Monthly Archives: October 2005

As of tomorrow Hoss will officially be 15 weeks old, which means his/her mommy, aka moi, is sort of looking forward to this much-vaunted “honeymoon trimester” that has all the mommy guides waxing so goddamn lyrical. Now is when the nausea is supposed to dissipate, right? And I’m supposed to start craving food rather than barely tolerating it, yes? And wasn’t there something about a “healthy glow” from all that extra blood pumping through my veins? Well, maybe someone should tell all of this to my fetus, because frankly, it ain’t happening yet and I’m FRICKING READY.

Actually, it’s not completely true to say nothing has changed. I’m no longer nauseated ALL the time, which is sort of refreshing. Now I just have bad days or bad hours (Hoss is not at all fond of getting up early, I find. So it must be my kid, which is a relief.) And I’m certainly experiencing a more … shall we say, active form of hunger than I did in the 1st trimester. But calling this urge merely “hunger” doesn’t quite seem to do it justice. I tend to associate hunger and the subsequent sating of such as rather pleasurable experiences. (Yet more proof that I’m the product of an imperialist hegemonic culture, I know, but bear with me here.) The way it goes is, 1) feel hungry, 2) find something good to eat, 3) enjoy good food, 4) stop being hungry. I mean, that’s the way it’s supposed to work, right?

But hunger avec le Hoss is something altogether different. Because with Hoss, there’s no gray area. There’s no “sort of” hungry. It’s less “gee, mother, I feel a bit peckish” and more “GIVE ME SOME GODDAMN FOOD, BEEYOTCH!” I mean, it’s violent, this hunger. And so sudden! You know how if you’re really hungry and you wait too long to eat you sort of start to feel sick? Yeah, well that’s how I feel RIGHT AWAY. Like, to the 10th power. So Hoss is all like HONGRY! MUST EAT NOW! ROOOAAAAR! and I’m all like Shit, nothing sounds good! Shit, if I don’t eat in the next 5 minutes I will actually die! Shit! And then when I *do* finally shove some food down my craw to pacify the little bugger, I can’t usually eat much at one go (see: feeling sick, above) and the result is that the “sated” part lasts a total of 90 minutes, MAX. And then the whole thing starts all over again. And what’s even MORE awesome is that I hear this shit only gets more pronounced the farther along I am.

So overall: not a huge fan, I must say. And if this is the honeymoon period I better be getting a goddamned good 1st anniversary present to make up for it, or we are going to need some serious marriage counseling, young Hoss. Do you hear me? Hmmph.

So, in addition to the crappy corporate job that I now have to keep at least until the hatchling comes (why do sucky jobs so often come with good benefits?), I’m also the artistic director of a small theatre company. And, oh yeah, there’s that dissertation I’m supposed to be finishing. The three positions (cubicle jockey, artistic director, and eternal grad student) could each easily take up 40 hours a week on their own, so my normal state of existence is overworked and crunched for time. This is even MORE true right before a show opens, which is where I am right now. For those of you who aren’t in theatre, the week before a show opens is typically known as “tech week” and it’s also typically known to suck, because it’s when all the technical elements like lights, sound, costumes, and a full set get added into the show you’ve been rehearsing for the past month or two. When tech week hits, the director’s focus shifts from being exclusively on the actors and their interpretations of their roles, and gets diffused among various designers, technicians, house managers and publicists. It’s hard on the director, because she’s suddenly getting pulled in 10 different directions by people with equally valid claims on her attention. And it’s hard on the actors because they sort of get abandoned to their own devices.

For some directors, tech week is truly a week from hell, but I’ve always prided myself on relatively low-stress tech weeks: no rehearsals that go until midnight, no all night building sessions, etc. I work pretty hard to get all my ducks in a row so that the elements of the show can be combined as painlessly and seamlessly as possible. Sure, there are always glitches, but I try to keep them small. The show I’m working on right now is a good example: it’s a three-woman show, and my completely awesome cast is basically ready to go – they’ll be ready for me to shift focus off them starting this weekend. My technical director is a pro, and the set and costumes are simple enough for this production that we should have a minimally stressful load-in to the theatre space.

