Andrea Mulder-Slater

 by Andrea Mulder-Slater   The house was two stories high with big, boxy rooms, low pile carpet and very little furniture which meant our voices echoed every time any of us spoke.    There were what seemed like 10 bedrooms on the second floor, and in the basement was a barn full of animals, resulting in the entire house smelling of hay and horses.    It was our first night in the place and I was asleep, in a room on my own, when I heard and smelled what I thought was a goat at the foot of my bed.   

 by Andrea Mulder-Slater       Ten things I will not do.    1) Drink booze.   I once threw up on a security guard's foot at an outdoor concert. I was a teenager. Drinking just didn't hold any appeal after that.    2) Eat raw meat/fish.   Um, enough said.   3) Stop loving chocolate.   Dark chocolate is a source of iron so I'm basically harming myself if I don't eat it.  

by Andrea Mulder-Slater After she had spent several hours at the horse barn on a frosty December evening, I offered to make my daughter a hot chocolate to warm her up. Because she has food allergies, making a drink like this for my kiddo is a bit more complicated than simply pouring boiling water over a packet of Carnation instant mix. Instead, there’s a process which involves harvesting raw cocoa, sifting purified icing sugar and slow cooking organic milk all while burning sage and standing on one foot. Ok, well that’s not actually true. But, I do keep my daughter safe by mixing the right amounts of allergen-free sugar with allergen-free cocoa and allergen-free milk and bringing all of it to a boil in a pot on the stove. My point here is, once I’ve made a cup of hot chocolate, I need a nap. And a bag of chips.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I drove into town with my mom to do some banking.  Because it was after hours, the plan was to use the machine to deposit a cheque and withdraw $200 to pay a guy for doing some work on my husband's truck. It was a simple errand. I went through the doors and walked over to the machine. Holding a cheque in one hand, I reached for the deposit envelope with my other hand. Only, there were no envelopes.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater One morning when my daughter was 3, she and I were walking along the seashore at low tide, searching for what the waves had brought in. As we stepped carefully around the rocks - our rubber boots sinking into the squishy sand beneath our feet - we discovered seaweed, sand dollars, crabs, sea urchins, periwinkles and even a starfish or two. “Can we take them home? Pleeeease?”

by Andrea Mulder-Slater "Having that pool skimmer in there really complicates things." The plumber was bewildered, and he hadn’t yet discovered the paint roller extension pole. It had been 24 hours since I noticed a puddle in the basement. The source of the leak was unwelcome, but repairable, according to my husband because a trickle from the sewage cleanout pipe was nothing a plunger couldn’t fix. The plan was to remove the cap, eliminate whatever obstacle might be impeding the flow to the septic tank, replace the lid and carry on. A gentle twist was all it took. From there, it was like watching a WWII submarine movie with saltwater gushing through breached pipes, drenching the actors struggling to shut valves with nothing more than wrenches and dangerously good looks.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater My mother and I were sitting in the magazine lounge of a library we had never been in before. We were waiting for my daughter to learn how to play chess because when you homeschool, you enroll your kids in strategic board game workshops led by cheerful retirees. It’s in the handbook. Fifteen minutes in, I noticed a little black fluff on the water bottle wedged in the outer pocket of my backpack. I could have left it alone but my phone battery was dying so I was looking for something else to do.

By Andrea Mulder-Slater I was born with a full head of hair. I’m talking about the kind of tufts that would look right at home in an advertisement for baby hair gel... if babies used hair gel. Looking back, it’s entirely possible my penchant for hair product first began when – as a toddler – I styled my locks with oatmeal. By the time I could ride a bike, the only way to contain my mop was a tidy, at-home-mullet, courtesy of mom. Fortunately, as a kid, I had no real concept of what it meant to look good. In fact, rummaging through old family photographs, one might assume I grew up in a house without mirrors. Or reflective surfaces of any kind.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Minimalism is hard. And yet, it’s all the rage. I mean, everybody’s either doing it, or thinking about doing it. This includes dyed-in-the-wool hoarders, forward-thinking hamsters, and anyone who lives in a tiny house. Even I’ve ( almost) embraced the trend. For example, I know people who have watched Minimalism: A Documentary About the Important Things on Netflix and I own The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up . I’ve also held all of my belongings and waited for them to bring me joy. (And let me just say, Marie Kondo, that’s a lot of pressure to put on a pair of 99 cent socks rescued from the depths of the last chance sale bin at Old Navy.)

