay chicken" contains peanuts, it is pivotal that the environment they are in contain as few allergen containing foods as possible. This is why carers of children are increasingly choosing to restrict common allergens from places that are largely populated by children who are too young to protect themselves.

The author implies that many of the children described as allergic to peanuts or other foods are not. Though many people misuse or do not distinguish between the terms "allergy" and "sensitivity", it is not fair to denigrate the experiences of those who suffer serious discomfort from eating certain foods, whether they have been confirmed by a skin prick test or not. Neither skin prick tests nor blood tests are 100% predictive of allergic reaction or lack thereof. The Australasian Society of Clinical Immunology and Allergy states

"When properly conducted, the skin prick test is a highly sensitive and specific test for the presence of allergen-specific IgE antibody. However, the presence of IgE antibody (as defined by a positive skin prick test) does not prove that the patient is clinically reactive to the allergen."

They go on to state that wheal size is not predictive of the severity of symptoms. Controlled food challenges, where the subject eats the food in question in a controlled environment, are considered the gold standard for determining food sensitivity.

My son, who suffered from severe eczema as an infant, has had multiple positive skin prick tests to peanuts (and never negative) but never had a reaction that could be definitively attributed to peanuts. Still, the allergist recommended avoiding all nuts until he was older. After accidentally exposing him to almonds with no negative effect, I foolishly decided to challenge him with cashews, to which he had a severe, but not anaphylactic, reaction consistent with allergy and later confirmed by a skin prick test. We now carry an epipen. As much as I would like to believe we will never need it, it would be irresponsible of me to ignore the recommendations of his allergist, who I must assume knows more on the subject than I.

Though many people with peanut allergies do not have life threatening reactions to eating them, the conclusion I've drawn from countless hours spent trying to determine how serious my son's allergy may be is that the medical studies cannot conclusively say that the severity of one person's reactions will always be consistent. Hence, he may have hives one time he eats peanuts and anaphylaxsis on another occasion. Then again, he may not, but how am I to know. And that's my point. Without more accurate tests to predict the severity of a reaction then one must conclude that a life threatening reaction is possible for anyone who demonstrates some kind of reaction.

I'm all for ridding the world of misinformation, and I appreciate the author exposing the questionable statistics of the FAAN and the motivations of Ms Munoz-Furlong, but I think the author has failed to provide clarity about peanut allergy. Despite any of his efforts to the contrary, he has produced an article that belittles those who express concern for the welfare of the children in their care. If a skin prick test predicted that a child in your care was probably allergic to peanuts, and whose doctor recommended avoiding peanuts and carrying an epipen, you would never forgive yourself if that child died because you did not take the advice seriously.

Aussie, Aussie, Aussie

I became an Australian citizen this week.  The final step in the citizenship process is a public ceremony in which I pledged allegiance to Australia and received a certificate of citizenship and an Australian native plant.  It had the solemn feel of a school commencement ceremony, and it was a commencement of sorts.

My ceremony took part in an art deco town hall with a curtained stage at the front and balcony seating at the back.  Half the ground floor seating was filled by other foreigners taking the pledge.  The other half and the entire balcony were filled with family members and friends, there to acknowledge the metamorphosis.

During the ceremony we were told to introduce ourselves to our neighbor and say “I am an Australian.”  The woman next to me, the wife of an Australian and mother of two Australians, repeated it over and over as if she couldn’t believe it had finally happened.  For me it didn’t seem real until the next day when I was trying to explain to my three year old what the ceremony was for.

As the new citizens were called to receive their certificate and cross the stage I tried to listen to the countries they were from.  Quite a few were from India, there were two other women from the US, a few Taiwanese, one Iraqi.  I do not know the story behind any of these people stating their allegiance to the Australia but I can guess that for some of them it was a significant achievement, a huge figurative step forward in the opportunities that are open to them.  To me, it felt like the logical next step on a path I was steered down many years ago, not entirely of my own choice.

I didn’t grow up dreaming of living in a better world.  I was fortunate to be born into one of the wealthiest and most powerful countries on the earth.  So when I left the US, it was not out of distaste for my homeland (though I do joke that it was distaste for its president at the time) but to be with the Australian part of my family.  It took me many years to accept that I belong here and only recently, when I needed to arrange a new visa, did I start to realize how ridiculous it was that I needed permission to stay here.  My husband and children are Australian.  I own a house here.  I do my shopping here (well, most of it), and occasionally I work here.  I have all my daily and weekly routine worked out here.  My friends (most of them) are here.  This is not something that comes about over night.  It took years to get to this stage.  And though I may fantasize about moving back to some mythical place in the US that existed 10 years ago but not any more, I have no ambitions to go through the social upheaval and dislocation that comes with an international move again.

