nanny hunting on the gold coast

The thing about having problems with childcare is that you JUST CAN'T STOP TALKING ABOUT IT, even though it's probably mind-numbingly boring to 90% of the population. Like I'll be talking with someone and they'll say something like, "Nice day today," and I'll say, "Sure, it's a nice day, except my nanny wants a really large raise and I'm afraid of what will happen if we don't give it to her and IT'S MAKING ALL MY HAIR FALL OUT!" For example.

I called Georgia the other day just to check in, and let her know that I was going to set aside time to talk with her on Tuesdays about financial matters. I also just wanted to make sure that everything was OK, because maybe leaving demands for more money on our answering machine wasn't just tactlessness, maybe something was truly wrong, like she was getting evicted from her home, or she needed to buy a kidney for her grandmother or something like that.


MICHELLE
I just wanted to see that everything was OK. Because you know, we got back from vacation, and the first thing we heard was a message on our machine from you saying that you wanted a raise, so...

GEORGIA
Oh, no, everything's fine. I was just talking to a nanny friend of mine, and she had just gotten a raise after working with her family for six months, so I thought, "Oh my gosh, Michelle forgot to give me my raise."

MICHELLE
I forgot...?

GEORGIA
So I just wanted to remind you.

MICHELLE
Remind me.

GEORGIA
To give me my raise.

MICHELLE
We...we never talked about a six month raise. When we first hired you, we talked about a yearly raise, because that's what we get from the hospital, and that's how it works for most jobs...

GEORGIA
Because at my old job, they gave me a raise at six months, one year, and then every year after that.

MICHELLE
Yes but...we're paying you a lot more now than you got paid at your old job. And anyway...

JOE
(Warning)
Honey...

MICHELLE
(Rushed)
But you know what, this is the kind of thing that we're going to talk about on Tuesday. Better to talk about these things face to face, don't you think? So Tuesday. We'll talk Tuesday evening.

GEORGIA
OK.


So at least I know that she doesn't need to buy an iron lung for Grandpa or anything like that. Which is good to know. It's also good to know that she's just coming from an expectation that linear wage growth is the norm, and that she doesn't understand that there's a ceiling to that kind of pay increase (or at least an asymptote), and--to make no judgments about her old employers--that we literally pay her about 30% more than where she started with her previous family (also a two-doctor parent clan with a similar situation, hours, etc.). Now that I'm fairly certain it's not a hostage-negotiation-type situation, it's more just a matter of settling out something that leaves both parties on the same page. Or, if it comes down to the fact that she just plain wants to work for a family that makes more money, then at least that'll be out there, because lord knows, we're not just squirreling away extra cash under our mattress and holding out on her.

It was a beautiful day today, so Joe and I took the subway uptown and took Cal to Central Park, where we took a quick walk around the boat pond and let Cal go nuts on the swings at one of he many playgrounds lining Fifth Avenue.





You know how, when you have a problem on your mind, it totally colors the way you see everything? Well, it was a Friday afternoon, and it looked to my eye like the playground was just packed with little Upper East Side kidlets and their nannies. Kids and nannies and navy Bugaboos, as far as the eye could see. Next to Cal, there was a pair of nannies pushing their charges in the adjacent swings, and eyeing them, I leaned over to Joe.


MICHELLE
(Whispering)
If I were more ballsy, I would ask them how much money they make.

JOE
I was thinking the same thing.

MICHELLE
But it may be difficult to compare. I mean, they have multiple-kid families, and this is the Gold Coast.* I know the regular Manhattan nanny going rate, but a Gold Coast nanny probably gets paid a lot more.

( * The Gold Coast is a real-estate term that refers to the richest and most price-hiked neighborhood in Manhattan, namely the Upper East Side on Fifth Avenue, running along the park, from roughly 65th to 85th Street. Think Museum Mile.)

JOE
Yeah, probably. We could still ask them if they know anyone, though.

MICHELLE
You mean, if they know any other nannies looking for jobs?

JOE
Sure, why not?

MICHELLE
Yeah, but what if they want Gold Coast pricing? I'm not Mary Tyler Moore,* for chrissake.

( * Mary Tyler Moore lives in the building across from the park near the playground.)

JOE
Yeah, but we could just ask.

MICHELLE
Well...OK.