But one thing I couldn’t have factored in was the pregnancy effect. Being knocked up hasn’t had too much of an impact on the process so far, but I’m finding that this past week in particular, the fatigue is a real killer. Since I don’t get home from work until around 6:00, and I have to be at rehearsals at 7, there’s no time for catching a nap beforehand; but then I’m usually feeling too wired after rehearsal to go to bed very early. And then there’s the stress effect: as confident as I am in this show, there’s no way to avoid stressing about it until it opens this coming Thursday. And stress has the lovely effect of making me even more tired and even less able to go to sleep. So that plus the pregnancy fatigue = one worn out squab. Anyone know a recipe for getting more hours in the day?

I’m having a coke with lunch today.

Sooooo much sugar.

Sooooooo much caffeine.

Sooooooooooo good.

Last night. Dinner.

Mr. S.: Honey, what do you want to eat?

Me: I don’t know … what are you eating?

Mr. S.: I can make whatever you want. How about pizza?

Me: Mmmm … no ….

Mr. S.: Pasta?

Me: … that doesn’t really sound good either …

Mr. S.: Grilled cheese? Soup? Mac and cheese? Burgers?

Me: … meh … no … no … not really … ehhh …

Mr. S.: Maybe you should just go look and see what we have. We don’t have to eat the same thing, either.

Me: But I wanna eat what you’re eating! Dinner time should be when we eat together!

Mr. S.: Honey …

Me: (looking in fridge and freezer) Ooh – I think maybe I’ll have this frozen rice bowl. That sounds good.

(Slight pause)

Mr. S.: Honey, I have three aneurysms just waiting to go. One for you and one for each of our future kids.

Me: Ooh, the pressure.

Mr. S.: And it’s not going to take much, either. One conversation. “What do you want for dinner?” “I don’t know.” And KABLAM! I’m dead.

Me: Maybe you should learn how to meditate.

Yesterday, we covered the origins of the Squotient Triangulum; today I’m giving you a detailed guide to the three major types, so you can see where you and the people and things around you fit!

Squabby: Squabs tend to be very easy-going, mellow people. Highly cuddly, they thrive on sensual pleasures (eating, massages, music, basking in the sun) and often lose track of time if not carefully watched. Squabs are typically optimistic, sunny people, and never stay angry or cross for long. They enjoy sleeping in, staying out late, and being around other people of all varieties. Squabs are fond of new and exotic experiences and will try just about anything once. As they are usually talented in multiple areas it is often difficult for them to focus on one career path or course of study. Squabs are not neat; they have a mind above such pedantic concerns as tidiness and truly do not notice that the dishes have been piling up for days and are beginning to smell. Though their lack of organization can be difficult for Squins and Squos to deal with at times, Squabs’ go-with-the-flow attitude and immense capacity for happiness make them generally quite pleasant to be around. Physically, Squabs tend towards roundness and softness, though this is not universally the case.

Celebrity Squabs: Drew Barrymore, Kathy Najimy, Fozzie Bear
Other Squabby Items: Polar fleece; warm chocolate chip cookies; soft rainy days; e.e. cummings poetry.

Squinny: Squins tend to be more intense and more focused than Squabs. Physically elegant, they thrive on order and structure and can get quite out of sorts in chaotic situations. Squins are high-strung high-achievers, and hate to be disappointed in their expectations of other people (which, alas, happens frequently). Some would call Squins “high-maintenance”; Squins prefer to think of it as having standards. Squins demand regular, sensible schedules, and please do not call them during dinner time or after 10:00 at night. They are very attentive to detail, and believe that a task is not worth doing unless it is done just right. Squins are extremely neat, and even enjoy cleaning up after others, as long as this service is not taken for granted. Though Squins are not usually “touchy-feely” people, they are nonetheless quite affectionate within a selectively chosen circle. Exceedingly conscious of status, Squins often are the ones to consult about what wine to order, where the hot new boutique is located, or what novel you should be reading. Physically, Squins tend towards the long, lean, and lithe, though this is not universally the case.

