But now, there’s a pill I can drop on the floor and let my kitty chew on all he wants! And if he tires of that, he can roll the bottle cap around the kitchen floor for awhile.

(A screenshot of the Etsy page for a pill-shaped cat toy. Several pictures are shown of a long-haired ginger tabby cat enjoying the catnip-filled, half-red half-blue felt toy, and the plastic orange pharmacy bottle with a prescription label reading “Catatonica.”)

The item description:

These jumbo pills contain a healthy dose of extra strength cat nip – just what the good doctor ordered.

Each pill measures approximately 3″ long and each vial contains two.

So get to the pharmacy STAT! You’ll want to make sure you have plenty of “mothers little helpers” on hand.

DOSAGE:
Take one down, bat it around, kitty is sure to have a ball.

POSSIBLE SIDE EFFECTS:
Temporary ants-in-the-pants followed by extreme drowsiness. Increased appetite not uncommon.

Only $8! I spend way more than that on my human medications. Check out kgrantdesign’s shop for more deliciously cute kitty toys. Next up: fried eggs and bacon.

(Cross-posted at FWD/Forward.)

This is the game Mitsy plays with me when I sit at my desk. I’ll touch her on the front side, then reach around to a spot of fur poking out under the shelf in the back, and she flops and rolls around feigning great surprise and indignation, mewing at me — then flopping back around and staring expectantly for me to continue. This goes on til my arm gets tired reaching up, and she’ll keep rolling and flopping for some time, staring down and meowing at me.

And pictures.

Mitsy cuddling on my lap.

Both of them on my desk, stirring up trouble.

Buddy is a big huge bully. Often he will fight his sister out of whatever spot she occupies — on the wide open floor, in a box, on a chair, or in this case, on top of my desk — and either take over, or just wander off. Bully, I tell you.

Have some kitty pictures.

Buddy makes a mess on my desk.

And then they took a break.

Buddy may have been better named Dusty.

Buddy has taken a liking to a shoe box I threw on the floor one day while digging through my closet. He really, really doesn’t fit. It’s buckling out at the sides and from the top, it looks square — despite being a normally-constructed oblong shoe box. But this is my 14lb kitty who’s actually too thin for his skeletal frame, so he fills it out pretty well.

I think he looks like a bit of a cat-box-boat. Sailing the linty red seas.

Today’s roundup brought to you by oh look a feather toy!

An acquaintance of mine shared a post that linked to Peter Singer’s latest piece in the NYT Magazine, “Why We Must Ration Healthcare.” Most of the article focuses on the fact that health care is currently rationed in the U.S., whether by price or by less tangible factors such as ER wait times. I don’t disagree with that part; that’s nothing more than a clear-eyed look at the reality that the American health care system has barriers to accessibility. Where Singer goes off the rails for a demonstration of Able-Bodied Privilege 101, however, is when he discusses how to put a value on human lives as a precursor to putting a value on health care. In order to demonstrate the utility of quality-adjusted life-year (QALY) in rationing health care, he uses the example of how an able-bodied person reacts to a hypothetical situation in which they become quadraplegic, and how their desire to live changes. He then goes on to present a situation in which persons with disabilities (PWD) are damned if they do and damned if they don’t: he suggests that if a PWD is happy with their life, they don’t need any treatment that would improve their lives, and if a PWD is not happy with their life, then it would be wasteful to spend money on treatment that would improve their lives.

I consider this a must-read for anyone who is new to disability rights. Pizza Diavola does an excellent job showing where Singer’s logic simply falls apart, and in fact his arguments do not make sense without assuming the supremacy of the able body. But disability is not an inherently bad experience; it only becomes this phenomenon of tragedy and suffering when society refuses to provide support for people of all sorts, rather than upholding the narrow and unstable health ideal.

Following Singer’s logic, we would pretty much never seek to improve our lives in any way because to do so would admit that we were not happy with our lives beforehand, and if we were happy with it, then it would be useless to do anything to change it. How this is seen as a rational analysis of New York Times caliber, I’m not sure. But apparently Peter Singer hates the wheel, the microwave oven, cotton fabric (admitting that life wasn’t good enough without versatile and insulating body covering!), the printing press, public education, agriculture, language, music, sunscreen, and buildings (admitting that life wasn’t good enough without shelter from the elements!). Among other things.