The nannies were all very nice, and one of them actually did know someone who was looking for a job. A "mature, dependable woman," so we're told. They didn't have that person's number off-hand, but she gave us her own cell phone number, and told us to call her when she got home so that she could pass along the contact info. So that's something, at least. I'm a realist--I know the chances of something workable coming out of this are next to nil--but it's something to make us feel a little less like we've been backed into a corner. Like in this city of eight million people, surely there might be more than one person who would be willing to work for us and not microwave our child.

Currently eating: Chicken soup with rice. Sipping once, sipping twice, sipping chicken soup with rice. This may also be the first meal ever where Cal, Joe and I were able to all eat the same thing.

weak cop, mad cop

Thanks for all the comments and advice, both Trader Joe's related and otherwise. I have talked with a few people about our situation with Georgia, and all of them have responded resoundingly in the vein of WHAT IS SHE, CRAZY? and that we would be equally crazy to just give in to such strong arm tactics. Joe has gotten quite heated about the whole thing (I have forced him to "let me handle it," because I'm afraid of what might come out of his mouth were he in charge of such negotiations), and I really can't figure out what is making him more angry. Certainly, her matter-of-fact approach to demanding a huge raise is part of it (leaving her guidelines on the answering machine and such does not facilitate good vibrations from our end), but I think that the other part of it is that at the end of the day, Georgia's take home pay will be equal or more than either of ours, making it actually a financial liability for both of us to be working while paying for someone to watch out kid. Which, you know, we kind of anticipated might happen at some point--we don't make all that much money as residents, and our working now is more of an investment in potential future income--but lord, the years and years we've spent getting to this point in our careers. I should get a T-shirt printed up: I passed Step 3 of the Boards, and all I got was this stupid tiny paycheck. Oh, to pay your nanny more than you yourself get paid; it hurts the pride and it hurts the bank account.

Joe is Bad Cop and I am Good Cop. Or at least Weak Cop. I hate, hate, hate this kind of thing. Financial haggling, deals, contracts. Why must we talk about money? I hate money! Can't we just work on a barter system? Say, you take care of Cal, and I give you, uh, a wheel of cheese. I am non-confrontational and I just want this all to go away, and this makes me want to just give in and say, FINE, JUST TAKE THE DAMN MONEY AND LET'S GO BACK TO THE WAY THINGS WERE. HAPPY FACE! But it has been brought up by our many financial advisors (read: Joe's parents) that if we just give in to these demands, we may make the problem go away in the immediacy, but we're just setting ourselves up in the long run for more and more demands, at greater and greater cost. So we can't just roll over and surrender. We have to fight back a little, even if it give me great pain and stress, just to show that we can't be dictated the terms of our own employee's contract.

Also, we have started talking about a Plan B. Plan B is hiring a new nanny. Probably a live-in-type person. If Joe does a fellowship, he will be on call 50% of the time (I know, I KNOW) and I will be a third-year anesthesia resident at that point, meaning that my calls will get significantly more arduous. Perhaps if we change ships midstream, it just makes more sense to get one of those...uh...bigger ships with living quarters in them. I don't know. The metaphor just broke down for me too. But anyway, I have to explore this possibility a little bit more. It's not much of a Plan B if it's only theoretical, after all. And I have to have a talk with Georgia about this whole pay raise thing on Tuesday after work. (I'm on call Monday night, so I probably won't get a chance to see her.) She will definitely be getting a raise after a year, that is only fair, but it's the amount of the raise that we still have to hash out. And we have to establish that the idea of getting a 10% raise at six months and then another 10% raise after a year (her original stated position) is, frankly, ludicrous. Argh. HATE. THIS. This is why I'm not in any field remotely related to money. Can't the billing office just take care of all of this and I just go about my business?


* * *


So Joe is going to be Chief Resident next year. Did I mention that before? Probably not, because he's SHY. But now I'm just going to tell everyone. Hail to the Chief. I always knew he had it in him. Because of his smartness. Also, he's bossy.

So anyway, those in medical training and beyond know that Chief Resident, while a beautiful shiny title, is largely a thankless job, and as the resident-administration liaison you basically act as the conduit for all complaints and problems from anyone, anywhere, ever. You have a lot more administrative duties but you don't get paid more, but at the end of the day, you get to say that you were CHIEF RESIDENT your senior year, which, I'm sure, is the one thing you'd want to cling to on your deathbed. I'm acting all cynical about it because I know what a crap job it can be, but really, I'm very proud of him. He's el jefe.

