Andrea Mulder-Slater

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 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.

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.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater “Girls have balls. They’re just a little higher up, that’s all.”  ~Joan Jett  My husband and I don’t often talk about his boy bits but when we do, I’m usually throwing out questions like, “Hey, do those ever fall out of your underwear” , “How do you fit everything inside your pants?” and, “Can you please put that stuff away now?” I mean come on; those things aren’t cute. You know I’m right. Still, I feel for the men, I really do. It can’t be easy, walking around with all that junk. When I asked my guy what it’s like having a set of testicles, he said, “It’s like having pocket watches permanently attached to your crotch.”

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 I watched the numbers on the dashboard clock change... 12:40pm, 12:41pm, 12:42pm. I was already officially late and was still at least 10 minutes away from my destination at the local hospital. My mind began to sprint, along with my heart. Why did I leave at 12:20pm when I know it takes at least half an hour to get to the hospital? Why did I agree to an appointment with a cardiologist? Is it possible for my heart to beat right out of my chest? Is this what a heart attack feels like? Will the painfully slow driver ahead of me notice when I slump over my wheel? I smell licorice. Calm down, calm down, calm down…  Arriving 10 minutes late for my first ever meeting with a heart specialist, I was told by the nurse behind the counter to head to radiology and get an EKG before coming back to the waiting room. There were at least four people ahead of me all staring at the Closed For Lunch sign. Like me, everyone in the queue was there to see the cardiologi...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Since hitting my thirties forties, my body has gone a wee bit haywire, thanks to a combination of hormonal skirmishes and sour cream and onion potato chips. To give you an idea, earlier this year I watched a tiny freckle on my collarbone inflate into a horrific skin balloon worthy of its own after school special. Circa 1983. It was enough to land me an audience with a dermatologist, but not until two months later. The timing turned out to be less than perfect because as it happened, my ghastly growth heroically absconded from my neck exactly one week before my appointment. It’s like my body isn't even trying to be normal. Still, I kept my meeting, mostly because I wanted to make sure the rest of my beauty marks weren’t plotting a mutiny, but also because I thought I might be able to talk the good doctor into removing a bothersome bump located just below my left eye, which had been eliciting far too many “here let me get that smudge off of you” ...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater My television is state of the art. Circa 2001. It weighs somewhere in the neighborhood of 100 pounds and has a built in DVD player and a VCR. That’s V ideo C assette R ecorder for those of you born after Charles in Charge was taken off the air. I miss you Buddy. Needless to say, not a lot of TV is watched in our house. It wasn’t always this way, but a few years ago we terminated what had been a long and arduous relationship with our satellite TV provider. It had become a costly alliance and once we discovered that we were spending as much per month on the goggle-box, as it costs to import a unicorn from France, we made the decision to pull the plug on the liaison. The breakup with our entertainment pusher was messy and involved a lot of late-night, long-distance phone calls, tears and heavy breathing. They were upset too. We’ve since filled the gap with three semi-local channels. Also, a Netflix account. As a result, the 5-year old is so u...

by: Andrea Mulder-Slater I’m fairly certain getting healthy shouldn’t make you feel sick. Then again, I’m no medical expert - though I do read the Google News Health headlines faithfully, which – as a rule - is not conducive to getting a good night’s sleep, what with all the bulletins about procreating superbugs, medical mix-ups and bacon condoms. Seriously. Look it up. Still, all of my late-night reading brings me closer to the truth. And the truth is, I’m a health failure. Case in point: Omega 3 fatty acids. Apparently, according to medical experts, I am not getting enough of them in my diet. This means I will become sick and die but not before my nails become brittle, my hair turns to straw and I become overly anxious. It may be too late. Appealing, no? In an effort to stay alive – and supple - I decided to take matters into my own hands. However, after contemplating the prospect of eating salmon every day, I developed an alternative step-by-step plan. ...