But because disability is constructed as a tragedic deviation, we end up with nonsensical, circular arguments such as these. And it has unfortunate influence, and will further marginalize people on the basis of their inherent inferiority and thus forfeited right to life (any life, according to Singer, who would have us all killed or otherwise eliminated rather than complicating things for the currently abled — and no, unfortunately, this is not exaggeration or extrapolation; he has advocated exactly this).

Help Find the Cure for Disablism!

Disablism is a common disorder which can begin in early childhood, though its symptoms are often much more marked in adulthood. Without preventative measures, disablism can grow into a chronic condition that becomes more difficult to cure with time. Early detection and proper treatment are key to helping those with disablism lead stronger, more productive lives.

FAQs

Is disablism contagious?
The jury is still out on this question. While some epidemiologists believe disablism may have a contagious aspect and may spread virulently, other researchers emphasize individual health habits and responsibilities.

What is the treatment?
Treatment varies by the degree to which the patient is affected. Treatment focuses on creating new, nondisablist behaviors. For patients unrectifiably deficient in empathy, legal remedies may be required. Please ask your doctor for more details.

What can I do?
Most importantly, educate yourself about disablism. Ask your health care provider, “am I disablist?” Equally important, watch for early signs of disablism in your loved ones and seek early treatment. Disablism is much more cureable in its early stages than when its victims become homicidal or harm others. In addition, help raise awareness about disablism. Discuss disablism and its harmful effects with others.

For more information and resources on disablism, call the Cure Disablism Network at 1-555-BE HUMAN.

This clip from British tv show That Mitchell and Webb Look has made the rounds as a short and sweet parody of gendered advertising. I think it is also useful as a look at medicalization and the way medical conditions are presented in popular culture.

Transcript:

[Blonde, average-looking woman standing in front of white background, reacting to voiceover by crouching and grimacing, with graphic overlay of radiating circles emphasizing different areas]
Woman: Ow. My stomach!
Man’s voice: Do you suffer from gut agony?
Woman: And my head!
Man’s voice: Tension head? [Woman nods, grimacing] Got that bloated feeling?
Woman [beginning to look slightly surprised and self-conscious]: Ooh…
Man’s voice: Inevitable wrinkles? The beginnings of lady moustache? [Woman covers lower half of face with hands] And now you’ve pissed yourself again? [Woman crosses legs] Women. You’re leaking, aging, hairy, overweight, and everything hurts –
[Young boy walks on set in white dress shirt splattered in colorful stains]
Man’s voice: — and your children’s clothes are filthy! No wonder men long for other, less clammy women. For God’s sake, sort yourself out.
[Image appears on screen of assortment of several hundred personal care products, captioned "APPROX $279.99, THE LOT."]
[Woman walks onto set toward couch, with large, bulging full tote bag on one shoulder]
Woman [tiredly]: Now I’m free to live my own life, my way! [falls back onto couch]
[Scene changes to white man in bathroom with razor]
Man’s voice: Men! Shave and get drunk!
[Man has satisfied look on his face as he opens medicine cabinet, finds glass of beer sitting inside, picks it up and smiles smugly, taking a sip]
Man’s voice: Because you’re already brilliant.
[Man smiles widely at camera as woman's hand appears, groping his chest]

ginmar speaks movingly about mental illness, military veterans, and the phenomenon of “fallen women.” A few pieces; there’s much more.

It’s a pain in the ass to experience. Frankly, you’re no fun to live around during this. I mean, people have been brought up on movie mental illness, where you turn into a sweet, soulful, funny, insightful, tragic, tormented character who Teaches Important Lessons, before dying in a beautiful way that gives the hero or heroine a chance to win an Oscar.