The one other perk that the ophthalmology department at [University Hospital] apparently offers its Chiefs is a subsidized laptop computer. I haven't heard of this in other departments (in Peds, I think the perks of Chief summed up to a jar of Tootsie Rolls and access to the departmental Xerox machine copy code) but I can really get behind this perk that the ophtho department offers, because, woo, free laptop! Joe just received his laptop hot off the assembly line a couple of days ago, and has been messing with it ever since. I'm all like, we can take it with us on vacation and watch movies on the plane! We can actually use our wireless internet access and I can surf the web for unattractive Britney Spears pictures while sitting on the sofa! Or update my website in bed! Yay, new laptop! But Joe keeps wanting to do boring stuff with it, like scheduling, and Power Point. He sucks.

But don't tell him that I said that he sucks. Now that he's the Chief, he may have the power to have me destroyed.

Currently reading: "Wimbledon Green." Did you see that Seth drew the cover of the Style Issue of The New Yorker? Good stuff.

the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world

So the thing about Florida is that it was actually pretty cold. Not cold in the absolute sense, but relatively cold, with temps in the 70s instead of the 80s like usual at this time of year. Apparently there was some sort of "cold air front" (or insert equivalent meteorological justification here) moving through the area during the EXACT three days that we were there. Luckily, it warmed up just in time for our departure, making it a very nice walk from the cab into the terminal at the airport. But, as you can see, at least it was sunny. And the hotel was very nice and we ate lots of good food and Cal had a good time. So who cares if I had to wear a sweater?


* * *


(Before we start this next part, I would like to warn everyone that we will be talking about our nanny. We call her our "nanny" because that's part of the lingo 'round these parts for "full time home daycare giver," but that's just semantics. But for some reason, the word "nanny" seems to incite ire in many, and seems for some reason to be emblematic of a culture where people cannot be bothered with raising their own children. See: "I would never get a nanny, I want to be a hands-on mom," sniffs Miss Britney Spears, prior to popping out her kidlet, and also, apparently, prior to actually hiring a nanny. So whatever, for some reason, the word "nanny" is loaded in this modern day warzone of competitive parenting, so if you're going to say something scathing about how COLD and UNFEELING and BOURGEOISE we are for hiring someone to help watch out kid while we go to work, rest assured that I have already ANTICIPATED such comments and therefore you can save yourself the energy of actually typing it out. De nada!)

Today's topic is what to do when someone has your nuts in a vise. We got back from vacation to an answering machine full of messages, one of which was our nanny Georgia calling to say hi and conversationally mention that she has been working for us for more than six months and therefore wants a pay raise, and also, by the way, the raise that she wants is 10% of her current salary.

Now, when we hired Georgia, we had talked about a pay raise system, but for a yearly raise, meaning to take effect on July 1st, not a raise every six months. The reason is because Joe and I get a yearly raise as we move up in residency every July, and since we already contribute one full salary in this two salary household towards paying for childcare, we can't really give Georgia a raise until we get a raise ourselves. The second thing is that a 10% raise is a lot. It is a lot, and it is more of a raise than we are each getting from the hospital, though between the two of us, we should just be able to cover it. Joe was more than a little peeved that she was so matter-of-fact in asking for such a large raise (I think the fact that she left the demand as a message on the answering machine was what bugged him most of all), but I'm more of the mind that look, this is the woman who takes care of Cal while we're away at work for 12 hours a day. She cares about him and has known him since the day he was born and he lights up when he sees her in the morning. Forget principles and propriety and the occasional questionable interpersonal dynamic. It's best for Cal if she stays with us. And if it means scraping together every bit of cash that we have to pay her, for me, it's worth the peace of mind to know that our kid is safe and happy and cared for during the day.

But basically, she has our nuts in a vise. Whatever she wants, we really can't say no, because we really don't have a good backup plan if she walks. No daycare is open early enough for us to drop Cal off before we go to work, and few if any other people would be willing to come to work as early as Georgia does for us to leave for the hospital on time. We could get a live-in person, but lord, aside from the awkwardness of having someone LIVING IN YOUR HOUSE, how the hell do you find someone that you trust? With your home? With your KID? We're not totally without options, but the options that we have are very, very limited.