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 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 So I was sorting through some boxes today and came across one of my mom's old go-to guides. The book is called "Your Freezer and You" and it contains tips and suggestions on how to properly handle and freeze your groceries. It was written in 1974, which might explain the publisher’s cavalier approach to food safety. I mean, just look at the cover. Do you notice anything - oh, I don't know - unsafe? Here's a hint, or two... Muffins and apples are touching a piece of RAW STEAK. And, oh hey. Look at the loaf of bread situated on top of a BLOODY ROAST. And what is that round thing under the strawberries? Shrimp pie? Please let it be apple. Nevermind. Whatever it is, it's in contact with the uncooked meat too. Of course - as Jantje pointed out - this book was printed during the days when folks didn't think twice about sticking raw ground beef in their mouths to see if more spices were needed for the burgers. Raw eggs we...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater “I think I broke my ankle.” The words slipped out of my mouth almost as fast as I had fallen down the stairs. Here’s the thing. When I walk down a set of steps, if I don’t suppress the urge, I flap my arms – not so much like a bird… more like an excited toddler, or a 1960s housewife who has just spotted a mouse. It’s neither a safe (nor particularly effective) habit. It’s a genetic flaw. My mother does it too. And so, as I raced from upstairs to down with an oscillating fan in one hand and nothing in the other (flap, flap) I didn’t stand a chance when my flip-flop festooned foot slipped tidily off the second last step.  Sitting at the base of the staircase, I could hear the voices of my family members somewhere off in the distance. Geoff was chatting with a delivery driver about the death of Andy Griffith while Jan was trying to convince the 3 year old to “set that damn frog free.” “Hello. Anyone. My foot just went numb. Is that bad?” I thought ...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater It all began several mornings ago. Geoff (hopeful): “Are you winking at me?” Me (indignant): “I’m not winking at you. I just woke up. I’m half asleep.” Geoff (disappointed): “You’re eye is completely shut. Don’t you feel that?” I walked to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My left eye looked tired, bag-ridden and wrinkled. Perfectly normal. However, my right eye - up to my eyebrow and down to my cheek - was far more swollen than usual. Like a grapefruit. Or a puffer fish. My mind raced as I tried to determine why I looked like I had just lived through ten (okay two) rounds of a boxing match. Did I doze off on a wasp? Did I sleep-punch myself in the head? Really, anything was possible. I have a tendency to worry   fret   freak-the-hell-out and so, I decided to calm my fears by self-diagnosing with the help of the Internets. Because, only good things can come from Googling symptoms at six o’clock in the morning. Am I ri...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater My name is Andrea and I have small veins. Truthfully, tiny blood vessels aren’t much of an inconvenience when it comes to regular day-to-day living. However, they can be a real hindrance when your doctor is trying to determine your B-12 levels. Take it from me; having blood removed from your body when your veins are the size of an anorexic earthworm on a cleanse, is kind of like having your tongue shoved through a drinking straw – a bendy one. A few years ago, on a particularly dismal day at the lab, I went in for a routine CBC (otherwise know as a clumsy blood collection). Soon after I sat down, a nurse (we’ll call her Kathy Bates) made three failed attempts on my right arm before moving on to the left. It appeared as though she had made a successful poke until I realized only two minuscule beads of plasma had been sucked into the syringe. “ I think I went right through ,” she said nonchalantly, before withdrawing the needle and taki...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Lately, between the full moon , Tim Roth and the endless stream of creative thoughts and dark imaginings that regularly occupy my mind, sleeping has been near impossible. For more than a week I've been working on five or six hours at best - when I'm lucky. This wouldn't be an issue except for the fact that when I get less than eight to thirteen hours of rest a night , I become paranoid and obsessive... far more than usual. To be clear, it's not that I can't sleep. I just can't sleep at night - or, when it's appropriate to sleep. Case in point. We were driving back from the city (Jan and the 3 year old in the backseat, Geoff and I in the front,  a thousand pounds of  hardwood for the new house in the truck bed)  when I conked out - head titled back, mouth wide open - right in the middle of a conversation with Geoff - who was (fortunately) in the driver's seat. Could've been a far more eventful trip had our seating position...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater My dentist looks like a big screen film star. His teeth make a "ting" sound and light shoots out of his mouth when he smiles - just like in the movies. Okay, maybe I just imagined that last part. Either way, I prefer to see as little of my mouth doc as possible, after having fallen for the " Really, the Novocaine needle will hurt more than the procedure, so let's just skip it, shall we? " trick more than once. Yet, every six months I dutifully make the trek to his office and willingly subject myself to the torture of a teeth cleaning. It's a ritual my husband thinks is borderline masochistic and completely avoidable. He's convinced the dentist tried to kill him once (or twice). His solution? Just don't go. No, not my mouth - but you get the idea... Me : Today is teeth cleaning day. Geoff : That's nice. Me : Don't you feel sorry for me? Geoff : I have to lift and nail 4000 sheets of plywood onto the r...