It’s especially bad if you’re a woman, because you’re supposed to live for others, do for others, and do this al behind the scenes. The fact is that women who transgress in some way—bad mothers, not mothers, convicts, the sick, the non-sexually rebellious—-are often abandoned. Women are supposed to stand by their man. What goes unsaid, what’s kept secret is that ill women are resented, dumped, and have to face a dual burden of illness and ill-treatment. There are approximately 6,500 homeless female veterans of this war. Homelessness is often the worst and final stop on the mental illness ladder. It’s bottom. Then, too, homeless women in general are ignored. When the truth is overwhelmingly awful and about women, people just shrug their shoulders and put it down to life. When women get angry about this treatment, they often find the mentally ill label used to stigmatize them.

[...]

Suicide tidied things up neatly. By killing herself, the victim had provided her family with a tragedy over which they could weep, instead of an inconvenient complication who aroused questions that were literally unthinkable for the thinkers of the day. With her gone, so was any reminder.

[...]

What’s interesting is that both male and female soldiers are often regarded in this way: better a flag-draped coffin than a living, complex, and often angry veteran. What a drag. Better a tragedy than a complication [...]

That’s the work of a certain class. The resentment is very much the attitude of the person who discovers that those who serve are also those who know their worth. That wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal. You’re supposed to work round the clock, then disappear when not needed, grateful and humble for scraps from the table.

Which is why maybe soldiers like me, especially women, are often greeted with sadistic gloating when we crumble.

The vet had nothing but complements for the two of them. Buddy, in particular, always gets exclamations of surprise for his coat, which is medium-length, thick, and soft like flannel. (Mitsy’s fur is long and soft like silk. I love petting both of them at the same time.) He’s doing beautifully, now three years and three months old and healthy as can be. We hope he will stay with us for many years more.

They screamed the whole way to the vet’s office in the car — but as soon as we entered the door, they shut their traps — because there was another cat there already yelling louder than both of them. They behaved perfectly for the vet, then started screaming at me the minute I took them back to the car. Brats.

Mitsy immediately ran off to clean her leg where she received one of her vaccinations.

I decided this week to dig up an old-school picture of my dog, Rainey. She lives with my mother in California — we could bring the cats over to PA to live in our apartment, but not the Chow-Chow/black Laborador mix. She’s an absolute sweetheart (with a black-spotted tongue!), and a handful of Mom’s friends and acquaintances have threatened to steal her. I miss her a lot. We haven’t been to California since we got married just over two years ago, and probably won’t be able to make it for at least a year more.

(Yes, I blinked.) Helping Mom plant some flowers in front of her house, back in 2004.

(Cross-posted at Feministe.)

…. but wait, you say! That’s not a cat! No, it’s not, but it’s cat-related!

I’m growing cat grass. I’m trying it with plain ol’ wheat grass seed in a packet, and growing from one of those kits at the same time — this one has wheat, oat and barley seed. This is my first time actually potting plants with my own soil, germinating the seeds etc. Yeah, it’s not much but it still has me excited. This is the two pots (kit seed, packet seed) on our window sill.

Now for some actual cats! Mitsy gets comfortable in some awkward positions.

Buddy, on the other hand, is lying belly-up as usual.

Would that I could borrow some of his bliss.

(Cross-posted at Feministe.)

Whoops. Dozed off there.

Mitsy wants to know what the deal is with these chair things:

… and then retreats to her more typical hideout: the window.

This one is pulled up from the archives. Buddy has some Chair Time.

“Halp”

Buddy has what we call “Chair Time.” There is something about these kitchen chairs that drives him crazy.

And Mitsy, true to her feline roots, fits herself into small spaces.

Photography is more than a casual hobby for me; it is something I genuinely love to do. And I like to think I do a pretty good job of it. Playing with color, angle, perspective, focus and detail — I feel the same thrill I feel putting brush to canvas. There is something about art that truly does reach into the furthest depths of self. My photography has carried me through several particularly rough times in my life, and added unsurpassable depth and joy to some of the best times. It is also an art I can put to work even when I am not at my physical best. I don’t know that I can express how valuable that is to me. And I can only hope that others find some enjoyment in the work I put out.

Right now the pictures are from two Penguins playoff games last season, with some kitty pictures sprinkled in between. There’s much more to come.