So we'll give her the raise she wants. But not until July 1st, because we can't financially swing it until then. And when it comes down to it, we'll give her everything else that she wants too. Because what else can we do? We need her to stay. We have no leverage. And until she actually demands something that we absolutely cannot support (a three-day work week, for example, or a 200% raise and a car) the specter of her leaving us in the lurch is a real one, while the possibility of us letting her go and being able to find another nanny is almost entirely theoretical.

(Oh, one more thing: for the inevitable handful of largely anonymous people that always pipe up to say that I shouldn't "complain," because, after all, I CHOSE to have a kid during residency, I CHOSE this life, so it's my own damn fault, I say this: the right choice is not always the easy one. And noting that a situation is difficult does not mean that I wish I had chosen differently. Also, have you ever complained about having too much work, or bitched about having to study for a midterm in college? Well, you shouldn't have, because AFTER ALL, you CHOSE to go to college, didn't you? In fact, you should never ever note that anything is difficult, or vexing, ever, because AT LEAST YOU'RE ALIVE. Alrighty, sorry about that, with the caps and all, but you know how sometimes you can just see the comments pouring in even before you post? Just thought I'd deal a preemptive explanation. Not that it ever works, but sometimes I like to try anyway.)

Also, to further quell any possible rancor, here is an adorable picture of baby bunnies in teacups. Babies! Bunnies! IN TEACUPS! Rancor...fading.




* * *


OK, push out the jive, bring in the love. Today, between running other errands, we finally headed on down to the new Trader Joe's that opened a few weeks ago near Union Square. A month ago, I really had no idea what Trader Joe's was (I actually thought it was "Traitor Joe's" the first time I heard it mentioned in conversation--like, who is this Joe, and who did he betray?) but had some vague notion that, like many California imports (see: Jamba Juice, Peet's Coffee, Scientology) it was some sort of a cult. So far I have not been proven wrong. We actually tried to go to the new Trader Joe's two weekends ago, but we couldn't get in. Because there was a line. Around the block. For a GROCERY STORE. Screw you, velvet rope! We left. But still, I was curious as to what kind of a grocery store inspires such an ardent following. Also, we need food. Hence the trip down there today. I just hoped that it would not be some sort of vegan food store full of Soy Nuggets and Nutmeat Salads (though I would enjoy pointing to the word "nutmeat" printed on the sign and snickering. Snerk.)

So, now I know. If Costco and Whole Foods got married, their child would be Trader Joe's. I wouldn't necessarily go there to stock up on my staples, but we did manage to get the requisite bananas and yogurt for Cal's food larder, and picked up a couple of interesting items for ourselves in the form of some prepared meals and snack foods. I just didn't see anything in there that was that insanely good, though, certainly not enough to justify the stories I'd heard of grown men driving four hours each way to stock up on some hard-won specialty item, like peanut butter-filled pretzels or chili-lime flavored cashew nuts. (These were items specifically mentioned in the New York Times article that ran when the store first opened, and I tried them both. Meh. Pretty good, but like I said, not mind-blowing.) Maybe I'm missing the really good stuff, though. Do you shop at Trader Joe's? And if so, what do you like to get there? So far, the only thing I can really pin down to get next time is a box or two of Trader O's, which will hopefully be a suitable proxy for the, uh, name brand O-shaped oat cereal we're currently shelling out for.

Currently watching: "Flightplan." Well, not at this instant, but my sister lent me the DVD, and I may try and watch it tonight. I heard this movie was kind of bad, but Jodie Foster is all pretty and whatnot, so who cares.

we went to florida and took us some pictures

(Me reading my five dollar New York Times, and ignoring my child, who was free.)

(Cal wrapped up in a little bundle of towels after the pool, "Just like the baby Jesus," as per Joe.)

(The only picture of all three of us together on the entire trip.)

(Cal inherited his daddy's TOTAL WHITENESS, hence the hat and shirt and total body SPF 50.)

So yeah, we had a lot of fun. And we still have the rest of the week off before returning to soul-crushing reality! Woo! Uncrushed souls!

Currently reading: Nothing at this moment, because I am back home and have all my books around me and am PARALYZED by all the choices.

