Andrea Mulder-Slater

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Several weeks ago, I received a letter of request from an organization, written by me, sent to me, yet signed by someone else. My words, my writing style, my heartfelt pleas were all there - in black on white. They were staring at me. Taunting me. As if to say, “Look, I’m sorry. You gave us up sweetheart, and so now we belong to someone else. Someone with better hair than you.” You know that feeling you get when you think you’ve lost your keys and so you look around the house frantically until you finally give up and make yourself a cup of coffee only to realize, once you’ve sat down to drink your brew, that you don’t have any coffee cream in the house and worse yet, you still haven’t found your damn keys and so you get up to look again and by the time you find them a full hour later you feel like a perspiration-drenched fool because your keys were in the bottom of your purse the entire freaking time? Yeah, that’s how that letter made me feel. Irritate...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater It was the first time Geoff and I had ever stayed in such luxurious surroundings. Ornate furnishings, a marble sink and endless lengths of cascading fabric filled our Paris hotel suite. Of particular note were the plush velvet curtains that reached clear up to the 14-foot ceilings. After our first full day of sightseeing, we were eager to get some sleep. We tucked ourselves under the blankets and turned off the bedside lamps only to find the room still flooded with light. We must have missed a switch, I thought while getting up to find it. Then I realized… the light was coming from outside our room. As it turned out, we were positioned at the precise location of the hotel sign, which was awash with intense, white light. It was so bright; we could have performed open-heart surgery (had we the tools, knowledge or patient). “It is the city of lights,” Geoff joked. I was not amused. Because he knows me well, Geoff pro...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Because not everyone enjoys impromptu discussions about poop, our local coffee shop features a not-so-secret upstairs room where mothers of toddlers congregate to have conversations punctuated by phrases like, “What happened to your other shoe?”, " How long has that worm been in your pocket? " and "Can you please take that dolphin out of your brother's ear?" without disturbing the street-level caffeine imbibers below. The other day, after a chance meeting on the sidewalk, my friend Sharon and I made tracks to “the room” to swig copious amounts of coffee while our kids ate giant ginger cookies. Two seconds in, our children asked if we had any toys. You think they would know us better by now. The only remotely kid-friendly items in my purse were a marble, two Band-Aids, a hotel pen and a miniature Spirograph toy that can only be operated by someone with Barbie doll sized hands. So, you know, I’ve given up on any aspirations of beco...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater The arrival of a new Sears catalog is usually loads of fun at our house. We all love looking at all the items we don't need, at prices we can't pass up. But this catalog was different from others we've received in the past. For one thing, the models appear as though they are dead. Or rather, undead. Which begs the question... WTF Sears? Am I wrong? I'm not wrong. Be afraid. Be very afraid. No, really.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater While cleaning out my purse this morning, I found the usual items... Receipts, tissues, wipes, marbles, one sock, a mystery toy from a Kinder Surprise egg and other assorted bits of stuff were mingling amongst the spare change and raisin box escapees. Then, I discovered a small plastic bubble - a forgotten gumball machine acquisition, the contents of which had remained unknown. Until today. I’ll admit it. I regularly fall prey to the lure of gumball machine booty and I’ve passed my  penchant on to my 3-year-old daughter. I blame my mother. Time and again she and I have dropped quarters into the colorful contraptions at the supermarket in the hopes of obtaining a hacky sack, a glow ring or a tiny porcelain mug emblazoned with the face of an ex-President. Instead, we typically end up with plastic mummies, temporary tattoos or little alien figurines playing soccer - all of which delight my daughter to no end. However, inside the forgotten plastic b...