I thought it was interesting that we were supposed to say “I am an Australian”.  I don’t think I would ever choose to say it that way.  I would naturally say “I am Australian,” just like I say “I am American.”  Am I an Australian?  Well, technically I am, but do I feel like I am?  I eat Vegemite, know the words to Waltzing Matilda, and have been swooped by a magpie.  On the other hand, I have never seen an episode of A Country Practice, I can’t seem to develop a taste for Weetbix, and I’m still trying to figure out the appropriate way to use the phrase “fair dinkum.”

But now that I am an Australian am I still an American?  I watched the first space shuttle launch, love peanut butter, and always dip my chocolate chip cookies in milk.  But after 9/11 I didn’t fly the flag.  In fact, I wasn’t even aware it was unpatriotic not to do so until at least nine months later.  I don’t spend my life being paranoid about terrorists, nor have I ever thought it was appropriate to curtail the rights of the Guantanamo Bay detainees.  Who knows what else I’m missing out on by living “overseas.”

It was the seventeenth century when the first member of my family arrived in the colonies that became the US.  The most recent immigrants in my family were my great great grandparents.  After a lifetime of being a member of one of the oldest families in the US I am suddenly one of the newest immigrants of a country.  But sitting at the citizenship ceremony and listening to the mayor of Boroondara, who herself became an Australian only 6 years ago, and the member for Kew, who pointed out that more of the people in his electorate were children of people born overseas than those born in Australia, I came to appreciate the meaning of the phrase “a nation of immigrants.”  I may have missed out on the childhood experiences of the people who were born here, but I share the experience of a significant number who weren’t: we all naturalized to Australia.

Cheers rang out as the names of the new citizens were called, and at one point someone from the balcony chanted “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie” and got a few responses of “Oi, Oi, Oi.”  At first, the chant seemed an affront to the solemnity of the occasion, but on reflection I realized that it was a celebration of the fundamental meaning of the ceremony: to be an Australian.

Am I less American because I have taken this final step towards belonging in my new country?  I don’t think so.  I think it is just the government finally acknowledging how Australian I've become.

Mix and match your duplo

Cordless power drill

I've always known that lego (and now duplo, its larger cousin) was a fantastic toy.  With a few blocks and a little imagination you can create a stunning array of things, from pretend power drills to guitars with strings to pluck (granted, not with particularly good tones).  With the addition of a few specialized pieces picked up from the Legoville collections or Bob the Builder sets, you've got everything you need to create an extensive array of construction equipment.

Semi trailer with excavator like the ones we saw when they pulled down the house on the corner - using truck base from cement truck kit, wheel base from Lofty kit, caterpillar tracks from Muck kit, back hoe and cabin from Scoop kit, warning sign base from one of the Bob the Builder sets to provide the articulation between the truck and the trailer, generic pieces, and rubber bands to create the loading ramp.

My son loves tools, trucks, and tractors, so we have, in addition to a few basic sets of duplo blocks, a cement truck and Scoop (tractor), Lofty (crane), Sumsy (forklift), Muck (supposedly a grater), and Rolly (roller).  We haven't actually started watching Bob the Builder in our house, which is probably a blessing, but which also means we aren't compelled to create the characters.  The pictures show some of the things we've put together instead.

Guitar with rubber band strings

My only big gripes with duplo are the lack of hinges (you'll notice my makeshift hinge for the loading ramp on the semi-trailer) and pieces that click together in different planes, so you can build things at 45 and 90 degree angles.

Construction crane like the ones over the parking structure that is being built at the junction - using windows for the scaffold section, cabin from Bob the Builder sets, crane arm from Lofty set.  The ladder is made from fence pieces turned on end.

Our son is interested in creating lego versions of things he sees when he's out, and I like the fact that he can imagine the real object even though the lego version is rough, at best.  He has even created his own grinder, based on seeing one being used on the way to child care.

Wanted: waffle maker

In seven years of living Australia I have seen specialized electrical equipment designed for a single purpose, such as cooking pizza, cooking sausages, baking donuts (aren't donuts supposed to be fried), grilling sandwiches, boiling rice, grinding coffee, making coffee, or baking bread.

So why is it that I can't find a waffle maker in this country?

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[Updated 2 April, 2008]

I got the Breville for my birthday.  It arrived this week (a little late for the party, but who cares).  I usually consider waffles a breakfast food, but we couldn't resist making them for dessert the night it arrived.  It cooks well enough, and the non-stick plates are fantastic, but it's awfully small, making it sub-optimal for big groups.

