Andrea Mulder-Slater

by Andrea Mulder-Slater When I was younger, I had a moderately effective way of managing my anxiety. I would find a nice cozy spot, smoke a few Matinee Extra Mild ® Menthols, lie down and have a nap. Then, my high school principal would barge into the second floor girl’s washroom trying to find out who set off the sprinkler system again. Like he didn’t already know. Through the years, I have developed different ways of coping. For one thing, I haven’t smoked a cigarette since September 7, 1990. At 9:57am. Also, my 4-year-old daughter has tracking skills far superior to those of good old Mr. Nielsen. May he rest in peace. Unless he isn’t dead. In which case... awkward. Since becoming a mother, my bathroom retreats typically end prematurely with me hiding in the corner (not so different from high school) while my daughter shouts “Maaaawwwwwwmm! Are you pooping?” as she successfully executes a MacGyver-worthy locksmith move involving pennies, butter knives and a handful of g

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Life is funny. As in, feet sometimes remind me of giraffes. Also, you never know where one hello will lead. Case in point... Several months ago, Geoff and I were contacted by a Hollywood producer-slash-art director-slash-clearance manager. He was looking for talent and had heard about Geoff's line paintings from a friend of a friend of a friend. You get the idea. One email led to several Google searches, which led to a few phone calls, which led to a pile of paperwork, which eventually led to this: And this... Four paintings (three of mine, one of Geoff's) were shipped off to Hollywood last week, in the hopes that they will be chosen and used as background decoration on film or television sets. Another of Geoff's paintings is scheduled to leave next week. I know, right?! I'm super stoked. Which is Hollywood-speak for excited. And, by the way, if - while you are flipping through channels, or sitting in a popcorn scented

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Geoff, the 4 year old and I were sitting in the car, waiting in the parking lot,  while Jantje shopped for snow pants in the store. The air outside was cold. I knew this because my window was down – so I could get a better view of the moonrise. I glanced back at my daughter who was busy tracing virtual letters with her fingers. “Can I have the ipod?” I asked. “ Sure ,” my little one chirped as she handed me the first real handheld smart device our family has ever owned. Well, the second, if you count the painfully large electronic organizer I carted around with me in my twenties. It was black, had lots of tiny buttons (despite it’s gargantuan size) and had just enough memory to hold four, maybe five addresses. Six if you left out the postal codes. It was the perfect match for my Motorola bag phone – you know, the one with the curly cord.   It was the 90s. I was awesome. Obviously. As I took a few photos of the bright yellow ball hanging low in the