We've Moved!

Hi folks, seeing as I've run out of steam here (routine inhibits creativity) I've moved my outlet to http://eurekaisms.tumblr.com

Let's see how long that one lasts!

It's been a good run on Blogger. Maybe Tumblr will inspire a reprise.

Signing off,

Eureka

For the Trivia Buffs

I have been following the OMG-Facts Twitter feed since it's early days and absolutely love it. It is perfect for my need for random fact enlightenment and needtoknoweverythingevenifitsuselessness. IF you like silly trivia, you will love this, too.

I further love the fact that it was thought of and is run by a couple of teenagers and was then supported and nourished by the kids who came up with GivesMeHope.

The fact that there are smart entrepreneurial kids out there in our mind-numbing day and age gives me hope.

Monkey Business

This week was one of the few I've had in a while where work was not astoundingly busy and I wasn't chained to my laptop for the entire duration of the work day. I was able to spend some quality time with my office buddies; one old, one new: Minnie and Parallel Universe, both of whom are legal people and are about 4 years older than me.

Minnie joined the company on the same day I did. We bonded over boyfriend stories and gossip as she knows every human being to walk the face of our blue planet. It's incredible. You name him/her and she will already know the hot three-second-old story you're about to tell. Naturally, being the former Gucci Girl and gossip whore that I am, I revel in our morning debriefings.

Parallel Universe joined a few months ago and is a fellow Capricorn who had a very Westernized childhood. She's basically me: wry and random sense of humour, love for childhood cartoon quotes, typical Capricorn traits, prefers to speak in English and a know-it-all. We spent 15 minutes debating whether the Antarctic was considered a desert and ended up using Wikipedia articles as proof of both the veracity and falsity of that statement. We both are still convinced of our rightness. Can you see why I call her Parallel Universe?

Over the course of this week our little trio has discussed the financial merits of selling one's virginity to the highest bidder versus the moral/emotional harm it may cause. Conclusion: based on the $1.3 million or so received by that girl who sold her virginity online in the US, if we stuck that amount in an Egyptian bank and received 5% annual interest, we'd be able to live comfortably on about EGP 30,000 a month for the rest of our lives. Minnie thought it wasn't worth the disgrace but is happy to pimp me out for a cut. Parallel Universe thinks I'm a lunatic for even joking about it. So no cut for her.

We've discussed grandparents who hate us, magic mushroom experiences, my many illnesses and have set up a BBM group dedicated to sharing dirty jokes and making fun of a crazy colleague. Not bad for a week's worth of work, huh?

Now I doubt any of us would have ever thought to be friends had it not been for a shared workplace. I'm too young to run into either of them in any shared social circles (not that I'm out that often anymore anyway) and I think they're too different to strike up an external friendship without any common ground. But I like the fact that we've been brought together and get along so well. Both girls are intelligent, hilarious, quick-witted and genuinely friendly people. They understand, share and sympathize with the frustration that comes with working in our company, which is a lifesaver when it comes to venting. They prove that even in an increasingly superficial world, like-minded folks still exist.

Ad Astra Per Alia Porci

Sometimes you need to see Steinbeck for the way to phrase things. This is one of those times because I am about to announce an impossibility. This is something that in my 23 years on God's green Earth I never thought or even imagined would happen. This is something so absurd that none of you will come close to guessing it.

Drum roll please:

Ladies and gentlemen, after 20-odd years of daily addiction, I have jumped off the bandwagon. My name is Eureka, and I am 16 days sober of nail-biting.

[I tried to find a crowd gasping sound effect for good measure but no dice. Pretend it's here]

Yes, my nails are growing out and have begun to peek above my fingertips. They look horrendously ugly (nothing new there) and are getting in the way of just about everything (typing, buttoning, zipping, nose picking, wiping, etc...) and I have accidently scratched myself on my than one occasion.

My bigger problem has been the lack of stress relief/distraction now that my nails are not being bitten. You see the big chocolate brown ape permanently perched on my back? The one I'm constantly swatting and arguing with? Yes, the one trying to pull nits out of what's left of my hair. That's him. He's there to warn everyone to STAY AWAY FROM THE CRAZY LADY IN WITHDRAWAL! I am fussy, I am itchy, I am running on a very short fuse and all I can think about is wanting to have just one tiny nibble on any of them.