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Every once in a while, I lose my mind. And then, I buy glitter. I never know what will trigger the purchase. Sometimes it’s hearing a Depeche Mode song at the grocery store while I’m picking up string cheese. Other times it’s the absence of coffee cream in my refrigerator. Mostly, it’s nostalgia - or amnesia - brought on by lack of sleep. And Pinterest.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I grew up in the 1990s. Ok, I also grew up in the 1980s. The thing is — when I was a kid in the 1970s, money was tight and we didn't have a ton of extra cash available for buying store-bought treats. Cakes were reserved for birthdays (and were always homemade), ice cream was a once or twice a year delicacy and the closest I came to Popsicles were the delicious frozen chunks of apple juice nestled in our ice cube trays.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I love the online health food store because where else I can place an order for Vitamins B, C and D while lounging in yoga pants and eating chocolate - snapped into bite-sized pieces because fewer calories – without being judged by 25 year old yogis drinking beet juice behind the counter. These chips are organic Sasha. I'm hurting myself if I don't eat them. Then there are the random free samples offered at time of checkout. Once I received a minuscule tube, inside of which was just enough eye cream to moisturize my fingertips. Then there was the tiny bottle of zinc ointment, which - to this day - I still carry around in my purse. Not long ago, it was a trial size teeth-whitening system, including magic minty toothpaste. Because I’ve always been curious about people with glow-in-the-dark incisors, this freebie made me a little more excited than usual.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater When I was a kid, I broke my wrists. A few times. In fact, I was so good at collecting casts in the emergency room, I once fell and sprained my left wrist while my right arm was wrapped already in plaster. Falling off a chair, scratching my back while jumping into a pile of leaves and slipping on a pillowcase while running down a hallway are just three of the ways I wounded myself when I was between the ages of 5 and 7.

“Lemme out! Lemme out! Let. Me. OUT!!!”  My 6-year-old was shrieking as she madly fumbled with her seatbelt in a desperate attempt to flee the vehicle. She, my husband, mother and I, had just returned to our car, parked on a small town street. It was late - past 10pm - and the sounds of the post-symphony gathering we had just departed, covered the damp grass like a blanket. As my husband helped my daughter into her booster seat, my mother spotted something scuttling up one of the black sweaters I had elegantly draped over the front passenger seat headrest (in case of a late July flash-freeze). Because the flickering streetlight on the corner provided a less than satisfying glow, the only opportunities to see inside of the car, were during the brief moments when the doors were ajar. “There,” my mother urged, “A tail.”

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Dear feet, I’m sorry. I mean, here we are in Florida and there you are, completely and totally naked. But here’s the thing. I forgot your warm-weather shoes at home. In the closet. As you know, our exodus from the snow-ravaged north was rushed (what with the back-to-back storms heading our way) and as a result, so many things were left behind. My favourite black Capris, that cute sunhat I ordered online, the poolside read I had picked out specifically for this trip… All of it, forgotten. In the cold. So here we stand, on this gorgeous salty beach, next to my happily barefoot daughter. Exposed. 

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I opened the bottom - right hand - cupboard door to look for the colander because those olives weren’t going to rinse themselves. A hand mixer, several plastic bowls, an electric can opener and a package of millet (hastily placed after our arrival the night before) greeted my eyes with nary a colander in sight. I crouched down to get a closer look and as I peered into the darkness, something caught my attention. It was dark, it was brown and it was alive. At least, it used to be. My mom and I laid it on the stove top to get a closer look. This is Richard, the palmetto bug. Richard is was huge. May he (and his detached leg) rest in peace. It wasn’t the first time we’d encountered palmetto bugs while on vacation in the southern US and by the way Floridians, you can call them what you want but a cockroach is still cockroach.

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.

The product description read: Witness one of nature's most spectacular transformations - up close - with a reusable, collapsible habitat. Totally appealing, no? When I saw the live butterfly garden advertised online, I became restless. Against my better judgement, I knew I had to get one for my insect-obsessed 6 year old. I mean, the kit promised an easy-to-use feeder and complete instructions. And butterfly larvae with food shipped directly to my home. There was no way this wasn’t happening. Despite my aversion to having bugs in the house, I placed my order and – as is typical in my area – I requested it be shipped to a drop-off location on the USA side of the border so I could pop across, pick it up and bring the parcel home. Now before I continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear… I am a law-abiding citizen. For the most part. I drive below the speed limit. I almost always tell the supermarket cashier if she accidentally rings my apples in at the regul...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Yesterday, I went for a follow up visit with my optometrist, after something peculiar was discovered during an earlier appointment. Perhaps pure spun gold was found at the edge of my iris. Maybe I had a third pupil. Really I had no idea because I had asked exactly zero questions. Remarkably, I wasn’t the slightest bit concerned about my ocular oddity, which was completely out of character considering the fact that over the past year, I’ve been painstakingly working my way alphabetically through the medical community (cardiologist, dermatologist…) you know, just to “rule things out.” But, for some inexplicable reason, what can go wrong with my eyes is a question I had not yet asked Dr. Google. I arrived early for my 3:30pm appointment. This is what happened next. 3:25pm: Enter waiting room, sit down and grab home decorating magazine. Flip through pages of pristine kitchens with monstrous bowls of glossy lemons sitting on gleaming countertops while spe...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Earlier this year, I submitted an essay to Shannon Day ( Martinis & Motherhood ) and Tara Wilson ( Don't Lick the Deck ) of Tipsy Squirrel Press in hopes of it being selected for an upcoming anthology. Minutes ticked. Days passed. Months disappeared. Hope faded. And then... an email arrived letting me know that my submission had been chosen for inclusion in the WTF section of Martinis & Motherhood: Tales of Wonder, Woe and WTF? ! Needless to say, I'm f&%*#ing  excited beyond belief. And the more I find out about the unbelievable women I am going to be sharing pages with, the more I'm convinced that Shannon and Tara have made a huge mistake by inviting me to be part of the team. Not that I'm about to tell them. No, really.