Showing posts from December, 2015

Morning Math: The Worst Math of the Day

by Andrea Mulder-Slater There were two lines at the Tim Hortons kiosk - one for those ordering bacon, bagels and specialty drinks - and another for the rest of us. As the young man behind the counter handed me my tea, I began digging through the giant expanse that is my purse. Gloves. Princess stickers. Altoids. Chocolate bar wrappers… I was one customer away from my place at the cash register when I remembered the leftover taxi fare change in my pocket. When I looked over the railing, I could see that it was turning into a busy morning in the hospital so I was glad to have arrived early. I was tired, but anxious to find out if my mom would be able to come home after a frightening 38 hours involving a blood transfusion. “One fifty-five, please.” The girl behind the counter watched my money land on the counter. She began to scoop it up and then, she stared at me.

Why are Dutch Moeders so Damn Happy?

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I'm a Dutch girl. And so, when my editor at The Yummy Mummy Club recently asked if I would share my feelings on a Washington Post article suggesting that my people (specifically Dutch moms) are the most relaxed in the world. I did, and here's how it went... I’m five years-old and I’m in a small a town in northeastern Netherlands, visiting family with my parents.  It’s late afternoon and some neighbourhood kids are riding bicycles on the paths that run beside my aunt’s house. I ask my uncle if he has any spare fietsen (bikes) in the schuur (shed) behind his garden. He does, but they are all too large, except for one that – if modified – should do the trick. He and my father make some adjustments while my mother and her sister enjoy a relaxing cup of tea. Moments later, I pedal past the house, sitting on a bed pillow strapped to the seat post of a too-large Dutch bike. You can read the rest (and I hope you do) at:  http://www.yummymummyclub.

You better watch out...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater When I was a teenager, I worked in a record store located in the downtown core of a rapidly growing city.  Beside the store was a run-down hotel where lived an assortment of characters – many of whom had an appreciation for Elvis Presley music and heavy metal t-shirts. I still remember the time an exotic dancer came in to purchase a Metallica shirt. She asked if she could try it on. We had no change room so I suggested instead that she buy it and return it if it wasn’t a good fit. Instead, she removed her sweater – the only piece of clothing separating her bare skin from the patrons in the crowded store - and proceeded to don the t-shirt. It fit – thank God, much to the dismay of several young boys who had been flipping through the vinyl. It wasn’t the last time I saw someone naked at the record store. One evening, a man in an oversize Santa suit came into the store. Not a completely unusual event – we usually saw several folks in