Celebrity Squins: Rupert Everett, Madonna, Lucy Liu
Other Squinny Items: A dry martini; Jean-Paul Gaultier; Quebecois; stilettos

Squotund: Squos are the most grounded and even of the three temperaments. Reliability and moderation are the watchwords of the Squotund type. Very difficult to rile, Squos make excellent managers and are often the calm at the eye of the storm. Squos are organized without being obsessive about it; easy-going without being pushovers; and strongly loyal to both friends and family. They generally prefer a regular routine, but are not averse to a little spontaneous fun when the occasion merits. You will rarely find Squos in the spotlight; they’re far more likely to be the essential behind-the-scenes person without whom the whole project would collapse. Squos are excellent comforters when things go wrong, and with a Squo in your corner life’s challenges suddenly seem less daunting. Physically, Squos tend to be large and solid, though this is not universally the case.

Celebrity Squos: Julia Childs, Morgan Freeman, Penny Marshall
Other Squotund Items: Wide-wale corduroy; Range Rovers; German; fictional badgers

So: now that you know the types, which one are you?

Why, you might ask, is this blog called the Snarky Squab? Believe it or not, it’s not due to a strange affinity to baby birds. No, the story is much more complex than that …

When I was in grad school at UC Santa Barbara, I lived in a cute little bungalow in downtown Santa Barbara with two housemates and three cats. Two of the cats were mine, and one – the youngest – was owned by one of the roomies. That cat’s official name was Anastasia, but we never called her that. She was a squat, round, fluffy little bunch of a kitty, and we always called her “Squab” or “Squabby,” because that’s what she looked like: a rumpled and vaguely sleepy little baby pigeon. Soon, we came up with similar nicknames for the other kitties: Oscar, who was lithe and lean and deigned to sit on your lap only occasionally, was dubbed “Squinny,” while Max, who was 23 pounds of grumpy purr-factory, was dubbed “Squotund.”

It wasn’t long before we realized that the kitty personalities were eerily reflected in the personalities of the housemates: One of us was squabby (perpetually procrastinating, loved to nap, very cuddly), one squinny (very orderly, elegant in attire, top of the class), and one squotund (calm, down-to-earth, reliable). Soon, we began to see that this triumvirate of qualities was applicable to nearly everything. Not only could all of the people we knew be classified according to this typology, but so could cities, clothes, food and drink, music, movies, plants – the list went on and on! Clearly, we had an idea of major world importance* on our hands. Forget Meyers-Briggs and the MMPI: Welcome to the Squotient Triangulum:

As you can see, the Triangulum is a spectrum. Most things and people have a dominant type as well as a secondary type, while some people may be true blends of two: Squinby or Squabtund, for example. Tomorrow: a breakdown of the three major categories.

*Yes, this is tongue in cheek. But only a little bit.

I’ve recently come to the inescapable conclusion that the primary function of most pregnancy books is to make me feel like a bad person. I’m serious. Oh, they come on all soft and squabby, with their pastel colors and their pretty line drawings of perfect expectant mothers with perfect little fetuses inside grade-A wombs. “Pregancy is Wonderful!” they assure you. “This will be one of the Most Precious Times of Your Life!” Sure, they pretend to be realistic. “Don’t worry if you’re feeling stressed or anxious,” they say, “that’s completely natural.” (Pregnancy books are big on the word “natural.”) BUT THEN. Then, they slap you with these lists. You moms out there know what I’m talking about. The lists of “reasons to call your practitioner.” Or “things you may be concerned about.” Which should really be titled LISTS OF DOOOOOOOOM, with an echo effect.