Eureka's right brain: oh, look! The nail on my left index finger is growing too fast, if I just have the top off it'll be even.

Eureka's left brain: DON'T DO IT! If you start you know you'll keep going and all your pain and suffering will be in vain. Stay strong Eureka, stay strong.

A little while later:

Eureka's right brain: my right pinkie is uneven and keeps getting caught in fabric, it won't hurt to sort it out with just a tiny bite...

Eureka's left brain: But think of the CHILDREN! If you can't do it for yourself do it for them. What'll they say when you come home with no nails? The disappointment, the tears, the horror on their poor little faces. Can you bear it? Can you ever forgive yourself?

Eureka: Whoa there brain, melodramatic much?

Eureka's left brain: hey it worked to distract you, didn't it?

Eureka: yeah, I guess you're right

Eureka's left brain: just doin' my duty

Eureka's right brain: (sulkily under breath) pussy...

Sigh, it have been tough. I have had my moments of weakness as you can see. But this is the longest I've gone (both chronometrically and in terms of nail measurement) so we'll see how it pans out.

What prompted this, those of you who know my indifference towards nails and love for biting may ask. It is a combination of my masochistic need to figure out my own limits of endurance (see FMF) and exasperation with everyone and their mother's need to inform me that my nails are an abhorrence and I should not be seen in public this way. I've grown tired of people grabbing my hands and lecturing me on being 7. I don't care about what people think, I'm just tired of hearing the same tape playing over and over.

I still don't care about how my nails look and I am not looking forward to the hassle of maintaining them, but I want to prove to myself that I can do it. And hopefully people will start playing a new song.

Damn it! I just realized I didn't take a before photo. Snap.

Eureka's right brain: All the more reason to bite, my dear!

Eureka and her left brain: SHUT UP!

Dancing on the Ladder

There is an Arabic saying which is transliterated as 'danced on the ladder' (ra'ast 'al sillim). The English equivalent would be 'straddled the fence'. I've often been told that this describes my Identity (with a capital I) situation aptly. I am neither from here nor there (I feel a Dr. Seuss rhyme coming along. Oh, oh wait... Nah, over it).

I do not fit in in Cairo. I do not fit in with the general population. I do not fit in with my social circles - not if we're being completely truthful. I get along with people; I am friendly and socially intelligent enough to know how to be in my society. That doesn't mean I necessarily enjoy it.

I remember hanging out with Roonies and here then-new (now-ex) boyfriend and his friends for the first time a few years ago. We went to some cafe and everyone sat around joking. As usual, I was the only Christian in the group. Inevitably, the best way to become the life of the party is to crack Christian jokes - how Christians are referred to as 'blue boned' ('adma zar'a) and 'four feathered' (arba'a reesha), etc... Little things that aren't exactly offensive but are unlikely to come out of a Christian's mouth in mixed company. And are certainly unlikely to come out of my 'Americanized' mouth as such phrases aren't commonly known the upper class.

On our way home Roonies applauded me on getting along with them so well and having such a good time. I explained to her that I in fact did not like her (repeated for current boyfriend's benefit: now-ex) boyfriend's friends and did not intend to repeat the outing. She found it strange that I could seem to have such a good time but not have actually enjoyed myself. I found it strange that she found it strange. What was wrong with me that I had to pretend to have a good time? I seem to do that very often.

I think differently to most Egyptians. I do not understand some of the social intricacies and have a bit of an elitist attitude (Roonies and Cheb Khaled would call this the understatement of the year). Fine. I'm a snob. I was brought up to believe, in Daddy's words, that 'we are a breed apart'. Copyright Eureka's Dad. Copyright underscored one million and nine times. He raised us to believe this wholeheartedly. And I do believe this. Purely based on the fact that I have not met anyone else who thinks or was raised quite like me.

This is doubly evidenced by the fact that I do not fit in abroad either. Hence the 'straddling' of the 'fence' and the 'dancing' on the 'ladder'. I don't see myself being a normal 23-year-old in NYC or London. I've spent enough time in major American and European cities with metropolitan peers to have a solid sense of their Identity (again, capital I). It isn't quite mine, either.

Even amongst my friends, I am told that I am not quite the same. Cheb Khaled says I'm an Excellance (stress placed on the second syllable for pronunciation). In Cheb Khaled vernacular, that means of nobility. Over dinner on Wednesday, an old school friend was assessing my tiny dating pool and declared that I had it much harder because I needed a specific type of person within a tiny Christian minority. So basically, I have 2 and a quarter people to choose from.

