It's now official: in mid-June, we will be planning a family trip to Portugal. Whether I will spend the whole time with the family plans, or extend the trip a bit and jet off on my own somewhere is yet to be determined, but after a year's hiatus, I will be back to my world-travelling ways.

Last time, I took a really big trip, and then immediately bought a new car. This time, I will be taking a smaller trip, and hope to immediately buy a house. Of course, that would make this trip my last one for quite a long time. Mind you, I've said that exact same thing each previous time, so who knows what silliness I'll be up to next.

Anyway, soon after the decision was confirmed, I see this article in the paper:

The cash settlement is pretty nice, but I'd rather not go through the whole emergency-landing-oh-my-God-we're-all-going-to-die scenario. I need Oreo comfort.

Today is what you would call an "unfortunate" day.

On top of the general stress and frustration of inexplicable computer glitches at work, I had some issues organising attendance at today's Toronto Rock game. For tonight's clash with smelly, burny Buffalo, one friend and I decided to upgrade our usual upper-bowl seats to lower-bowl golden-seat glory. Unfortunately, said friend was shipped off to the Left Coast on business and could not attend. Thus began a long string of cancelled commitments and conflicting appointments that - despite a verbose, yet prosaically masterful, selling pitch that essentially offered the spare ticket for nothing, and literally for little more than a smile - I was left with an empty seat beside me and a wasted $44.

The ticket changed hands three times, and I even went as far as offering both gold-seat tickets to a pair of friends in exchange for the cost of a single upper-bowl ticket, just to have the pair returned to me not an hour later. I have eleven people lined up to attend the next game in two weeks, and yet I was unable to find a single person to take a highly desirable seat for tonight. The game was highly entertaining despite a very close loss that went down to the final seconds, but we still lost, and I had no one next to me on to which to accidentally spill my beer whilst ogling the Hot Rocks dancers.

Now, I am back at the office awaiting my train home. It's hot and stuffy here, and I know my car is going to be frozen when I get there.

It's just been one of those days. I need Oreo comfort, and yet that's still 23 days away.

On the way home, some drunk guy gave me a hug, so I felt a little better. Then I ate too many salt and vinegar chips and felt bad again.

Today I celebrate three-cubed years upon this insignificant little blue-green planet.

On this hallowed day, we reflect upon the joy we share in our lives, and in particular, the joy we share with SPU. Why not send a ValenSPU's Day card to all the SPUs in your life? Or add that personal touch and show your SPU devotion with a great big hug. Wear a smile; feel the love.

Come on, make with the hugs.

Contrary to popular belief, I have not been on a fifteen-day post-birthday hangover. No, I have been in Oreo shock. My system simply can't take it. I have dreams of mountains of Oreos, rivers of milk, and the entire Hot Rocks dance team delivering Oreos to my doorstep.

The box under my desk has started talking to me. "SPU, oh SPU!" it cries. "Why have you abandoned me! Complete me! Twist me like Chubby Checker! Dunk me like Steve Nash! Lick me like Rachael Leigh Cook!"

That one causes me to pause. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"You know you want to!!" the cookies reply. "Just like you want us! Nous sommes magnifique!"

When the Oreos start speaking in French is when I high-tail it out of there, before they start spouting Italian and I become mesmerised by their creamy cookie poetry.

I may, however, have imagined it.

I do know, though, that the cookies are stalking me. I have proof. I may not make it to day 47 before they smother me in my sleep. Wish me God speed...

In every culture around the globe, an event of great importance is always celebrated with a feast. Anthropologists will tell you it's because sharing a meal is a universal gesture of social interaction within the human race.

I say it's because we like looking for excuses to pig out.

We enjoy feasting so much that we increase the size and splendour of the feast in proportion to the importance of the event. Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Year's: huge dinners with multiple turkeys and drink flowing like rivers. At a wedding, the event is so important to the happy couple that they throw a feast so large they can't possibly have it all themselves, and so they share it with their friends and family.

The feast-to-importance ratio is an absolute scale, regardless of whether the event is question is a happy occassion or not. Take, for instance, the events of Holy Week. Good Friday is the most solemn day of the Christian calendar, where we commemorate the brutal torture and execution of our Lord and Saviour, and we do so through quiet prayer and heaping mounds of tuna casserole and salmon steaks.

Easter Sunday, by contrast, is the most glorious day of the year, where we celebrate our salvation and opportunity for everlasting life with joyous prayer and even bigger mounds of roast beef and baked potatoes. And pork chops. And cheesecake. And bunny-shaped chocolates.

I'm sure I'll be able to poke holes in this theory a week from now, but for the moment, filling my tummy to the brim is the only thing keeping me from attacking the Oreos right now. Yesterday, I ate six pounds of food, and I expect to beat that mark tomorrow.

It's overindulgence to a great degree, but according to the above theory, it just means I've got faith.

Praise the Lord, for he has risen!! Hallelujah!! Pass the stuffing!!

Mmmmphmmm.... Can't talk. Eating.