Monday, January 25, the Pittsburgh Penguins met the New York Rangers at Madison Square Gardens. My boyfriend Marc-Andre Fleury, who sat out several games with a broken finger, was back in net for the first time since the injury. I was all set to marvel at the sexy athleticism on the Penguins’ side when I realized that opposite Fleury, all bedecked in catching gloves and giant leg pads stood… Rangers goalie Henrik Lundqvist.

Well, I’ll get to Lundvqist later. But because today is my twenty-fourth birthday, I thought I would share with you the hotness that is Marc-Andre Fleury!

Beware: extremely image-heavy below the cut.

This is for my blog-sisters who use wheelchairs, power chairs and other mobility aids.

hodgepodgeia is a seller who makes, among other things, “saddle bags,” chair caddies, bed caddies and walker bags:

Smartie Pak, Jr.

Image description: An over-the-arm bag for armed chairs, with a zipper pouch and several pockets.

Easy Reach Scooter Pak

Image description: A bag that hangs over both sides of the seat on a scooter or powerchair, with various pockets and pouches for storage

Walker Bag

Image description: A bag that hangs over the front handle of a walker, with a pouch on both the front and back side with various pockets inside for storage

The seller appears to be open to custom orders — if you prefer a specific fabric or color scheme, or other reasonable changes.

This is what is so wonderful about Etsy: you find people making quite innovative products, often costing less than you would pay even at the cheapest brick-and-mortar store, and most of them are open to working with you to produce a custom product for your specific needs or preferences. You can reference their current items and former sales (linked on the right-hand column of their storefront: X items for sale, Y items sold) for the types of materials and fabric patterns they have used, as well as styles of product they are capable of making, when figuring out what sort of modifications to ask for.

Further searching produce a variety of products including padded seats, pocket scarves, more walker bags (of various styles from various sellers) and a range of other items.

All it takes to buy from Etsy is a free account, which also allows you to message sellers with questions about their items or inquiries about the possibility of customizing. And if you make anything and would like to sell it, Etsy provides a very nice platform for selling your handmade items with what appears to be a very reasonable fee schedule (around 20 US cents per listing, all listings created equal). There is a huge variety of items available on the site — up to and including baked goods, teas and houseplants! — and it’s a nice little community.

See also: my last post on Etsy items for people with disabilities/chronic illness.

Guess what you get today? Video! Previously Buddy was featured finding creative ways to share my tea: one and two.

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.

The cats helped me paint a couple of frames for the cyanotypes we made on our May vacation.

And then they took a break.

Buddy may have been better named Dusty.

From the O-R: Khalil Young, 13, and his sisters Kiara, 9, and Khammeelah, 4, tend to their patch of tomatoes this afternoon at (the garden)… Khalil also is a garden guardian who waters all of the plants on a regular basis.

Look familiar? My thoughts are conflicted in that post, about the real root (so to speak) of our modern issues with connection to our earth, but make no mistake: this garden is an unequivocal positive for the people who use it, and it makes me inordinately happy that it is here.

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Right-leaning media outfits are making a big deal out of this picture. “Who’s helping whom? Obama couldn’t care less”… Obama wasn’t being a “gentleman”…

There are two things going on here:

* Professor Gates, who has a cane so that he can move independently, could probably have made it down the stairs on his own. That’s not to say without pain or difficulty — but he wasn’t helpless. The reaction to this photo presupposes that the crippled man must be completely unable to help his own damn self, and that it is noble when the able-bodied officer presumes to “help” him. Do you see what this does? It removes Prof. Gates as an agent; it makes him, instead, an agency-less object, existing for the purpose of the able-bodied man: this time, as a signifier of character (taking on that noble burden).

* Speaking of noble burdens: the race of the men involved cannot be ignored. Sgt. Crowley is a white man helping a crippled man. In the right wing’s reading of this photo, Sgt. Crowley becomes a symbol of whiteness: an example of the way in which white men are Good, in which Good is defined as the way white men do things. Think boot straps: this fantastical myth is all about the inherent goodness of the white man, who does things the right way, in contrast with the minorities, who are too lazy, selfish, etc. to bother. Sgt. Crowley presuming to help Prof. Gates stands in contrast with President Obama, who is walking ahead, minding his own business. This shouldn’t be an issue, but it is seen directly in front of the white man taking on the noble burden, and thus becomes an indictment on the character of the shiftless, self-absorbed black man.

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And speaking of that beer summit:

Who was it for?

Of course it was reported as a sort of reconciliation: a way to help Prof. Gates and Sgt. Crowley make up. But that wasn’t what it was.

To sum: Prof. Gates arrived home after a long and tiring flight, and couldn’t get in his house. Someone called the police, thinking that a stranger was breaking into his home. Police arrive when Prof. Gates was already in his home and calling a locksmith. Prof. Gates shows ID to Sgt. Crowley proving this is his home, may have been “belligerent” in doing so. Sgt. Crowley responds by luring him to his front porch, where he is handcuffed and arrested for disorderly conduct. Outrage ensues; charges are dropped. (Police insist the original caller reported that black men were breaking in; recordings prove that she said nothing about race at all.)