Oh, joy.

Hey, at least you folks got a blog post out of this. Maybe this straddling the fence business can be of use, after all.

Thanking the Unsung Heroines

Couldn't have put it any better. Unfortunately, ours is a society that is not welcoming of such acts. I hope that changes. There are so many wonderful little lives looking to be loved.

Hush

I owe you more than a poem but this is one of my favourites and will have to tide you over until I can post properly.

Hush

For my son

The way a tired Chippewa woman

Who’s lost a child gathers up black feathers,

Black quills & leaves

That she wraps & swaddles in a little bale, a shag

Cocoon she carries with her & speaks to always

As if it were the child,

Until she knows the soul has grown fat & clever,

That the child can find its own way at last;

Well, I go everywhere

Picking the dust out of the dust, scraping the breezes

Up off the floor, & gather them into a doll

Of you, to touch at the nape of the neck, to slip

Under my shirt like a rag—the way

Another man’s wallet rides above his heart. As you

Cry out, as if calling to a father you conjure

In the paling light, the voice rises, instead, in me.

Nothing stops it, the crying. Not the clove of moon,

Not the woman raking my back with her words. Our letters

Close. Sometimes, you ask

About the world; sometimes, I answer back. Nights

Return you to me for a while, as sleep returns sleep

To a landscape ravaged

& familiar. The dark watermark of your absence, a hush.

- David St. John

My Idea of Mr. Eureka

Someone commented on a recent post that they were happy my work stories were back, but where were the so-called "love life" updates? You haven't heard about any of that in a while! Well, that my devoted (probably now reduced to) 4 and a half readers is because my so-called "love life" has been non-existent as of late (apart from the regular sketchy boys who seem to sniff out my disdain for them and consider it invitation to hound me but that's a whole other post). There are no interesting men out there at the moment.

Boys, please take note my use of the word men. Strategic use.

This afternoon Cheb Khaled and I were discussing the fact that my difficult and ice queen personality would mean I require a saint of a man to put up with me. According to Cheb Khaled, I need someone who will know how to push the right buttons to make me cute and cuddly. I did not realize cute and cuddly could be part of my being. Apparently, the right person can bring this incredibly well-hidden aspect out of me. He would also need to be a gazzillliioonnn years older than me to make me seem immature in comparison, because I am too logical (in the male sense) to get riled up the way men seem to like. I am, in conclusion, boring because my thought process is too masculine. Who'da thunk it?

Cheb Khaled should start a blog just to write a post about this topic. He has interesting insights into the male-female relationship/dynamic.

However, in my defense, my friendship with Cheb Khaled brings out a more laid back Eureka because we think the same so there is little room for arguments. Granted, I enjoy yelling at him when he does something stupid, but that's what friends are for, right?

I don't think what I ask for in men is unreasonable. I'm not asking for a Johnny Depp for my Ginnifer Goodwin. I'm not deluded. I ask for an equal. I respect myself enough to know who and what I am. Therefore, I deserve someone I feel measures up to me in my eyes. What I look for is simple and to continue with my recent list trend, here are some of the things I'm asking for:

1. Intelligence
2. Ambition
3. Maturity
4. Shared religious beliefs (i.e.: Christian but not a fanatic)
5. A lust for learning
6. A sense of humour compatible with my sarcasm
7. Understanding (because I am too quirky for the Egyptian population)
8. Patience (because I am am too quirky for the Egyptian population)
9. And this one may be a cliche, but he should ideally love me a little more than I love him because otherwise, he won't put up with me and my English-speaking, newfangled women's equality believing, I am not your servant acting ways.

Ideally, he should be good looking but that isn't necessarily high on my list. I think this list is shared by women universally. We aren't saying all men must be cut from the same cloth. We are not saying you all need to be Prince Charming or a Sir Lancelot or some other Disney hero. We just don't want to come home to an unkempt, unmotivated dimbulb who expects us to serve his every whim. That isn't what a relationship should be based on.