Incidentally, a friend of mine just posted some of his pictures, and he has more patience than I — he’s described each photo, and he manages to be rather funny doing it. It’s worth checking out, seriously.

Why it’s important to make a concerted effort to promote historically-un(der)represented classes. You can’t flick a switch and have equality instantly turn on. Even if discrimination ceased to exist instantly, it would still take time to catch up — today’s chemistry-minded three-year-old girls aren’t going to reach the upper echelons of the field for at least another few decades yet. Of course, prejudice doesn’t instantly disappear simply because the law forbids certain manifestations of it in certain settings. So we reach a point where we’re looking to fill President Obama’s cabinet, but the levels from which such people would be pulled are still disproportionately dominant-class folk. This is where it does become worthwhile to pick Ms. Smith over Mr. Doe, even when they are very similarly qualified, simply for the fact that Ms. Smith is a woman.

What the bloggy left don’t understand about Obama’s approach to politics. It’s something I’ve always admired about his judgment. He will make a good-faith effort to work with his opposition to get done what needs done. But if that opposition responds to his good-faith effort with a bad faith effort, he will unapologetically move forward without them. Here’s one reason why this is a Good Thing: it’s a tactical investment. It builds trust in the broader community and fosters relationships with those members of the opposition who might be won over in the future. That’s a worthwhile investment to make, I think.

The consequences of our market-worship culture. What, exactly, makes a standard of living? Is it the fancy consumer goods we all have? A car for every person, a flat-screen TV in every house and a smartphone in every palm? Or is it something else? The security of a stable neighborhood, quality health care that isn’t a hassle, and a good education for your child even if you can’t afford the cost of living in the ritziest districts? These are things the private sector simply don’t excel at.

Self-care is essential. I do not use this word lightly. If these is anything my condition has taught me, it is the importance of learning one’s own boundaries and one’s own needs, and respectfully tending to them. Without this, you aren’t going to be any good to anybody else. You’re going to be more help to someone if you’re doing well yourself. If you’re rushed, stressed, overwhelmed with anxiety, severely lacking in sleep, seriously emotionally preoccupied, down with the flu, whatever — you’re allowed to stop and take care of yourself before you continue your work. Why do we insist that we push forward, always, through whatever challenges we may face? There can be virtue in that. But there can also be folly. I think this is a cultural force that could use some reflection.

After the reaction to a certain post of mine, I think this advice from Jill would be well-heeded in a variety of situations:

I understand that men are in an uncomfortable position when an abortion story is dropped into date conversation. Abortion is socially marked as taboo and horrible and universally emotionally difficult, so I understand why the first reaction is “You poor thing” or “You’re so strong.” I’ve never been in the same position as the author, but I have been on a first date where the guy dropped his almost-abortion story: His girlfriend got pregnant, they decided to terminate the pregnancy, and then she had a miscarriage. It’s not an easy story to respond to, so I fell back on How To Deal With An Awkward Conversation Topic 101: Mirror the other person’s reaction. He seemed like he was sad about the situation, so I think I said something along the lines of, “That sounds like it was really hard, I’m sorry.” And the conversation moved on. I also had a friend who once told me the story of his hugely swollen testicle — like, baseball-sized. In recounting the story, he was cracking himself up, so I laughed along. It’s really not all that hard to take your cues from the person who lived through the unpleasant ordeal. And I think that’s the author’s point: Not that men should universally think abortion is no big deal, but that they should take women as individuals who have varied responses to situations, and who very well may not be traumatized or upset at all — but who may nonetheless be highly annoyed and physically discomforted by a 30-day period. Or they may just be relieved. Or they may be sad, or even devasted. Or they may feel stupid for getting pregnant. Or they may have emotions that are mixed and that evolve. You know, like most human beings.

Read Kate take a righteous hammer to the bullshit that is how we, as a culture, introduce children to disability. Woo go Kate!

OK, this post might seem a bit out of place (and ignore the quick bit of gender-enforcing at the end). It’s just so deeply joyful to be a witness to another person reveling in wonder, over things big or small. Grapefruit isn’t my thing, but you find enjoyment in funny places.

