So when I was little (and naïve), I was really good friends with this one chick. We were BFFs (at least, until she went and told her parents that I called her pregnant and then we weren’t allowed to chill anymore. For the record, I had NO idea what pregnant even meant at that time and I most certainly did not call her that!)

Anyway, she had a birthday, as people do. And a party for it, also as kids do. I couldn’t find anything to get her for her birthday,

My mum was really busy that week, so we didn’t end up having the time to get her a birthday present. Being the wonderful person that I am, I didn’t want to go empty-handed. When I love I love fiercely, and I didn’t want my bestie to think that I was a shitty friend. So I put all my favourite pencils together and proudly took them to show my mother. They were really cool – holographic and stuff. A couple of them were kind of scratched up and about halfway to being finished, but I had the best of intentions. I showed my mum and she was admonishing to say the least, telling me I couldn’t possibly go to her party and present her with that. But I was convinced that it would be the perfect present, and even at a young age, when I wanted something I went after it and nothing would stand in my way. So determined little me wrapped them in blue tissue paper and hid them about my person.

Holographic pencils. Mine weren't even placed in a scary chicken foot formation. But I suppose they were used, lovingly or not.

When it was present-opening time, I drew them out with a flourish and gave them to her. She looked at the crumpled blue tissue paper for a few seconds, and then opened it slowly. Pulling out the bundle of pencils, she had a not-so-impressed look on her face, to say the least. Everyone else tittered and/or gave me disgusted looks, and that was definitely the first time I ever had that terrible heavy-as-hell-stone-in-the-pit-of-your-stomach feeling. Little crushed me just stood there for what felt like an eternity. Brb. I think I need to deal with my ptsd symptoms.

Back. If Friend Sped had witnessed the event, she would have said Aw, bless!  which would probably have helped to make me feel a little bit better, but she wasn’t.

The End.

I like gadgets. I also like to name my gadgets. Usually, I like to name them Esme. Unfortunately, my gadgets tend to die in weird ways. If there was a 1000 Ways To Die television show for gadgets I’m pretty sure my gadgets would make up at least 800 of those unique ways. That could be an exaggeration… but considering my luck, perhaps not.

So I’m a klutz. I do crazy things to myself all the time, and not on purpose. Although sometimes I like to say that I did whatever klutzy thing on purpose as a means to an end just so that people don’t think I’m as much of an idiot. I don’t know if they believe me, but it makes me feel better.

When I’m at Friend Asskicker’s crib, I tend to embarrass myself the most. I cutely hop over the doggie doorways that they have in place… but when I try to cutely hop back over (usually with a plate or something in my hand at that point), more often than not I knock it down with a resounding crash. My other disaster-ridden experiences usually go unnoticed, save for the band-aids all over my body… or so I thought. Her parents took to making subtle humorous comments about my lack of co-ordination within just a few times of meeting me, so it could be entirely possible that I’m just fooling myself. Whatever, ignorance is bliss.

[On the plus side, I did try waitressing once, and shocked many - I only dropped a single knife the entire eight hour shift - and it wasn't even a sharp one! Definitely one of my proudest days.]

So I just returned to the first paragraph of my post and it appears I digressed somewhat significantly from the intended topic of said post. Esme!

The first gadget of mine lucky enough to be bestowed with the name Esme was my pink GPS. It was a Garmin (they’re WAY better than Tom-Toms!). I have an affinity for cleaning products (that I never really use), and one day I came across one that smelled divine AND was environmentally friendly. Naturally, I had to buy it. I also have an affinity for sizeable handbags so I can fit in everything I could possibly need for a day out… and if you were to ask my friends, probably everything I don’t need as well.

One of (this version of) Esme's many identical siblings

That day, I bought the heavenly-smelling cleaning sprays and placed them in my aforementioned sizeable black leather handbag with everything else and went about my day. By that I mean I went to Ikea to furniture shop for my new apartment. I made it through safely – didn’t bang into anyone or anything, didn’t spill my frozen yoghurt cone on my clothes or anything of the sort. As I paid for my purchases and thanked my lucky stars for the calamity-free shopping experience, I felt a gush of liquid shoot down my leg. I couldn’t possibly have peed myself… could I?

I sniffed (subtly) and I smelled the heavenly cleaning spray smell from earlier. Thank heavens, I hadn’t peed myself. That smells yummy, is all I could think. And then my brain clicked into gear and I went straight into panic mode and took back all the thanks to the Higher Being I had offered seconds before. I left my cart where it was, boxes and all, and rushed over to the nearest bench and placed my bag on it to make sure none of my belongings (all of my belongings? I definitely don’t pack light) were ruined. I pulled out some work papers, nailcutters, a pair of scissors, a stuffed toy, an empty Kids Meal bag from McDonald’s, a pill box… and then out came my beloved pink GPS.

That was the first Death of (an) Esme, and the one that sticks with me the most. I had even set my virtual car to a pink one I had downloaded to match… and it was all gone, just like that.

The End.

P.S. My current Esme is my Playbook, in case you were wondering! Iloveit.

Let me start with the biggest understatement of the century. I am not good with money. I mean, I’m really (really!) good at spending it. Acquiring it, somewhat. Figuring out what else to do with it that’s smart and forward-thinking in nature, definitely not.

My piggy banks. The (piggy) family that saves together...

I have several little piggy banks that I’ve had since I was little. Since moving to Canada, I’ve used them as money holders. Shocker, I know. When I come home every day, I empty my pockets from change, and distribute all the little coins accordingly.