Here in Florida, having fun, blah blah blah. Joe and Cal are napping.
I'm just sitting out on the balcony enjoying the sun and my $5.00 copy
of the New York Times. FIVE DOLLARS. Ai que que. However, it was an
expense I justified because, for the first time in the history
of...well, EVER, I have neglected to bring a book on vacation with me.
I'm reading this thing front to back. Even the dreaded sports section.
Well, OK, maybe not the sports section, but I'll even read the business
section.

We're heading off to the beach as soon as my lazy family wakes up. The
beach, where maybe there wil be the purchase and consumption of ice
cream. Boo-ya.

an update on the dependents

First, a few pictures of Cal, for those who like that sort of thing:










How do you like that last photo, with the modest sheilding of the bits? Now he'll only by 98% mortified when I whip out that picture to show his prom date.

Secondly, I would like to give you all a little update on Cooper.




A couple of people have been asking for a while now how Cooper is doing. Since I haven't really talked about her for quite some time, perhaps it was logical to assume that like our plants, we forgot to water her and she was a shriveled up and crunchy in the corner somewhere. But no, Cooper is doing well. I just haven't mentioned her lately because she really hasn't been doing anything all that interesting. However, lately she seems to have entered the the difficult and trying period of canine adolescence. Basically, she's a surly teenager. Sure, she's up for a romp now and then, but mainly all she wants to do is eat junk food and hole up in her room, listening to Tori Amos and reading Sylvia Plath, all the while writing poetry in her diary about how misunderstood she is.




She and Cal get along OK, though. Cal, for what it's worth, LOVES the dog. He'll lunge for her whenever he sees her, reaching out to grab at her fur or her ears. Of course, Cal has a generalized obesession with hair and the pulling thereof, so the very idea of having someone in the house who is COMPLETELY COVERED WITH HAIR FROM HEAD TO TOE is, like, his fantasy. Well, maybe second only to being thrown into the discount wig bin at Macy's.

However, given Cal's love of yanking people bald, Cooper is understandably a little less effusive about Cal than he is towards her. She does seem to enjoy licking him, though if this is out of some form of affection or the fact that Cal is usually covered in a fine glaze of food, I may never know.

I know that Cooper has been somewhat displaced, and really, there's no way that I can fully make up for that without warranting a little unwanted attention from Child Protection Services, but she's doing well. She's a good dog. Even if she is writing Depeche Mode lyrics on the back of her notebook and figuring out how best to shoplift that jar of Manic Panic hair dye from the drugstore.

Currently reading: "The Acme Novelty Library #16." I swear, Chris Ware is a genius. A depressed genius wrapped in a stifling cocoon of existential ennui, but a genius nonetheless.

wakey wakey

I'm on call overnight tonight, and just finished a case. It was a hysterectomy and abdominoplasty (you know, a tummy tuck), and the wakeup was just gorgeous. I mean, if I do say so myself. I timed everything right, and turned down my sevo and turned up my nitrous, got her back breathing and titrated in my morphine, and the second, I mean the SECOND that the drapes came down, I said my patient's name and she just opened her eyes like THAT, instantly following commands and ready for extubation. It was the equivalent of landing a 747 on the runway so nice and gentle that you don't spill a drop of your in-flight beverage. (That is, if the stewardess didn't already wrestle that plastic cup of Coke from you before we began our final descent.) No ugly straining or pain or bucking on the tube, just a nice sweet emergence. Does it make me a dork to say that it was beautiful? Because it was. It was beautiful.

And the annoying thing is, no one ever notices or appreciates stuff like that, except for maybe other anesthesiologists. The patient doesn't remember. The surgeons and the nurses only take note if something doesn't go well--if the patient takes a long time to wake up, for example, or if the patient gets a little light at the end and starts doing the Electric Slide while they're still being stitched up. Then they yell or say snide things. But a nicely timed piece of anesthesia gets no recognition. They just don't know how much planning goes into it! My attendings were right, by the way. The first six months of your anesthesia residency, you're consumed with the specifics and the details of just how to get through your day. Only after that do you really start to appreciate the art of good anesthesia.