Unfortunately, this last bit is the problem (in my circles in Cairo, at least). All a guy believes he needs to be is rich and semi-good looking; nothing else seems to factor in. So as a result, most boys I know are now extremely metrosexual, obsessed with material possessions, are "working" for Daddy and have zero functioning brain cells. Cheb Khaled is now the exception rather than the rule. This is a sad state for my generation to be in, and it is just as bad - if not worse - in Bloft's age-group.

Maybe we just haven't met the right social circle, but in a society as small as ours in Cairo, it's hard to miss people.

So boys, man up. You'll be surprised at how many women would agree with the general gist of this post.

How To Transfer Contacts From a Broken Nokia to a Blackberry for Maccies

My mum has jumped on the Blackberry bandwagon after years of blind devotion to Nokia. As usual, she came to the only child she's got who is forced - I mean willing - to transfer her contacts from any old phone to any new phone. Usually, this is a simple process for me as it is always between Nokia's which share a desktop platform. With a Blackberry, this is a whole other story. After a solid three hours, I managed to figure it out. To save you all the trouble, I will list the steps necessary to make the switcheroo.

Three things to note:

1. This should, in theory, work for anyone switching from Nokia to any other make/smartphone.
2. You need to be using a Mac for the transfer, but a PC for Nokia PC Suite.
3. The simple way to do this is to use iSync. But my mother had conveniently broken her Nokia's screen making it impossible to switch its bluetooth on. iSync requires a bluetooth connection to work. Hence, the long-ass dilemma/methodology.

Prior to beginning you need to download the Nokia PC Suite and ensure your busted Nokia is connected via usb. You also need to download the Blackberry Desktop Manager on your Mac. The steps are as follows:

1. Select the Contacts icon on Nokia PC Suite. This will bring up your phone's address book. Ctrl-A to select all.
2. Go to File and hit export as a text document, not .csv. Your Mac will be unable to properly transfer a .csv file.
3. Save the text file with all your contacts on your Mac.
4. Open the file and make sure all the names and corresponding phone number is on the same line. Remove the First/Last Name and type of number (mobile, home, etc...) reference for all except for the last name on the list.
5. Open your Mac's Address Book, select File and Import the text file of your contacts.
6. Ensure that the names and numbers are correctly identified by the address book for the first name. These settings will apply to all other names on the list. Untick ignore first vCard.
7. Accept the Import transfer.
8. Voila, your Contacts are saved to your Mac's Address Book. Adjust any format/information you want to edit using Address Book.
9. Connect your Blackberry to your Mac via usb and open Blackberry Desktop Manager.
10. Sync Contacts using the Contacts tab (select the 'Two Way' open and hit the green Sync button).
11. Wait patiently as your Contacts are synced between the Address Book and the Blackberry. This could take a few minutes. Do not assume it has frozen and pull your phone out of the usb. Assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups.
12. Once the sync is complete you can take your phone out of the usb. Double check the Blackberry's phonebook - all your contacts should be there.
13. Toss your busted Nokia in the trash and never look back.

And that's it! Pretty simple process if you follow these steps. The only issue you may face is getting the contacts listed correctly on the text file for the Mac Address Book to read. That my friends sadly requires some trial and error on your part. Aside from that bit, it should be smooth sailing.

Chemical Poo Survival Guide

About a year ago our entire corporate team was restructured wherein we all report to one Boss Man. Mr. Boss Man of 2007-2008 was replaced for us all in January 2009 by the prissiest of all Mr. Boss Men at the company. Old Mr. Boss Man was relocated to become CFO of some subsidiary and everyone in my department was moved under New Bratty Mr. Boss Man. This was inevitable for me regardless as I had been shuffled to work for both his and my old department hence the company joker/bitch/Pranjib/slave/shit-shoveler/whathaveyou moniker.

With a boss like New Constantly PMSing Mr. Boss Man, you need to quickly learn a set of essential rules for survival. These include, but are not limited to, the following:

