Andrea Mulder-Slater

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I first saw the word babymoon printed in a guilty-pleasure - trashy magazine - along with photographs of a bikini-clad celebrity gallivanting in the sand during a pre-labor getaway with her pelvic affiliate and her diminutive ankles. It's kind of hard to ignore the concept, what with circulars like this shoved in every other newspaper.    But here's the thing. The babymoon trend has me feeling completely unconvinced. I’ll be honest here. When I was pregnant, the furthest thing from my mind was cherishing together time while experiencing a romantic fling on the beach - or anywhere for that matter. Reason being,  I was far too busy working out the logistics of ejecting a small-but-mighty organism through a part of my body I hadn’t been able to get a clear visual on for months. Between my ever-expanding feet, my wildly indiscreet chest and my puffy reality-television-star pout, I was more concerned with just trying to appear human while...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Yesterday I called my local Walmart store to see if it was open. Walmart is always open, just like gas stations, amazon.com and that guy named Slippy who sells acetaminophen at cost. Still, I felt the need to call because I am philosophically skeptical. Unlike Slippy. I held the phone to my ear. There was no ring – only some muffled noises somewhat reminiscent of the sound a cocker spaniel makes when he licks a goldfish. I’m only guessing here. As so often happens to me, I was dialing out, while - at the exact moment -  someone else was doing the same. Only, the man on the other end was not aware of this phenomenon and instead thought I was his wife. Or God. Whichever. I on the other hand, grew up in the country - with a party line - so hearing confused strangers on my telephone line is nothing new to me. ME : Hello? Is anyone there? Voice : Margaret? Is that you? ME : Are you at Walmart? Voice : How did you know I was at Walmart? ME : ...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater My husband and I were in London, waiting to board the Eurostar train to Paris. We were happy to sit - after making it through customs - and with the pause had a chance to scan our travel mates. Some were sleeping. Others were reading newspapers. A few were deep in conversation with imaginary cats. One gentleman in particular was doing all three at once. My husband offered to get me a snack in an effort to help ease my fears of traveling deep beneath the English Channel with potentially delusional companions. He returned within seconds. "Show me our tickets," he hissed. " Why?" I questioned, " Are we at the wrong station? Did we come on the wrong day? Are we going to train jail?" " Just show them to me, will ya?" I did, and from there, our trip took an exciting turn. We had First Class tickets, which meant we would be fed during our journey and possibly secluded from the masses. Wh...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater The telephone rang. Geoff picked it up... Geoff : Hello. Caller : Yes, hello. My name is Steve. I am calling to you to let you know your computer is broken. Geoff : That's amazing . Caller : Yes. We have scanned your computer. It is full of viruses. I will help you remove the viruses. Geoff : (silence) Caller : Sir? Hello ? Geoff : What is this about again? Caller : Viruses. Geoff :  I'm not sick. Caller : Your computer sir. Your computer is full of viruses. Geoff : That's impossible. Caller : But, we have done a scan on your computer. Geoff :  I don't have a computer. Caller : You don't have a computer? Geoff : No. Caller : But, everyone has a computer. Geoff : I don't. Caller : (silence) Geoff : I have a tractor. Caller : (stunned silence) Geoff : My tractor is broken. Maybe you could help me fix it. Caller : I. Um. I'm not sure I understand what you... Geoff : It's the front tir...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I've been stockpiling the funny stuff in my head, but in the meantime, have a peek at my latest post for Today's Parent magazine. It's all about creativity folks... http://www.todaysparent.com/free-toys  No, really.

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 ...