I say this not to say by any means that I'm a good anesthesiologist (though I aim to be When I Grow Up) or that the surgeons are oblivious (though they sometimes are, just they way that I'm also oblivious to things that aren't part of my job). It just say this because it seems like the further and further I get into medicine, the more and more I become like some sort of idosyncratic connesieur of obscure things. I'm the equivalent of one of those people who go to comic book conventions in search of collectibles, like Garbage Pail Kids cards, or McDonald's Happy Meal toys from the 1970's. Everyone else's throwaway moments are my treasure. At the end of the case, when everyone's bustling around, dictating and putting stuff away and returning pages, I have my big moment with the patient, the culmination of what can sometimes be hours of preparation and planning, and dammit, it is gorgeous when it works out well, even if nobody else notices but me.

Currently watching: College basketball. This is not my choice, it just happens to be on the TV in the lounge, and everyone seems to be watching it so avidly I don't dare ask if we can change the channel.

not about sewing

I realize I may have given the mistaken impression in the last post that I've been away because I was so busy sewing scrub hats like some sort of benevolent little elf. Sew, very old one! Sew like the wind! This is not so much the case. I only started sewing this weekend. The rest of the time, I have been playing doctor and being mother-y (or smother-y, depending on your point of view). I also had to work on MY TALK, which I finally gave on Friday. Seriously, I was having so much anxiety about this TALK that I cannot tell you. But it was the sort of anxiety where you can only talk about how anxious you are, yet are unable to actually spend more than ten minutes at a time working on the actual project. Fie on thee, Power Point. But anyway, THE TALK went fine, and even if it didn't, I gave out candy to the audience, so all the mistakes and stuttering were insulated by a layer of chocolate coated with a candy shell.

Yes, but enough with the business. It is now time to laugh again! At the end of the week, we'll be heading down to Florida, where prelminary weather reports show it will be in the 80's and sunny. We just have to plot out what to pack for our trip, not so much for ourselves (I could probably pack my own bag in ten minutes) but for Cal, who has never been away from home for more than 36 hours. For instance, how many diapers to bring? How many changes of clothes? And do they have Cheerios and bananas in Florida? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHAT OF THE CHEERIOS?

We have three more days, including an overnight call for me Thursday night. Then we can blow this pop stand. I mean, I like my job and all that, but last I checked, the hospital did not have a pool or a beach or a marina with dolphins. After we get back from Florida, we have two days to regroup, and then we're heading on down to Baltimore for the weekend to see Joe's sister and her family. This I am somewhat less excited about, since these visits always involve many many people crammed into a smallish house, with LOUDNESS and TALKING and PEOPLE and NO PLACE FOR NAPTIME and SCHOOL-AGED NIECES AND NEPHEWS ENGAGING IN VIOLENT HORSEPLAY WHILE PRETENDING TO STAB CAL WITH A PLASTIC SWORD, but these are the things you do when you're an old married person--you make the family rounds. Even if what you'd really rather be doing is holing up in your own house, in your own bed, because it's YOUR VACATION, dammit. I guess when you're part of a larger continuum, you have to learn to share everything, even your time off. Which sounds suspiciously like communism.

Currently reading: The Style Issue of The New Yorker. Jack Handey is funny. Yes, he's a little one-note about it, but what a note!

make your own scrub cap (or: how to be the classiest dork on the block)

OK, so the first thing you have to do is pick a fabric. I don't know if it's at every hospital of just mine, but you have to be unique about this. Wear the same scrub cap as someone else (unless it's the disposable kind) is as much a faux pas as two girls wearing the same dress to the prom. I picked this fabric displayed below, which is kind of retro and mod, because I am so old school. (Read: old.) There are tons and tons of places to find novelty fabric (you can look here or here to start), but I got the fabric shown below at this place.




Since it's eventually going to end up on your head, I would recommend getting a cotton fabric--be careful if you're buying online to look that you're not actually getting some heavy canvas for upholstering furniture. Also, I bought a yard of fabric because I didn't know what the hell I was doing, but you only need about half a yard for the hat. Or, get a yard and make two hats. Or two yards and make four hats! Math, folks. MATH.




The next thing you have to do is find a pattern. Maybe if you are some Home Ec spatial-relations whiz, you can figure out how to make a 3D hat out of a piece of 2D cloth, but I'm not that smart. I got my pattern here (it's called the "Day 'n' Night" hat), and like I mentioned before, it's actually designed as a hat for chemo patients. But that's OK! It can be a hat for chemo patients and those of us that take care of chemo patients! And if you make some extras, you can give them out! Unless you choose a really ugly fabric that your patients hate. Then just keep them for yourself.






