One of the items I had included on my 30 before 30 list was to help my mom with a project. I had some ideas for things I could help her with, but nothing really stood out as the perfect opportunity, until she told me she had bought a new house. Up until that point, she had been living in a little townhouse in a sketchy part of town – the type where you see ten year old boys pushing old Christmas trees in shopping carts in March, and fourteen year old girls with mushroom cuts, kneeling on parking lot pavements, drawing dicks and the f word in different fonts. “At least she isn’t doing other things,” my mom would always say, proudly. In the summer, our communal backyards were a playground for Malik, Malachite, Ledandra, Crystelle, and Kara. At least, those were the names we heard shouted at them as the sun set. “Dinner! NOW!” was what usually followed. My sister and I used to watch them from our bedroom windows, and one day, we realized they had been outside for over ten hours, rehearsing a dance routine they – a group of pre-teens- had created themselves. It was absolutely insane. Some were doing breakdance moves, others had sexy solos. Creepily, I made a video, and here’s a shot from it:
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| Everyone is breaking it down to Britney Spears' "Freak Show" |
One great thing about that neighborhood was the Tim’s down the street from our house. On a sunny Sunday morning, we’d walk over and grab coffees, as well as my mom’s famous wtf order, that went like this:
Mom: I would like maple pecan duh-nish. But could you please choose for me specific one?
Cashier: What?
Mom: I want one roasted with most nuts!
Cashier: What the fuck… (paraphrased)
Me: She’s saying she would like a maple pecan danish that is very well roasted and has the most pecans on it. She will show you the one she wants. I am so sorry.
There has never, ever, in the history of my mom’s co-existence with maple pecan danishes, been a time she didn’t ask for a specific one. Never has her order not been followed by “roasted with most nuts”, and, subsequently, my profuse, red-faced apology.
This was the kind of place you never had to wear make-up to, as the majority of its clientelle included families permanently outfitted in pyjama pants and velcro winter boots, Kenyan men congregating around laptops, discussing what always looked like mass purchases of Vitamin C, and, what we coined the Blueline Headquarters – the left corner of the shop, where you would always spot about seven to ten taxi drivers. Savouring our honey crullers, vanilla dips, and the roasted with most nuts, this little shop became where we gossipped about the week’s events, mended each other’s broken hearts, and divulged any great news. “This is Iran,” my mom always introduced me to her friend, a cashier who already knew my mom’s compulsive danish choices. “Are these your daughters?” Iran would point at us. “They beautiful!” My mom would always introduce us and we would smile as if we didn’t go through this entire spiel the weekend before, and the weekend before that, and the weekend before that. It’s hard to say what was going on in Iran’s head, but we appreciated the sentiment. One time, instead of Iran, there was a very tall Nigerian man at the cash. Shortly after we drank our coffees and left, I received a text that read: “Dis R-Poc, your mom say you lay tracks. I looking to produce album.”
“Why did you give him my number?” I asked my mom. “Because he is hot,” she answered.
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| Our last visit to that glorious Tim's. My dark roast, Milhouse's double double, and mom's black with a roasted with most nuts |
Despite all of the memories, it was time to move, and I was glad my mom finally made the decision to leave her comfort zone. I decided that my big 30 before 30 project would be helping her with the move, and while she assured me everything would be taken care of, I knew better than to believe it. The week before moving day, she had packed maybe two boxes, at best. “Don’t worry about it,” she assured me again, “All we’ll need to do on moving day is throw the stuff in boxes and go!” ...right, that is how moving works. My dad had some hardcore surgery on his arm that week and though he assured us he was fine to carry 70lb boxes with the muscles in his arm freshly fused together, I threatened to call his surgeon if he showed up. So, that left my eighteen year old sister who (sorry Milhouse) has the arm strength of a butter statue, my mom, and myself. And…an entire house full of stuff. This was when I realized we needed to hire movers.
I found some dudes on Kijiji who claimed to be highly professional and by some stroke of luck, were available on extremely short notice, and when they showed up, I felt my soul seep out of my body. I’ve never been to prison, but this is the closest I’ve come to seeing its occupants. Mover #1 had black eyes with no white parts, like an octopus. His neck and half of his face was tattooed, and he wore white children’s winter gloves with the fingers cut off. Mover #2 walked with a very serious limp, and had a braided goatee hanging down to his pelvis, which would shake as he chuckled-
and how he chuckled. Mover #3 had no teeth.