On day two, my son wanted waffles for morning tea - I obliged, and then that night we ate the left overs for dessert with ice cream and chocolate sauce. Yum, yum!

Thanks again AB.  We'll have to have you and the family over for brunch.

Don't be tied down by your furniture

Whatever is produced in haste goes hastily to waste. -- Saadi (1184-1291)

A number of years ago, an old climbing buddy of mine graduated from college, got a job, and bought a couch.  At the time his best friend, who was more attuned to sleeping under the stars than on a sofa, berated him for purchasing something that would tie him down, force him to have a home base, and prevent him from picking up and moving on.  It was only the first step; it wasn't long before my friend had purchased a house that stuck him smack in the middle of settled.

My husband I lived in four different places in the five years before we moved to Australia.  We were anything but settled; we were living frugally (him more so than me) and most of our furniture was what we had scavenged from home or found at garage sales, that emblem of grad school economy.  Some of it was nice enough that it almost made the move to Australia (generally the stuff pilfered from my parent's house), but most of it was junk: old desks with rings from water glasses, shelves constructed from bricks and boards, and cheap pine furniture that we had constructed or stained ourselves.  It was never meant to be permanent, just to satisfy a need until we moved on.

When we relocated to Australia we sold virtually all of our furniture to other frugal grad students and co-workers and bought new things in our new country.  We were settling now, intending to stay here long enough to build our careers, buy a house, and have a few kids.  Following the bed, our first purchase was a couch.

Being unemployed at the time, I spent ages looking for the couch.  I went to every furniture store I could find, from the upscale Tailor Made sofa shop to the very pedestrian Sydney's package shop.  I ended up finding a suitable couch at a middle of the road shop, where I mulled over upholstery for ages before picking a virtually solid pattern in a pleasing color called basil.  Six weeks later, the new couch arrived at our rental.  It looked just fine with the tan carpeting and the brown curtains, and fit quite well in our rather compact living room.

Ten months later we moved into the first house we owned.  The couch was relocated to the middle of our new living room, where it also looked just fine with the tan carpeting and putty colored walls.  However, not long after the move, we decided to take advantage of our newly acquired home owner freedom to paint the walls of our abode a buttery yellow color.  Then we decided we needed more seating in the living room.

Suddenly our existing couch became a liability; the dusty green color didn't match anything, the living room was more suited to two smaller couches, and the style was no longer available.  Three things saved it from a garage sale: 1) it was the most comfortable couch we could find;  2) we are too parsimonious to replace it; and 3) garage sales are a pain.

In actual fact, one more thing saved the couch from a garage sale: people in the inner east suburbs of Melbourne don't go to garage sales (do they even have them here?); they go to Ikea.  I've never found any furniture from Ikea that I find terribly appealing; it seems to be made either of cheap materials or with cheap design (which is pretty much their mantra, though I'm sure they prefer the word inexpensive). The surprising thing is that it is not poor grad students who shop there.  It is parents of young children, some of them not so young, and not terribly poor.  And the things they sell are deceptively expensive, as if they make the stuff look cheap so you think you're getting a deal.

The philosophy behind shopping at Ikea, as one friend explained to me, was that they needed something now, but didn't want to spend money on something they'd want to get rid of in the future.  Buying something that quickly falls apart releases you from any obligation to keep it when you want to update the decor.  But it also shackles you to a piece of junk until that time arrives.

To be fair, it's not just about the decor.  For almost two and a half years my son slept in the same crib that I slept in 30 years earlier and that my father slept in nearly 30 years before that.  In the crib's 68 year history, it has been in storage for roughly 55 years.  The mattress height cannot be adjusted, the side that lowers squeaks, and it doesn't satisfy the latest Australian safety standards, but it looks nice, and is sturdy and safe (in my opinion).  The crib, which was made by my great-grandfather, was shipped to Australia at great expense.  In fact, for the price of the shipping (which did include a few other small items) we could have bought a crib at Ikea that does have an adjustable mattress height, does not have a squeaky side, and would be so worn out after two kids that it could go straight to the junk yard.  And when I consider that, I get a little bit envious of the people who did not have a 68 year old crib that was built to last.

If we had spent half as much on the couch we might have just given it to the Salvos, but I suspect that we would have kept it anyway, since as long as we can still sit on it why should we write it off? Part of me wishes that we had gone the Ikea path so we could replace our furniture when it no longer suited the decor, but I know that regardless of what furniture we chose we would still be stuck with
it, so it may as well have been a quality design made with quality materials.