Andrea Mulder-Slater

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Dear Immune System, I’m sorry to have to write you this letter. It’s Andrea. Your partner - or landlady - whichever designation makes you happy. Because, immune system, I do want you to be happy. Really, truly deep-in-the-gut happy. This is why for years, I’ve guzzled a green drink. Every. Single. Morning. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you that - if given the choice - I would select chocolate covered coffee beans and Doritos for breakfast over liquefied spinach, celery and cucumber (let’s not forget the flax seed). Liquefied vegetables. That’s how much I care about you. And, nothing says I love you like yogurt. Real yogurt. You know, the homemade 24 hour stuff. You do realize that we’re talking about fermented milk, right? FERMENTED. I don’t think I need to bring up the vitamin pills. Or the sleep. Or the exercise. Or the kelp . I did it all for you. Up to now, we’ve had a pretty good relationship. I gave you the best I had and y

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I was a weird kid. I liked my parents. Although, things did get iffy when I was thirteen and both of them went through a non-stop polyester-pants-wearing phase. But I liked them before that. And after, you know, once they were introduced to denim. When I was in my early twenties, I declared that even if I weren’t related to my mom and dad, I’d still choose to hang out with them. I didn’t find out until years later that this statement made my father so proud, he shared it with damn near everyone he met. It’s been four years since my dad passed away . Unexpected loss. Four years of sliding headfirst into a new normal. Four years of mom, Geoff and I getting used to it. My dad was a tall, handsome, witty and thoughtful man who made an instant impact on everyone he met. He was a teacher – not by trade, but by behavior. He always seemed as though he would have been right at home in ancient Greece, wearing robes and flip-flops as he engaged in discussions wit

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Geoff and I were passing through the safe streets of a small town near the rural area where we live. That’s when it hit me. “If we lived in Los Angeles, we’d be dead by now.”  Geoff nodded at me from his position in the driver’s seat. He knew immediately what I was talking about. “Or we’d be kidnapped.” I continued, “Or someone would be plotting an invasion of our house. At the very least we’d have a dead body in the trunk.”  Geoff laughed. “If we lived in LA, I’d be the dead body in the trunk – and - I’d still be driving.” Here’s the thing. We’ve been watching a lot of back-to-back crime dramas on Netflix , the majority of which are set in LA. And, if our calculations are correct – going by the approximately 13,214 minutes of footage we’ve seen over the past several months – there are only 4 people still breathing in the city of angels... and two of them are buried alive. In North Hollywood. Another one bites the dust. Meanwhile, don’t ev