Andrea Mulder-Slater

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 have a new friend. You may have met her. In fact, if you’re a woman hurtling through her 40s, then I can pretty much guarantee the two of you have crossed paths - at least once. For me, the first time we encountered one another was at the bookstore. In the children’s section. On a Tuesday. She was wearing a pink feather boa and she flipped her hair in a carefree way as she manically pointed out a young mother with her nursing newborn, cuddling together in the teacup chair. Then, she elbowed me - hard - in the left boob. Not long after, I ran into my new friend at the grocery store. Within minutes, she convinced me I was freezing to death and sent me running to the car to lay down on the seat heaters. From the day my friend and I first met, she has given me nothing but grief. And facial hair. Problem is, I can’t just shake her. She's worse than glitter. My friend is a powerful dame and her omnipotence is enough to give me heart palpitat...

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 had a “ What Not to Wear Moment ” the other day. As with most of these moments, I was convinced I looked remarkable – until a nasty flash of self-awareness hit and I realized I did look remarkable, but in a train wreck kind of way. The clasp on my nursing bra let go while I was placing a bag of heavy groceries in the back of my car. (There may or may not have been a watermelon involved.) Fortunately, my maternity t-shirt was snug enough to conceal my runaway boob, affording me the ability to discreetly clip myself back in place before grabbing a bag of chips and acknowledging the cigar smoking gentleman in the pickup truck next to me. Here’s what’s wrong with the previous paragraph. I stopped nursing my daughter more than a year ago and… I’m NOT pregnant. To make matters worse, the jeans I was wearing did not have a zipper and could easily be worn by someone in their second trimester. You know how some women (celebrities and other freaks of nat...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater “Is anyone coming from your side?” Jan and I were heading to the home improvement store to pick up something for Geoff. At a stop sign, I checked to see if anyone was about to drive into us. It was all clear and so I responded with the words, “No answer.” The puzzled look on my mother’s face wasn’t anything I hadn’t already seen before. What I had meant to say was that it was all clear… that no one was coming. Instead my response was better suited for making a telephone call, than checking on traffic. I had a good excuse. I was tired – as usual. We all were. This house building stuff was taking its toil. Partway to our destination, a screech came from the backseat. “Eeeeeek! A fly!” A housefly had hitched a ride and buzzed above my daughter’s head, before disappearing into the large bag of garbage sitting in the back. Prior to leaving the house, we had stuffed the stinky sack in the car, fully intending to stop – three seconds...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater A quick peek at my blog statistics this morning revealed the real reason I've been receiving so many emails from Russia, addressed to сексуальная женщина * . Meanwhile, I thought about including a photo of a Russian sex doll race featuring air-filled women, (a couple of plastic men) and one anatomically incorrect crocodile. But instead, I thought this might be more appropriate - y'know, for viewing at work.  http://www.funnyordie.com/pictures/58a722fbfe/russian-dolls  You're welcome. And by the way, no one is stopping you from Googling Russian sex doll race. You know you want to. * Sexy lady. No, really.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater For those of you who don't know, I am an artist. No, really. I am. I make art. I even went to school to learn how to do it. Make art I mean. Paintings, sculptures, that sort of thing. Not that I have been doing it lately. Making art I mean. Mostly because my workspace for the past several months has consisted of a 4" square area on the corner of a dining room table - right beside my computer - in the most dimly lit room on the planet. How's that for an excuse? But that's not the point. The point is, I have a Facebook page and on that page I have made a pledge. As soon as I reach 100 fans, I will give away - at random - an original work of art. Might be big. Might be small. But either way, it will be one of a kind. So - if you've got some time (and a FB account) head on over to http://www.facebook.com/andreamulderslater and click on the little "Like" button. It will make both of us feel better. And really, who doesn't want to...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater We are moving soon and so, the cleanup has begun. As I was sorting through some of my daughter's toys yesterday, I came across one I had forgotten about. It was covered in dust bunnies - after having lived under the bed for quite some time - but it still looked perky as ever... Geoff, Jan, the littlest one and I were at a train station somewhere in The Netherlands, waiting for the next ride to Assen, where we were heading to visit the house where my father spent his early childhood. My d aughter wasn't yet two years old and this was to be the first train ride of her life (well, the second - if you count the trip from the airport to our rental home - but that was after an eight hour red eye flight and at that point, she thought we were all sitting on a fast moving sofa). For our daylong excursion, we had snacks, stickers and paper, her “baby” and her “lowdee.”  Still, to help keep my little girl occupied, I thought I might grab a little...