I’ve managed to save up millions* from this habit. Once or twice a year, I can’t wait any longer and it feels like Christmas. I empty all the piggy banks onto the carpeted floor of my room, and throw the coins up in the air squealing with glee before counting them carefully, and writing my Grand Total (down to the penny) on a piece of paper. If I was on a reality show, this part is the one that would clinch throwing me into an insane asylum. Especially when the authorities witness a heavier one hitting me in the eye and little old me just squeezing it shut in pain while I continue throwing and squealing. (In hindsight, I see why the rich people on tv in money-related commercials or whatever throw paper money up in the air instead of coins. Coins HURT. Although knowing me I’d probably end up with papercuts all over my face instead of flung-coin-induced red marks.)

Regardless of how frugally innocent my intentions are, there always ends up being a reason why I need to take it all out. When I was younger, it was jeans. Or other clothes. Friend Dallas and I would skip school at least three different times a week and go to the mall. We’d go to our favourite store, try on EVERYTHING, and put it all on layaway because we were too broke to afford any of it. Somehow we’d come up with the money and march back into the store a month later and triumphantly slam our buckets of change down onto the counter. Oh that feeling of pride, of accomplishment!

Now that I’m older, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that I’ve changed, and my money spending now has a purpose, I end up having a few moments of reality-facing where I hang my head in shame. Which is kind of useless really, because retail therapy is what I would (naturally) turn to in times of shameful head-hanging.

This has definitely gotten me into trouble. But fortunately I’ve always come up with a fun way to earn enough to get me out of it, even if I’ve had to suffer in the process. Being in a situation where you are in true desperation is the best way to get out of it. I suppose, however, it may make sense to just not get into a situation like that to begin with. Pretty sure the expression is something more along the lines of… I can’t quite remember actually. I tried googling it, but the nearest thing I found was a quote from Tony Robbins. Here it is:

In life you need either inspiration or desperation.

Close enough!

P.S. This is semi-unrelated, but the saying change comes from within? Not true, unless maybe you swallow it. It’s like the lies about the existence of the Tooth Fairy and the Red-Fleece-Wearing Christmas Present-Bestower, except for some reason this one has yet to be officially rebuked. I puked up often when I was younger, and to this day I’ll find more change in my pocket from an hour of going out than I have ever, and I’m pretty sure will ever, find in my vomit. I’ve done a lot of things that have garnered incredulous looks of disbelief from my friends and family, but I don’t think eating coins by mistake so I can show people that change truly does come from within will be one of those things in the future. I hope.

*May be a slight exaggeration. Please do not call me to donate to your charities or causes or your sick uncle with the foot that fell off. Even if I did have millions, I’d have spent it by now. That’s kind of the point of this post.

I have a fascination with frogs. I’m not quite sure what it is. I remember going to my guidance counselor’s office and seeing a bunch of frog related stuff everywhere and being weirded out. I didn’t get it.

Fast forward a few years later and the word frog just found its way into my vocabulary. I began calling my friends silly frog and telling them they were frogalicious when they looked good.

I also have a fascination with languages. Especially Farsi. (It’s not completely random, two of my bestest friends are Persian.) In Farsi frog is ghorbaghe. I started calling my closest people ghorbagheha (plural). Friend Sped and Friend Asskicker are two of those people. My other frogs are Friend Dallas (who left me in this godforsaken land and moved to Dallas, more about her another time) and Brother. Anyway, the frog thing stuck. And my friends loved me anyway. Here’s proof:

Best frogs forever. (The attempt at drawing a frog on the right is mine. It’s depressing, I know. I’m jealous of Friend Sped.)

I realise all this makes me sound certifiably insane or at the very least mentally challenged. But then again, that’s why I made this site.

I suppose my frog fascination may have begun when I was very very young and just got buried in the depths of my mind for… a decade or two. (That happens, right?) When I was in Grade 1, I remember there being a lake next to my school. At least compared to my size back then it might as well have been a lake. Looking back I’m pretty sure it was just a bit of run-off from some stream.

There used to be mini frogs EVERYWHERE. Hopping around. I would bring jars to school with me sometimes just so I could take a few of them home. And when I got home I would open the jar and they would be hopping everywhere in my living room and after five minutes everywhere else too. I just used to sit and gaze at them in wonder. I admired their boundless energy, their little legs. I was weird.

And I certainly didn’t get why my mother took issue with these adorable little green jumpy things. She would get so mad. She would hover over me sitting on the floor watching them and point at the door and yell. Which was useless really, like I would be able to concentrate on what she was saying when there was so much for my eyes to take in. Needless to say, she was not impressed.

Here’s a frog-related amusing thingie for your viewing pleasure:

Cute, no?!

Wouldn’t it be cool if when you were just hanging outside with your friend you saw an ant and you were like omg an ant and got up because you’re freaked out about ants… and then two weeks later you’d be hanging outside with your friend again (albeit a little more prepared for ant-ness) and see an ant AND be able to tell if it was the same one? Who knows, perhaps you could even befriend it so it doesn’t bother you and eat your picnic lunch were you to have one. I mean you could try the whole ant-friendship thing anyway, but if it’s a different ant everytime you’re not really going to get anywhere. (It’s probably like the government. You need to know the head one with the power to have all the rest cater to you – working with the sub-ant just isn’t going to be productive.)

Speaking of ants, Friend Asskicker’s laptop got infested with ants. Apparently she left it next to a pile of garbage that was infested with ants and being infested with ants is contagious and the laptop caught it. It’s a Macbook. I tried to make myself useful, and googled next steps for her.

People on the internets were quite helpful, but moreso to my end than hers. I was looking for amusement, but I’m pretty sure she would have preferred a real solution.

Here’s a couple of things that I found (and appreciated):

“I know that you can debug software. I don’t have any idea about debugging hardware.”

and

“You can also call your uncles and ask them to come and get their wives and take them home.”

If our ensuing conversation had been Reddit, she would have downvoted my take on being helpful into oblivion with a gajillion throwaway accounts.

Oh well.