This is why I love slacktivist.

Adam Serwer took all of three posts at TAPPED, I think, to become my favorite writer at the mag (and it’s not for my lack of appreciation for Klein). This kind of reflection is why.

Jindal and Obama could not be more different, and the contrasts begin but don’t end with the fact that one of them changed his name to fit in while the other carried his daddy’s “funny” African moniker all the way to the White House. Last night, the differences were clear: Where Jindal was awkward, Obama was confident. Obama has mastered his voice, Jindal sounded like he didn’t know how to give a speech. Obama had mastered a variety of tones and cadences early in his career, Jindal offered a forced folksiness to a sing-song tune. But perhaps the most telling part of Jindal’s response was his extended introduction of his family history. Until now, the GOP has allowed the press to make the Obama comparisons, last night, Jindal tried to make one himself, an act that was inadvertently self-diminishing.

You can’t find your voice by trying to become what everyone else is. You do that by trying to find what it is that makes you you. See also M’s musings on identity.

I’m off to bed, to dream of miniwheats in the morning.

Something was obviously wrong. She seemed disoriented. She couldn’t seem to hold herself up; it was like something was weighing down on her. She was heavy in my arms. She wobbled and listed to one side when she’d try to walk. She was twitchy, her eyes weird and her ears tilted back in that distressed way.

Shit.

She was totally fine yesterday. You know how, when a major illness strikes (or some other major event), you can usually remember signs of it in hindsight? I can’t remember anything abnormal. She was eating and drinking and playing like normal all yesterday, and when we went to bed around 11PM last night (husband was up later on the phone with a friend whose father is dying and needed someone to talk to) she was doing her prance-around-on-the-bed-cooing-at-me routine to try to get me to pet her, just like she does every night.

She’s an indoor cat. I searched all over the apartment and couldn’t think of anything toxic she could have gotten into, and there was no vomit anywhere either.

I ended up driving to Wheeling, WV with her, as that’s the nearest emergency vet, but to no avail. I’m going to take her and her brother in to the walk-in clinic here in Washington later this morning because they’re going to be due for their shots here in about another month anyway, and I might as well save the exam fee.

I was freaking out, because I’ve always expected Buddy to take his exit from this world a little earlier than most (he’s got feline leukemia, and I’m honestly amazed he’s stuck around this long) but I’ve always thought Mitsy would be with me for years yet.

I don’t really know how to end this post, so I’m just going to save it now and try to get my body up and functioning after it’s already been through an hour’s drive on about five hours’ sleep. Here’s hoping she’s going to be ok.

Many more at my Flickr page.

On the way to a Penguins game one day earlier this year, we realized we didn’t have any dollar bills — which we’d need to ride the T up to the arena. I ended up in a Petsmart looking for something cheap to break a larger bill. I walked out with a handful of dollar bills and a rattling furry mouse toy.

The toy has since lost its tail but — miraculously — the eyes, nose and ears remain. (I’ve lived with cats my entire life; I know those little plastic and felt additions usually last all of a week.) What surprised me further, though, was that Mitsy is thoroughly attached to this toy. She will carry it around the house and sing and coo at it — or toss it about and yell. And if you shake it, she’ll come running. (She never actually does anything once she’s there. She just sits prettily and stares up at you, as if supervising.) I suppose it’s as close as anything will ever come to a teddy bear for a cat.

We call him Ratticus.

Of course, what surprised me the other day, when I came home with a new litter box (big enough for our very big Buddy cat) and an impulse-purchase cat toy — a catnip bee that squeaks when it senses motion or impact — is that Buddy latched onto it almost instantly. Understand, Buddy doesn’t play with cat toys. He plays with pen caps and pieces of plastic and his eternal favorite, twist ties, but he doesn’t play with cat toys.

But he plays with Tweety Bee. Maybe this will be his Ratticus.

May I add that it is friggin’ impossible to correct for white balance in the snow? At least there’s a little wiggle room in other settings, but man, you can definitely detect that slight pinkish or yellowish (or whatever) cast to a snow picture. Please, don’t ever drop off a roll of snow pictures for me to develop for you.