1. If you have not already done so after living in the mean city of Cairo, develop a thick skin very quickly
2. When Mr. Boss Man barks, zone out
3. When Mr. Boss Man starts speaking for large blocks of time about a vague 'vision' or 'message', zone out
4. When Mr. Boss Man says he wants an "Investment Banking" style presentation, that is code for make it incoherently complicated while fitting everything in pretty boxes
5. Lean the To Do List hierarchy: a) When Mr. Boss Man calls your desk to tell you to do something, this is not important; b)When Mr. Boss Man sends you an email to tell you to do something, this is more important than a phone call; c) When Mr. Boss Man calls you up to his office to tell you to do something (this is invariably at 5:00 pm when you are packing your bag in a hurry and impatiently waiting for your laptop to shutdown), then, well... Fuck.
6. Find ways of getting Xanax into his coffee without him noticing. This will allow you time to go have a long lunch
7. When Mr. Boss Man is PMSing (because men PMS, too - although his is nearly constant), this means he has not has sex recently. Either get him laid or get him drunk enough to think he got laid. The latter is easier than it sounds - spike his coffee with Midol and hard liquor
8. Every night, pray that Mr. Boss Man gets remarried. If you can, have everyone at your church/mosque/synagogue pray with you. God is more likely to hear you in numbers
9. Finds ways of sending Mr. Boss Man across the Atlantic. Soliciting meetings with large funds or Investment Bank conferences does the trick. The time difference makes it virtually impossible for him to catch you
10. When in doubt, claim to not know. You did not receive the incriminating email, were not working on that project, or did not see that slide. IT WASN'T ME! Then promptly suggest another person higher up in the hierarchy to blame
11. Make sure you send emails late at night about once a week. Even if it's completed during the day, send it just before you go to bed. This makes it seem like you're working harder than you are. Same goes for weekend emails

This list will be updated periodically when new and improved Dealing With The Boss Man Methodologies are developed. Suggestions are welcome. Stay tuned.

Social Time Frames

I have a strong urge to write today but I don't have a specific topic in mind. I've been thinking about one's dreams and whether there is such a thing as it being "too late" to pursue them. I don't really even know what my dreams are. I don't think that is the point of my train of thought today, although it would save me a lot of time and trouble if I knew what my dreams were.

I think the issue troubling me is the idea of there being a time limit to pursuing one's dreams. What makes it "too late" to do something? The smallest of examples is learning to play an instrument. I took up the piano, as so many children did, at around 3 or 4. I can't quite remember. I just remember the photocopied children's piano lesson book, my teacher, her house, her kids and my hatred of learning to read sheet music. I picked up the actual playing quickly; I refused - or was unable - to wrap my head around memorizing which notes lay on which lines. So I threw a fit as all little kids do and stopped going to piano lessons.

Years later, at about 16, I decided to try again. I was faced with the same problem. I had no problem playing by ear. I just could not read sheet music. One of my abhorrent habits is my dependance on being able to pick things up quickly. If it requires too much time or effort, I won't bother because my defense mechanism tells me that it isn't worth my precious brain power or that my brain doesn't function that way. Like maths or finance. If I am meant to be good at it, I'll instinctively know how to do it. So, my excuse at that point was that I was "too old" to be taking up an instrument now. At 16, I was already using the universal "it's too late" excuse.

Why is this ever an excuse though? Why does our social conditioning dictate when one is allowed to pick up a new hobby, to find their passion, to discover themselves? When a man goes out to understand his personality at 40, it is a midlife crisis. When he does the same at 21, he is embarking upon a journey of self discovery. Those are exactly the same with different labels - the former negative, the latter positive. What difference does it make? What if the 40 year old didn't have the opportunity to discover himself at 21? What if the 21 year old is just too lazy or too afraid to face the real world? Who says a journey needs to be limited to a certain stage in your life?

Today, I fear that by the time I figure out what it is I want to do with my life, it will be too late. That I will have missed my proverbial exit. That the train would have passed me by. It saddens me to think that there are countless of would-be talented people out there who did not achieve their potential because they felt they were too old to chase their dreams. Someone out there could have been the contemporary Beethoven, or another Poe, or the Adam Smith of the 21st century. But because we are molded to believe that everything has its rightful place and time, we are thusly bound by our social norms.

Maybe with the onset of a longer average human life expectancy, people will learn to extend their time frames to accommodate later self-discovery. Maybe on day we won't even have to ask the question, "isn't (s)he too old to be..." Let's hope that isn't too far off because I have a feeling I'm going to be one of those extremely late bloomers!

Shit Shoveler, Extraordinaire!

I must have the words "shit shoveler" tattooed on my forehead because it seems to be the only thing people assume I am required to do at work.