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater This morning, I asked my 3 year old daughter what she would like for breakfast. It's a pretty safe bet since her response is usually "Goldilocks porridge" (oat bran with cinnamon) or "ice cream" (healthy homemade version made with banana, avocado, fruit and rice milk). But today, she hit me with something entirely new. Her request was (get ready for it), "Squash miracle garden yuck." Now, I don't know about you, but I don't have an effing clue what squash miracle garden yuck is. Nor do I have any idea where she might have heard of such a delicacy. Is this kid sneaking out to roadside diners while I'm on Twitter sleeping? Perhaps Max & Ruby have been cooking on Netflix again. Why not? They've got no parents to feed them. Either way, I was up for the challenge. And so, I served up this delectable treat. Squash miracle garden yuck I scooped some leftover butternut squash into a glass. It mig...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater From time to time, Geoff disappears on his mountain bike and heads off somewhere -  into the wilderness. I used to worry but now, truthfully? Meh. Nine lives. Maybe even ten. Meanwhile, the major highway near us has been under construction for the summer. It's being twinned. Y'know to help folks who are passing through our province get out a little bit safer. And quicker. We're coming Nova Scotia! Ready the highland dancers and save us some scallops! This highway business has put a damper on Geoff's exploration. Where once he was able to just "hop across" the road, has been barricaded with a long stretch of deer fence. Not that the engineers haven't planned this project out exceptionally well. They have. There are gates, leading to tunnels and pathways - all designed to let Bambi and his mother (and, I suspect - ATVs) travel safely. I think they may have even pumped in some ambient moose music. It's like freakin' Disne...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater By now, you probably know how I feel about chickens. If not, let me remind you. I don't like them. They freak me out. So you can imagine my horror when I came across this. movoto.com It's a game created by a real estate blog in which you can calculate how many goats, sheep, guinea pigs, cows or ( shudder ) chickens it would take to keep your yard  manicured. And covered in crap. Now that we've moved to the country, we have somewhere in the neighborhood of 7 acres of land. That's a lot of mowing. Assuming we had grass. At some point -  once we've been out here a few years, removed from society as we know it, living like recluses, growing our own food and braiding each others hair while wearing orange jumpsuits - we might in fact turn to the animals for help. Mostly because by that time, no one else will be brave enough to come near us. I had to try it. I selected chickens. Of course I did: I entered my acreage: And was ...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I was sitting at the downtown art studio, on one of the comfy Adirondack chairs. The sun was low in the sky - the day drawing to a close.  I had dragged the chair to the side of the studio, so it faced the ocean. And, as it had been a rather warm day, a large bottle of Evian water was sitting on the ground next to me. As I contemplated whether or not to lock up a little early, a man wandered around the corner.  He glanced at me - several times - before gazing out on the view. Then he turned around, looked me up and down and asked if I would be okay with him taking a few photographs.  Here's what I thought: "Photos? Of me? I'm being discovered! This is just like in the movies!" Here's what I said: "Sure, okay." "I'll be back in a bit with my equipment," he said, "I hope you don't mind waiting." As soon as he disappeared from sight, I headed for the washroom to make sure I h...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater We went to a classical music event held at a community college this past weekend. No sooner were we in the door and someone had to pee. It might have been me. I left the 3 year old with Geoff and headed to the restroom. There were three stalls. The door on the left had an Out of Order sign taped to it and the stall on the right was wheelchair accessible - so I walked to the middle door, grabbed hold of the top edge and pulled. It was locked. "Oh, I'm sorry." I said, backing up. There was no response. I glanced under the door - because that's always my first instinct in a public restroom. I think it might be an inappropriate reflex. I saw no evidence of a shadow, so I assumed that it too was out of order. Either that or some college kid had locked it up and crawled out as a joke. I briefly wondered if I might fit under the metal partition - mostly because I’m weird like that. Instead I went behind door number three. Literally. Af...

  Seen on the parking lot while waiting for our car to be repaired. Must be the practice car. Daily Snap - 07.10.12 | by Andrea Mulder-Slater

Lately, the 3 year old has been worried about getting bigger --- as in: "If I get bigger, I won't be able to sit on my dad anymore." Stay small kiddo. Daily Snap - 07.09.12 | by Andrea Mulder-Slater

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 ...