Once upon a time, a guy named Ben and his friend Paul had an idea. They thought it would be phenomenal if there was a place where people could create and share virtual catalogs or bulletin boards of things they like, with strangers. From that thought, came a little social networking website called Pinterest . It's like a birth story, only with a lot less goo. Trouble is - not everyone "gets it". At least not at first  - as evidenced by a Facebook conversation that I recently witnessed on my ticker. Some of the chit chat has been altered and the names have been changed to characters from The Mary Tyler Moore Show - for the sake of privacy. Other than that, this is all is mostly true. Sort of. Rhoda :   Um, wtf is Pinterest? Phyllis :  I'll send you an invite. You will love it. Mary :  It's highly addictive. omg.  Ha. Ha. Ha. No. Seriously. Phyllis : Yeah. I totally forgot to mention that. Okay, invite sent. Sue Ann : I can't stop doing it!...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater When I was a kid, it was a family tradition to pick up the national newspaper on Saturday, find the Dave Barry column, sit down with a giant cup of acidic coffee and listen to my dad read the words that made him laugh so hard his eyes would fill with tears. My entire family (all three of us) loved Dave from the time we discovered a little piece he wrote entitled "How to Build a Board", or something like that. It was in the back of Popular Woodworking or Popular Mechanics or Popular Science or some other popular  magazine. The column talked about how best to construct a plank of wood so it would be useful for killing spiders. The color of the wood stain was key. What occurred to me, is the awesomeness of what I'm about to share with you. Last year, as part of my ongoing commitment to take on projects that help everyone in the world except me, I organized a fundraiser for our local arts centre. I called it " Guess Who ". It wa...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Geoff was up well before daylight today. The basement floor was poured at the new house two nights ago, and warmth from the fireplace heat dump is required to help it set up. So he drove out to put another bunch of logs on the fire. For the record, I dislike the word "dump" immensely. Growing up, "dump" had a very specific meaning and I can't shake the connotation. I'm immature like that. It's like when kids hear the words "shuttlecock" or "Bangkok" or "crap". See what I mean? I heard the outside door close, just barely, when Geoff returned home. I think my Montana Moose threats are working because lately, he has passed the stealth test again and again. I however, need a refresher course.   I got up to share a coffee with Geoff. Well, we weren't really going to share the same coffee. There was plenty for both of us. Plus, he drinks his coffee black and I take cream. In any case, he was s...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater My daughter is crazy about tiny plastic toys. It’s an obsession that began just after she turned 2 years old. I blame the owners of Sundog Books in Seaside, Florida for getting her hooked. That’s where she first saw them... a large round basket full of 'em. We're talking a massive collection of dogs, cats, birds, snakes, bees and beyond - designed to keep the kids occupied, so parents can stand around pretending to read Noam Chomsky books. For those who don't know, Seaside is a beautiful, but exclusive place with lots of expensive people running around. How we made it past the imaginary gates, is still a mystery (to the guards). In any case, from that day on, we’ve fed the girl’s habit by purchasing a crap load of fake creatures. Sometimes, she takes baths with them. And sometimes, they become part of her nana’s sculptures.  Like this one which I like to call, " Frog. Dog. Love ". Last year, someone bought her a set of plastic din...

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 Something dreadful happened to me in bed this morning.  I woke up, turned over and stretched – like I always do. That’s when it occurred… A pain shot from my right ear, down my neck and straight through to my shoulder blade. Even now, after having downed a painkiller (or two), I still can’t turn my head more than an inch, or look down at my feet without excruciating twinges of epic proportions. It’s the latest in a series of events, which have led me to believe that I might be getting older. Last month, I turned the age that Meg Ryan's character was dreading in When Harry Met Sally . To celebrate my big day, the family and I went to the city for a hair appointment, a lunch and a visit to the bookstore. Geoff took the girl to go and ride an escalator, while at the salon, Jan and I waited our turns. My stylist - busy with another client – glanced over at me and called his assistant over. I couldn't help but overhear their conversation. My...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I tend to rant on about a variety of topics. I'm not sure at this point how many of you care but according to my reader stats, I am big in Mexico... and Latvia. Olé! I'd include an appropriate Latvian phrase here but the only one I know is suudu ruukis which, I've come to learn, means "poo dwarf" when translated, and that's just not relevant at all. Never mind.  The important thing is that to help fuel my ranting habit, I have some Google ads on my blog in the hopes that I will one day build up enough spare change to be able to buy myself a cup of coffee - maybe even a latte. But, here's the thing. Google is smart and their ads are clever too -- which is why words like this appear next to my posts.  This makes me laugh but also feel a little bit squirmy. It's like high school all over again, "Hi, my name is Andrea, nice to meet you. I've got household bugs, filthy teeth and a flying insect issue. Wann...