OK, so you have the pattern and you cut out the cloth in the shape dictated by the little piece of paper. (It's actually bilaterally symmetrical, so you cut it out folded and then unfold it like a butterfly.) The first thing thing I thought when I saw the pattern cut out was, "The hell? This doesn't look like a hat!" Patience, grasshopper. There is still work to do.




Lay your fabric so it looks like an upside-down letter T. Then fold the bottom edge up and pin it in place. This is going to be the brim of the hat. How much you fold the edge under depends on what kind of a fit you want for your hat. For a close-fitting hat (like the one Joe has on in this picture) fold more of the fabric under, so there's less loose fabric in the end. For a looser hat (which you can cram your ponytail or 'fro in, or what have you) fold less of the fabric under. So anyway, you fold it and pin it and then you iron it down.




"What, first you get a sewing machine, and now you're talking to me about ironing? I thought you went to Wellesley!" Yeah, but listen--the iron is just to make the edge all smushed down and flat and crisp. See how I took this picture as though the iron is doing the work all by itself, like Roomba? Oh, only in my dreams. Anyway, after you iron down the edge, then you start the actual sewing part.




I don't know what kind of stitch this is called, it's just the kind where you go up and down through the two pieces of cloth in a straight line. Just make sure you choose a matching, or, barring the ability to completely match, a coordinating color of thread, since this will show through the front, along the edge of the brim. When you get to the end of the piece of cloth, tie off the thread and cut it off.




Who needs a sewing machine when you can hand stitch with such precision? (Humor me, here.) Next up is the part of the sewing where we make everything 3D.






Find the curvy part of the pattern and fold the two edges together so that the back side of the fabric is showing. Then sew this together along the edge (the edge on the left side as shown in the picture above) to make one of the seams along the top of the hat. It looks weird, but when it's done, you kind of turn it inside out and it's all good, really.




When you finish one side, fold over the other side and repeat. Basically, if you can't picture what we're doing, you've just sewn both bars of the T-shape to the stem.






Flip the hat right side out--now see how the front of the hat is done. However, the back is still all open and flapping in the breeze. We need to make the drawstring closure next.









Lay the hat flat and fold up the edge of the back about an inch and a half. Do the whole pinning and ironing bit again. Then stich the back to itself about an inch from the edge. This will make a little tunnel of cloth through which you can funnel the drawstring.




I use this for the drawstring. It's something called "bias tape." I have no idea why it's biased or what it's really for, but it's basically just a flat piece of cloth that comes in a lot of different colors, and it's easy to find. Of course, you can also make a matching cord out of the fabric itself, like I did for Joe's hat, but that takes more time and effort, and I'm lazy.





But how to push the drawstring through? Here's the part where I use THE MYSTICISM OF THE ORIENT: I tape the end of the bias tape to a chopstick, and I push the chopstick through the tube of cloth, scrunching it as I go. Then I untape the string from the chopstick, and voila, she is through. If you don't have chopsticks, I suppose you could use a pencil or a knitting needle or something similarly skinny and long. (No off-color jokes, please.)








And you're done! Put on your hat, cinch it to fit, and walk around insouciently with your stylish headgear, you!







Oh lord, what's happening to me? If I start threatening to grow and dye my own cotton, just shoot me.

Currently watching: "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire." My sister brought over the DVD yesterday. It was OK, and Ralph Fiennes was creepy as Voldemort, but my sister pointed out to me early on in the movie how much Hermione overacts with her eyebrows, and it started to get really distracting.

surfacing

Woah, sorry about that. It goes without saying that I have been busy, but stories about "I have been busy" are boring as hell, so I will not torture you with them. (Yes you, all five readers that still follow this page despite by erratic postings as of late.) I will instead regale you with my new latest obsession. OK, ready?

I want to learn how to sew.

(And the five remaining readers leave.)

So one weekend I was watching ye olde television set and happened upon that show "Project Runway" on Bravo. I don't watch much TV but this show pulled me right in because wow, how cool, they designed their own clothing line! Also, it was a marathon gearing up for the Big Finale, and I got the instant gratification of watching the entire second half of the season back to back without all that annoying waiting. I was so obsessed with this show that I even stayed up until 10pm to watch the big final episode. Which means I didn't go to bed until after 11pm! The big hand was on the 12 and the little hand was on the 11! That is officially Very Late for someone who usually goes to bed at 9:30pm. But you have to understand, I NEEDED TO KNOW WHO WON. Also, it's nice to watch a reality show where the contestants actually have to have some sort of a skill that goes beyond eating live cockroaches.