Journalist asks Obama about this during a health care press conference. Obama says a few predictable, innocuous things, then says that it is obvious that the police “acted stupidly” in arresting Prof. Gates in his own home for no crime committed, then makes a simple comment about the inarguable history of racial profiling in this country.

Sgt. Crowley objects loudly, saying the President is “way off base.” Sgt. Crowley is obviously very upset, and the police force is standing in solidarity with him. The country is beginning to criticize Obama for admitting the troublesome racial aspects of the story; the conventional wisdom is becoming that Obama bit off more than he could chew in “bringing race into this” — and white America will make sure that he is taken down a notch for it.

So Obama invites the two men to the White House for a beer. The country reacts with mild derision — but the attacks begin to fade. The issue is neutralized.

See what’s going on here? White man does something unfair to black man. Black man protests that this was unfair. White man’s sensibilities are offended at the accusation that he could ever be An Unfair-ist, makes this into an argument about whether or not he is a Good Man (being unfair would necessitate that he is a Bad Man). All his friends know that he is, in fact, a Good Man, and they stand up to say as much. Black man looks around, realizes that the numbers are not on his side. That everyone has ignored the unfair way he was treated, and his family and friends have been treated throughout history. That there is unrest among them, and he may face very real consequences if he presses the issue any further.

So the black man backs down. Makes conciliatory noises. To soothe the white man’s feelings. So that the white man won’t cause him any more trouble.

What was this beer summit about? Did Obama really think he was going to solve the issue of racial profiling and police officers behaving unethically by inviting two men out for a beer? Of course he didn’t. That wasn’t the purpose.

The purpose was to get the offended white man (and his white friends) to shut up and stop causing the black men trouble.

And I don’t blame him.

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Quick, think of a disease or condition that affects only men and is considered by a large portion of the population to be fake, created by the pharmaceutical industry, or psychosomatic.  *Sound of crickets.*

An excellent look at the gendered construction of medical conditions at the Women’s Sports Blog.

Most of the language about credulous patients being duped by Big Pharma is directed at women and conditions they suffer from disproportionately.  Women are, after all, emotional and have the ability to create amazing physical symptoms solely from their minds.  At the same time, women’s bodies are considered to be in a constant state of abnormality relative to men’s bodies.  The word ‘hysteria’ is etymologically related to the Latin word for uterus, which was long considered to be the site of women’s mental health problems, and hence its removal is called a hysterectomy [...]

‘Just get out and exercise’ or ‘just change your diet’ is fairly lousy advice for anyone who hasn’t been able to get out of bed. But as a society we still maintain the illusion that changes in hormones, brain chemistry, or the like are failures of self-control or willpower.

She also discusses the disproportionate burden laid on mothers of disabled children. Read the whole thing.

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You thought I was going to forget, didn’t you?

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.

Around the corner, about a quarter mile down the street, there is a small plot of land across from the rows of public housing, next to the community center. It was just untended grass until several months ago, in the springtime, when small squares were outlined with wooden planks, and the ground inside filled with soil. Then the shed was built, and the fence was put up.

Welcome to the neighborhood garden.

Community gardens are a great way to make use of space — to grow your own vegetables, herbs and so forth — to feed your family, save some money — and to develop a connection with the lad you live on — to have a hand in creation, nature, sustenance.

I was across from the fields, growing up, but in a different way. Most of my elementary classmates were children of undocumented field workers. The food that makes it onto your plate by way of your local supermarket has a good chance of being tended and harvested by these families.

They were not picking grapes and lemons and walnuts for pleasure, for self-realization. They were not feeding their families with this food. Their work was for the rest of the world.

They were connected with the earth, for sure. But it was not quite the same connection as that developed by participants in community gardens.

Many of these gardens serve underprivileged, disadvantaged communities — as this one — who are struggling to keep their families well fed and provided for. But it strikes me every time I sit to think about it: these two different ways of relating to nature are both borne of hardship, of poverty. They are connections forged by the reality of subsistence. They operate in different ways, with different results, but they grow from the same root.

I smile whenever I pass this garden. It is thriving, providing nutrition for poor families and a bright site of beauty in the middle of a run-down area.

But I wonder whether we could ever come up with a more holistic way of dealing with these issues. One which does not leave some families chained to the earth in the reality of capitalistic agriculture, and others disconnected from it in the reality of modernity and urbanism.

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

[I am having with the WordPress backend and cannot paste the full post here. Once I get WP upgraded I'll put the post here as well. Visit Feministe to see the post for now.]

I took the kitties in for their yearly vaccinations this week. Buddy needs to be vaccinated because his immune system is compromised; Mitsy needs to be vaccinated so that she doesn’t catch the virus from her brother. So I always get nervous around this time of year. (You can read their story from last year.)

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.)