As soon as they started walking through our house “assessing the work”, I considered the possibility of being murdered and/or having all of our things stolen. As they kept walking around (with Mover #3 emitting hissing sounds) I motioned for my mom to come downstairs with me so we could figure out how the hell to get them to leave. As we strategized, Mover #1 picked up my cat and then turned to us and said, “Is this a hairless?”
“No shit it’s a hairless,” Mover #2 limped over and took her from him, “My cuz got one like it too. You see she’s timid, she ain’t seen you before.” Well, she also ain’t seen black eyes before, but there’s a first time for everything. Luckily, the movers told us there was “too much work” for the initially quoted price, and that they needed to speak to their boss outside “by phone” to make sure the price shouldn’t be going up. They exited our house, as we took a collective sigh of relief, and then proceeded to pound on our door saying the price had now doubled. “That’s okay, we won’t be requiring your help then!” I shouted through the comfort of three inches of steel. Over the next hour, our doorbell was rung about fifty times, our phone ringing constantly, until I picked up and got into a fight with their boss who promised they would do the job for the original price if I “would just give the guys a chance”. *shudder* No. We were done with that.
But the boxes still weren’t moved.
It was then that my mom remembered that she had been speaking with another moving company in the weeks prior, and that they had negotiated a price, but my mom didn’t want to pay it. (???) I quickly called them, and engaged in a conversation that I am still proud of. There was a lot of them hardballing me and me calling their bluff, and them saying they’re too busy, and me threatening to go with another company, and them ‘speaking to their boss and calling me back’ and me ‘speaking to my client and letting them know later if the price was acceptable’ and finally, we reached a deal, and they drove over. These guys were ripped, with their boss, a Lebanese gentleman wearing diamond earrings and slickly defined facial hair, instructing them intensely and professionally. They came in wearing matching shirts, had indoor shoes, and did not complain about my mom’s brooms and tiny statues of Mozart standing in their way. “Talk to me, Irina” the boss would say to her, when she called out his name at thirty minute intervals, offering him cookies or beer, or to tell her about his relationship with his parents and if it influenced his decision to start this lucrative business. In addition to their efforts, I ended up driving about twenty cars full of stuff, and the move seemed to last not hours but weeks, but when everything was taken into the new house, and my mom sat on the floor with Mr.Diamond Earrings drinking tea, there was finally a sense of finality.
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| Nousha is the biggest fan of the fireplace |
Now, when my mom drives to work in the morning, we pass farms and she points out goats and horses, and the sunrise. “I promise to drive straight if you promise to look at the sunshine!” she likes to say. She lives near a conservation area, and it’s very quiet all around us. Her front doormat says “Hello!” (of course), and the granite countertops are big enough to accommodate her obsessive fruit collection. She has already befriended her next door neighbors (“Marty gave me a push the other day because I didn’t shovel my driveway again! Lol!”) and begs me to move back in on a weekly basis, offering me the master bedroom and even the ensuite bathroom that has one of those enormous tubs for at least three people. I’m yet to be swayed, unfortunately.
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| Yep. Big fan of the fireplace. |
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| This counter space is now entirely filled up with various fruits |
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| In hindsight, this blog post should've been about Nousha |
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| Of course this severed hand made its way into my mom's new cupboard |
When we sit by the new fireplace, my mom complains that the
house is so big she can never make it to the phone, and then we reminisce on
our old house. It was so small that everything was literally within reach, at
all times. The living room was the
kitchen and the dining room. The bedrooms were the size of my mom’s new walk-in
closet. But we were so happy, piling over each other on the big L-shaped couch,
watching Friends for the millionth time with my mom laughing at the same jokes
over and over again, with the Christmas trees in the shopping carts in March,
and the dicks on the pavement, and the road that leads to Tim’s, and the words
“happy birthday” stuck on the broken balcony doors, melted from years of summer
sunlight, and the time we laughed so hard we couldn’t fall asleep, and the New
Year’s Eve my parents danced together to Abba, and all of it, the place that we
used to call home.
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| My dad, having won four Hornies from our 2010 New Year's Eve Hornies awards |
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| My favourite picture of all time. |
