Andrea Mulder-Slater

by Andrea Mulder-Slater “I have a reservation.” I was at the front desk of the Fairfield Inn in Smithfield North Carolina – a welcome position after the day’s drive, which had taken us through states crippled by an early ice storm. “You are in room 106” , said the angelic young man behind the counter – who was most certainly fresh out of finishing school – courteous, well mannered and highly manicured. Sigh. The lobby was lovely, with soft colors and an accent wall behind the counter depicting tree limbs. Or a spider web. Or maybe capillaries. Photo: Fairfield Inn Either way, it was stylish and also hypnotic. I felt instantly in harmony with my guest services agent who - in the time it took to write down my license plate number - walked me through three of my past lives. Twice. Then the phone rang. Opposite to the check-in zone, was a seating area, plucked straight out of an episode of Mad Men, season 5. Very modish with a long low table, orange lounger, an...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater My time in art school seems like it happened an eternity ago. Mostly because it's been an eternity since I attended art school. I love to make art, but I also love to write and I find that the words don't ever seem to flow at the same time as the paint. To give you an example, it took me approximately 17 and a half minutes to write that last sentence. In other words, here's what I've been up to lately... Did you spot the disappearing (and reappearing) roof? Artists are magicians. No, really.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater When I'm writing, I'm not painting and when I'm painting, I'm not writing. I haven't been writing much lately...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater It’s approximately five years ago and you - feeling particularly blank and sweaty - are feeding your pudgy infant for the umpteenth time that day when, in an exhausted stupor, it occurs to you that you haven’t changed a poopy diaper in oh I don’t know, two - or maybe six - days. So you panic and immediately call the exclusively-breastfed baby help line at the hospital and the woman on the other end of the phone – who sounds inexplicably like your Aunt Trix – asks you if the baby seems happy. “Yes” , you reply, “I suppose so.” I mean, how are you supposed to know? You’ve never been in charge of a three-month-old before and sure she seems content. I mean, she eats constantly and sleeps whenever she wants, so yeah, she’s freaking ecstatic. Wouldn’t you be Aunt Trix? “Does her belly hurt?” No . “Is she passing wind?” Yes . “Is she curled up and writhing in pain?” No . You’re told that your child is not constipated and her bowel isn’t twisted and no, yo...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I was in the kitchen, baking a loaf of artisan bread, while clarifying butter and extruding rigatoni pasta from my noodle machine. Probably. Or, I might have just been drinking a glass of water. Ok so I was only sneaking a handful of chocolate chips but really that’s completely irrelevant to this story. I was in the kitchen. That’s when I saw it. Something small and wild was sitting on the deck, peering in through the sliding glass door. By the time I tiptoed over for a closer look, the long tube of white sped off in hot pursuit of a gust of wind and disappeared around the front of our garage. Me : Are rats white? Geoff : What? Me : Or maybe it was a ferret!? Jan : Maybe WHAT was a ferret? Me : The thing that was just on our porch. It was white and long and fast and… The 5 year old : Is it an animal? Can I keep it?!! Pleeeese?! Geoff : Maybe it was a mink. Me : There are no minks around here. Wait, are there minks around here??  ...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater For those of you following my crow adventure , you may be interested to know that Merle (or Haggard) is back. With a vengeance. We might need some more roadkill...   No, really.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater We were under attack again this morning, this time on Jan's end of the house. THUNK. Tap tap-tap-tap. THUNK. THUNK-THUNK-THUNK. Caw. Caw. Caw. Caw! It began innocuously enough last autumn, with one solitary, emotionally damaged crow hurling himself repeatedly against one of our basement windows. The stunt ended as soon as it began, and so we just chalked it up as one of those peculiar things that only happen to us. Like stalkers in a foreign land , blindness brought on by Omega-3 pills and turtles that move like roadrunners . Fast forward to the winter, when not one, but two crows began taking turns dive-bombing our double paned glass, at 5am. Not long after, I watched them case our house. That’s when I named them. Here’s the thing… Crows are smart. Really freaking smart. I know this because I’ve watched The Nature of Things. Crows can make tools. Tools! In addition, they have remarkable memories and possess the ability to recognize fa...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I'm presently working on a blog post that is borderline revolting. Not unlike my time in 9th grade. But before I share it with you, I thought I would share something completely unrelated I recently found while digging through old boxes. It's a poem I wrote for my dad's father, when I was 9 years old... and (evidently) enamored with poultry.  Which, now that I think about it, actually makes this poem marginally related to what I'm currently writing. But that's another story... Enjoy! No, really.

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 Happy New Year! I don't know about you but I had a pretty exciting 2013 filled with what those who run a lot refer to as "personal bests". For example, I ate a piece of candied sturgeon and didn't spit it out in my napkin. And, I successfully grew out my asymmetrical haircut, made a box of Turtles chocolates last longer than my previous record of two days and went without coffee for 16 hours. Also, my blog was nominated for a Canadian Weblog Award ! http://t.co/83Pa6hZ3ja from @amulderslater has been nominated in the 2013 @CanWeblogAwards ! — Can Weblog Awards (@CanWeblogAwards) October 27, 2013 That alone was pretty cool but then, I discovered I was shortlisted in the Humor category (along with some fantastically witty - and published - authors). Clearly, someone had made a mistake. When the winners were announced, I found out that my blog came in 4th place. Or possibly 5th. But as they say, it was an honor to even be ...

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 I’m the first to admit I’m not a perfect mother... I’ve fed my kid no name brand marshmallows. For breakfast. I’ve let her pee down the shower drain on the deck of an upscale hotel pool ( yeah, you knew that was us, didn't you Courtyard Marriott? ). I’ve backed away – quickly - after she wiped her nose on a fake cashmere scarf in a clothing store ( sorry Old Navy, but it's not like you’ve never sneezed ). But none of that really compares to what I did - or rather, what I bought - on Wednesday. I'd like to say that it is totally out of character for me to pay $19.95 for a plastic dog that craps itself. But I'd be lying. Mostly because there was that time I bought my kid a stuffed toy mole with poop on its head . Mind you, that was entirely by accident.  In any case, Doggie Doo - the game - is now at our house and the 5 year old is in love. And why wouldn't she be? It involves a dog, that dumps. If you're not familiar,...