Anyway, I started getting all inspired because the show took place in New York, and the fabric store they went to for their projects is, like, RIGHT NEAR MY HOUSE, and dammit, why can't I be all creative like that? I want to design my own dress made of flowers too! Or, at the very least, learn how to sew a damn tote bag or some such thing. That would be very Martha.

Several problems:

1. I don't know how to sew. I mean, I can sew simple straight stitches, like, if the pocket of my labcoat falls off, and of course I can sew HUMAN FLESH, but other than that, I don't really know how to sew.
   
2. No time.
3. Not very crafty.
   

Yes, but BE THAT AS IT MAY, I decided maybe what I should do to fix the "no time" and "don't know how to sew" issue was to get a sewing machine. Because that what machines are for. Doing hard stuff. For example, I can't very reliably add two numbers in my head, but I have a MACHINE velcroed to the back of my hospital ID that takes care of that for me. (Kidding about the not being able to add two numbers. Kind of.)

OK, so I got a sewing machine, but just a little cheap one because what the hell am I, one of those women who have those quilting shows on PBS? And I popped it out of the box and plugged it in and commanded it to sew something, but it would not. Rise of the machines indeed. Then I figured, fine, I would read the damn instruction manual and figure out how to get the machine up and running, and pretty soon I would be dressing Cal in a variety of ill-fitting and poorly-advised homemade vestments. Only reading the instruction manual just got me more confused. It reminded me of my early days in med school, where I'd be reading a text and only understanding every third word, a low humming sound in my head substituting in for all the words I didn't know. "Take the (hmmm) and thread the (hmmm) through the (hmmm) and tighten the (hmmm), making sure not to (hmmm) the (hmmm)." Uh, who in the what now?

Does anyone know how to use a sewing machine? Can you come to my house and teach me?

OK, so maybe I'm not ambitious enough to want to sew my own prom dress or some such thing, but I have been wanting to learn how to make my own scrub hats for a while now. I like a sassy scrub hat. How else to differentiate myself from the legion of ciel blue clad clones that go tromping through the ORs day in and day out? The problem was (OK, one more problem, in addition to those above) is that I couldn't find a scrub hat sewing pattern anywhere. I found instructions for making a chef's hat, and this chemo bonnet that seems like it might be pretty close, but I guess the scrub cap market hasn't really hit the mainstream yet, you know?

So anyway, I decided to go with the chemo bonnet pattern, and lo, look at what I have made!

(I tried to make the picture appear on this page like usual, but something with Blogger is BROKEN. Or maybe my computer is broken. Or I am broken. Whichever, click on the link to see the picture.)

We went to a QUILTING STORE yesterday (I know!) and Joe humored me not only by faking a marginal interest in the endeavor, but picking out his own hat print. I made one for myself too, but in an orange-stripey cloth and a little bit bigger, since I have all that hair to cram up in there. Seriously, I am so proud it is embarrassing. See the handy drawstring in the back? What says class like a DRAWSTRING? And (AND!) I sewed it by hand, just like in pilgrim days! Where's my butter churn? Seriously, it was ridiculous, because what took me 45 minutes to do by hand would have taken me probably 5 minutes if I knew how to work this damn machine. I have to wait until Joe's mom comes back into town so she can show me how to use this thing. Or, alternatively, I could bring it to the sewing machine repair store and ask the guys there if they could show me the ropes, but I fear that they will laugh at me, or more likely, be really annoyed, the way I would get annoyed when people would wander into the ER during my shift demanding "just a checkup."

Tune in again soon for step-by-step instructions on how to make your own scrub hat. Actually, it may have to be either later today or not soon at all, since tomorrow is Monday which means WORK which means I will be sucked into the vortex, so lord knows when I'll surface again. However, we go on vacation at the end of the week, which at least insures you some nice post-vacation pictures of us burning to a crisp and being pecked to death by rogue seagulls.

Currently reading: "Wimbledon Green." Kind of a collector's piece, a little disorganized and sloppy but very handsome on the shelf.