The house fluffers (photo)


The day began with Jan, Geoff and I working feverishly to transform a wood panel walled basement into accommodations fit for a world class pianist. No matter the question -  colorful bowls are the answer. Always.

Daily Snap - 06.30.12 | by Andrea Mulder-Slater

Shtrawberry shoatcake (photo)


The dinner plates were cleared away and then... the dessert board appeared. Blueberry pie, chocolate cake, caramel pudding, strawberry shortcake. Though she had never before tried it, my daughter knew exactly what she wanted on this day.  "Shtrawberry shoatcake!"  Dig in little one.Dig in.

Daily Snap - 06.29.12 | by Andrea Mulder-Slater

Can I paint? (photo)



It's a hectic morning. Computers are crapping out. Shipments need to be sent. It's her father's birthday and I am praying for her to have a nap. Ten minutes, that's all I'm asking. Then, comes the question. "Mommy, can I paint? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaase?" Um. Yes. Yes you can.

Daily Snap - 06.28.12 | by Andrea Mulder-Slater

I'm gonna catch ya! (photo)


Snapped behind a building in an industrial area of the city. Should we all be afraid?

Daily Snap - 06.27.12 | by Andrea Mulder-Slater

Hand in hand (photo)

 

Sometimes the smallest hands hold the most power. She may have her daddy wrapped around her finger, but today, she was the one with the tightest grip.

Daily Snap - 06.26.12 | by Andrea Mulder-Slater

Is that a stye in your eye or are you flirting with me?

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 right?

Bug bite. Allergic reaction. Stye. Flesh eating disease. Eyelid cancer... the possibilities were endless but one thing was certain. My meticulous research ultimately pointed to just one outcome. I was going to die later that afternoon.

After a brief (but effective) panic attack, I pulled myself together and focused on the facts. I didn’t have blepharitis because apparently that involves a lot of involuntary teardrops and the tears rolling down my cheeks were entirely deliberate. I also determined that didn’t have conjunctivitis because my eye was nowhere near the shade of my daughter’s Dora the Explorer chair.

Then, it became clear. I didn’t have pink eye… I had WINK eye.

My right eye had simply gone rogue and was on its way to developing a personality fully divided from the rest of my body. Yes, my eye was crossing over to the dark side. My eye was becoming a slut.

For the next few days, I wore dark glasses whenever I left the house, which was rarely. Remembering to keep the glasses on while out and about was problematic as my memory is for shit. All was fine until I went bare-eyed through the Tim Horton’s Drive-Thru, thus giving a sixteen-year-old boy the shock of his life.

Poor kid. One minute he’s dizzy with the joy of preparing iced cappuccinos for a gaggle of giggling tweens and the next, he’s staring at a woman with matronly arms who is winking suggestively while waiting for her double cream.

This is why I decided that - for the greater good -  I should stay home until my condition improved. Or at least until my 3 year old stopped saying, “Ew mommy, your eye looks really moofy.” 

Still waiting…

No, really.

And the truck ran away with the bus (photo)


There was a small Fisher Price incident today when the fire truck tried to get fresh with the school bus. Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street...

Daily Snap - 06.25.12 | by Andrea Mulder-Slater

Stoned and spiked (photo)




When you live in a construction zone, you find odd things in your yard.


I've become somewhat obsessed with PicMonkey and so -  because love is not enough - I've decided to issue a challenge (to me and me alone). The challenge is to post a photo a day from here on in. Until I die. Or until I lose interest. This is the first day of the rest of my life. 

Daily Snap - 06.24.12 | by Andrea Mulder-Slater


Between you, me and the girls

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 nature) refuse to wear maternity clothes while expecting? Well, apparently, I refuse to stop wearing them. It’s a disorder – not unlike wearing black t-shirts and blue jeans. Every. Freaking. Day.

Needless to say, I was in need of a shopping trip. Real shopping. In a mall and everything.

The opportunity came a few days ago.

While Geoff busied himself at that store he likes so much (y’know, the one where everyone walks around sucking energy gel out of plastic tubes while wearing shorts with big padded bums), my mother, daughter and I headed to a shopping centre where I made a mad dash for the Macy’s lingerie department.

Jantje bribed the 3 year old with $1 a shot merry-go-round rides in the food court, while I wildly grabbed as many underclothes as I could in under a minute. I must have appeared frantic because I’m fairly certain a loss prevention specialist started tailing me. Either that or she was a lesbian with low self-esteem who was ready to settle for less. A lot less.

Aim higher sweetheart. You can do better. I’m no prize. Seriously. I’M WEARING A NURSING BRA.

Inside the dressing room, my first realization was that bra sizes are arbitrary. What I mean by that is -- none of them fit me. So I tried again, and this time I looked before I grabbed.  Padded, push-up, convertible, racerback, shelf, strapless, t-shirt, underwire, ergonomic, cupless. Cupless? What the Hell? Who in the eff wears a cupless bra? 

Nevermind. I just looked it up.

Here’s the thing. I come from a long line of big-chested women. If my mother, my aunts, my cousins and I all got together, we could solve the world's hunger problem – if you get my drift. When I was younger, I thought I had escaped the curse – but then I got pregnant and well… knocker city. And, in case you get the wrong idea, think Fiona from Shrek – not Pam Anderson, the Baywatch years.

In the end, I resigned myself to the fact that I am not one of those women who will be contained by a bralette or demi cup. Instead, I settled for a wide-strap, four-snap, breathable, full-support brassiere that could easily house a family of rabbits. Big rabbits. Jack rabbits.

In other words… Nothing. Sexy. About. It.

You can almost hear the echo.

Still, just as I began to feel sorry for me and my Danny DeVitos, I heard some huffs, puffs and groans, followed by the statements, “Oh dear God, this is not good.” and, “Get back in there.” coming from the dressing room next to mine.

I know what you're thinking. But you're wrong. As was I.

Evidently, my desperate lesbian loss prevention specialist was just another buxom gal, trying to squeeze herself into a bra with cups the size of mushroom caps.

We exited our respective rooms at the same time and as we each returned our delicate, pretty bras designed for pre-adolescents to the “no-fit” rack, we nodded knowingly at one another as we both left the area, each carrying giant Playtex Cross Your Heart boxes.

Solidarity sister. Solidarity. 

No, really.