This is a picture that will not be taken of Angela’s retirement. It is not a picture of her new apartment in Hamilton, with high ceilings, charismatic architecture, and refreshingly reasonable rent. It is not a picture of her travels, foreign and domestic, and all the adventures awaiting her. It is not a picture of time spent with friends and family, of thought-provoking film, or good books, or cups of Buckingham Palace blend tea.

And it is not a picture of Angela celebrating her 57th birthday next Wednesday.

Rest in peace, Angela Wilke.


This is a picture I did not take of a woman walking into PetsMart carrying her baby, who was cocooned in a pink snowsuit so heavily insulated that she resembled a stiff-limbed starfish, a la Maggie Simpson.

Next of kin

One reason I like going to the gym is that I zone out. Things I’ve been focusing on go away, stress takes a hike, etc. And it allows more interesting thoughts some fertile ground to germinate in.

In light, presumably, of Violet and Coffee’s amazing news, and my brother’s charming yet unblinking midget, I had a moment on the elliptical this evening where it occurred to me, at a very visceral level, that I don’t know a single person biologically connected to me. The fact that some exist, somewhere, was irrelevant.

I mean, I know this, always have done, and it’s not something that bothers me, but that moment was the strangest feeling. I felt kind of… disconnected. From everyone. Even Violet in her orphaned state is related to extended family, even if she rarely sees them. Even Sherry, who jokes about being adopted, such is her difference from her mother and the fact that she and her siblings look even less alike than my brother and I do. Even my brother knows both sides of his biological family (even if they are losers), and now has a 50% share of a splendid tiny human.

And then my next thought was that it would suck if I ever needed a bone marrow donor. What can I say, I like being organized. 🙂

It makes me wonder what the effect is on people like me if they ever have their own families. Mine. Mineminemine.

Perhaps that was my tiny glimpse into what drives infertile people to go through many levels of hell in the pursuit of their “own” child. Because before now I’ve mostly thought they were insane masochists.

Hump Day photos

Hey, guess what I just washed?

Anatole on the brown blanket

This is how Perimeter Institute looked this morning when I parked my car (around 7:45am).

Perimeter Institute with winter morning sun

What’s interesting is that the facade usually looks like this:

Perimeter Institute facade

And to anyone who says Seasonal Affective Disorder doesn’t exist, I say this:

dreary evening view from the office

The picture’s clear. The blue comes from it being nearly dark (around 4pm) and the murkiness comes from the fact that there was horizontal sleet falling at the time… Boo. Hiss.

This place is positively crawling with kiddies…

So prior to this year I had one kind-of niece. (Daughter of my brother’s best friend, aka his brother-from-another-mother.)

Then in August I got a real niece, courtesy of my brother and his girlfriend. (Still not genetically related to anybody — whatever.)

And now, I get… three nephews, courtesy of Violet and Coffee. Three cowboy nephews. Lordy. But huzzah for pursuing adoptions!

Much excitement and congrats all over the place. Let the fairy tale (with caveats…) begin. 🙂


I’ll kick yer ass, once.

That title is a bit of an inside joke. A cultural linguistic joke, even!

Anyway, I finally got around to watching the most recent UFC offering. All these months of snacking and violence and no one told me there’s a Mennonite in UFC?!

Oh yes, a Mennonite of Russian extraction from Winnipeg, no less. Delightful! (At least, that’s what I get from a dude named Doerksen from that fine city in Manitoba.)

One can only hope that he kicks gentile ass all the way to the top. 🙂