Take, for example, the mother of all modern pregnancy books, What to Expect When You’re Expecting. After opening with all this positive stuff about choosing a practitioner and how great it is to be knocked up, they whomp you upside the head with this ginormous list of concerns you may be having, including obesity (check!), Rh incompatiblity, having a baby after 35 (does 34 count?), fibroids (check!), incompetent cervix, STDs and family history – almost none of which I was concerned about until I read the book. And it doesn’t help that the sections all take the same format: 1) statement of the “concern”: You’re worried about obesity; 2) faux reassurance: Many obese women have totally normal pregancies; 3) instilling of fear: Obesity does put you at risk for EVERYTHING, though, so you better watch out! (I’m paraphrasing, slightly.) Super helpful, in other words.

Or consider the Baby Center Essential Guide to Pregnancy and Birth, which includes a handy list of “symptoms you should never ignore” for each trimester. The first trimester list includes: vaginal bleeding or spotting, leaking fluid or watery, mucousy vaginal discharge, sudden headaches, breathlessness, and severe constipation accompanied by abdominal pain. Jesus Tap-dancing Christ. First of all, how do you even know? Spotting, ok – you can tell that. It would be nice if they reminded you how TOTALLY COMMON it is to spot in the first trimester, but whatever. But: breathlessness? Sudden headaches? What the hell counts as “sudden?” And at what point does constipation go from being “a pain in the ass” (HA!) to “severe?” I HAVE NO IDEA. If I called my practitioner every time I had any of these symptoms, I’d tie up the frickin’ phone lines! The result is that I either feel like a whiny crybaby for worrying all the time, or a shortsighted bubblehead for not calling my doctor when I should. Win-win!

It’s funny, because although I’m a born worrier, in general I’m a pretty laid back person. I’m usually pretty good at keeping things in perspective, knowing to take advice books with a grain of salt, not getting too obsessed with being perfect. But lord have mercy, this pregnancy is bringing out my inner type-A. I should have known, really. The only times I’ve ever felt this kind of obsessive anxiety in the past was in situations involving my younger siblings – being worried about their welfare, wanting to help them out but not knowing how. I always said that having five younger brothers and sisters was good practice for being a parent. I just didn’t think it was the worrying part that I was practicing!

Mr. Squab and I have two cats, both mine from before we got married. One of the cats, Max, was diagnosed with feline diabetes about two years ago, and ever since he’s needed two insulin shots per day, in addition to special food and generally more attention. This routine usually sounds like a lot of trouble to anyone who hasn’t done it, but actually it’s not so tough – Max truly doesn’t mind the shots, and in fact reminds us to give them to him if we forget or we’re late. The tough part is making adjustments: cats can’t check their own blood sugar levels, and even regular visits to the vet don’t catch everything. The result is that occasionally Max will have an insulin reaction. Usually these take the form of him acting a little weird, walking around like he’s searching for something he can’t find, shaking his head constantly. This has happened 2 or 3 times, and now that we know what it means we just give him some karo syrup and reduce his insulin shots by a unit or so. But last night, when I got home from work, I had a whole different level of reaction to deal with. I actually thought Max was dead at first: he was sprawled in an unnatural position on the kitchen floor, his head and neck were stiff and his mouth was stuck open. He looked just horrible, and it took me a few minutes to even see he was still breathing – a little. Those of you who are pet owners will be able to imagine the state I was in. There are few things worse than seeing an animal you love in heartrending distress and not knowing what to do to stop it. I called our vet and took Max in immediately; they hooked him up with some IV dextrose and we ended up checking him into the emergency clinic overnight. Several heart palpitations and $500 later, he seems to be doing A-OK – and, in fact, this mother-of-all insulin reactions may be a kind of blessing: it could mean that he’s ready to go off two shots a day and just control his diabetes through his diet. But, oh, the stress! Even our other kitty was exhausted last night, sleeping right next to us for reassurance. Mr. Squab joked this morning that the whole episode was just a feline cry for attention: “$500, bitches! Now maybe you’ll pet me a little more often!” And we will, too – but I sure hope there are no more trips to the emergency clinic in our immediate future.