At first I thought I was Pranjib, the back office presentation/formatting slave for just my department(s). I don't really mind that because I know these presentations are what make-or-break deals at my company. They're the presentations sent to the Board of Directors, used by our CEO at meetings, sent to investors, potential partners, etc... So they have to look as Investment Bank-y as possible and I'm the only person with the patience and anal-retentive need to have everything perfectly aligned and organized. In such situations, I know I am doing my part when I am Pranjib.

But increasingly, I've been reassigned as the shit shoveler company-wide rather than merely within my department(s). It began with reformatting and restructuring presentations for other Directors (see "Mercurial Life", for example). Then it turned into a nationwide conspiracy against my every brain cell. The world seems to be screaming "Die, bitch-ass motherfucking brain cells, DIE!"

Today, I spent a century and a quarter doing some HR chick's job because she was unable (or possibly unwilling) to spend the requisite 15 minutes digesting the message her presentation was supposed to send across and wanted to dump a bunch of random slides together and call it a day. For some inane reason, my boss felt it necessary to volunteer my services. Without consulting me. Without asking directly. He just CC'ed me informing the HR people that I would do the work with their counterpart.

Why in the Lord's Holy name would I be involved in a training proposal? Where in the company directory does it say, "for the copy room, call 1127. For employee account enquires, call Mr. Mohamed Zaki on 1789. For whatever presentation that pops into your head, call Ms. Eureka - aka Pranjib - at 4117."

I mean, is it not enough that I am simultaneously (and SINGLE-HANDEDLY I might add) writing the company's 2009 annual report, handling all my responsibilities, doing an insane amount of research on the legislation and certain industry regulations of a humongous and complicated country along with it's spending plans for that industry, AND carrying other people's slack?

Does all that take a backseat whenever some random person decides they can't handle spending an extra hour or so on their presentation?

Being the joker for my own people is fine. It means I'm flexible enough and a quick enough study to be able to have my hand in several projects and various activities at the same time. It means I'm able to learn more, know more, see and be seen by more. It's the useless, unappreciated, time consuming and mind-numbing auto-volunteering of my services that make me feel like the company prostitute.

Need a blow-job along with that presentation, sir? Just add a 69 at the end of your email's subject line.

Where Have All the Good Friends Gone?

Last night marked the reinstitution of my annual (albeit somewhat belated) Christmas dinner, which was established in 2003 and was skipped in 2008 due to scheduling conflicts (i.e.: I was too lazy to formulate a guest list. Trust me, it's much tougher than it seems).

As usual, my mother outdid herself. Yes, mother because I will never move a muscle if I can get away with it. Great setting, delicious food and zero effort from me. Who could ask for more?

What struck me most last night was the fact that it now requires an entire pre-planned dinner to gather my friends together. Not only are they all from different groups with divergent interests and dissimilar routines (I have a thing for alliteration), but since graduation, we have no common forum to find each other at on a regular basis.

Take Mrs. Fallon, for example. Since spending a week in London with her last November, I haven't seen her once. It took a dinner invitation to get together. It isn't like we live on different sides of the city, or we don't speak on a regular basis. We just haven't had the time or reason aside from a normal social call to hang out. Sad but true.

It's the same with Roonies and Bambi. From the summer of 2005 to the spring of 2007 we were inseparable. Then we graduated. Then Bambi went off to Geneva for a semester. Then work took over our lives. Today, we're lucky if we see each other once a month, even though Bambi and I work in the same building. Today, I only see Cheb Khaled on a regular basis, and that is likely to change sooner rather than later.

Flipping through Facebook, I cannot believe how many people I've lost touch with. So many people I counted as very close friends. People I've grown up with, had countless adventures with, helped through deaths, break-ups, exams and other difficult moments. People I at one point could not imagine my life without.

I've come to realize that I can be cruelly indifferent towards people, regardless of the intensity past or current relationships. Does that make me heartless? Does that put my compassion or humanity into question? Why can I go for such long stretches without feeling the need to be a social creature? I am just as happy lounging around my house watching shows or reading or just chilling with the family as I am out with my friends. I don't know if this is healthy because there are so few out there who would admit to feeling this way at my age.

Last year, my first resolution for 2009 was "I will rekindle my friendships and reestablish my social circles by going out more often". Although that was fulfilled to some degree, I still need work because I refuse to allow my hermit tendencies to resurface.

So, for 2010, let's keep the friendships rolling and who knows? Maybe even add a few more.