Last week the space planner came. He measured the kitchen and we talked about all the wonderful destruction we could rain down on our kitchen. There was talk of walls being moved or coming down altogether. Floors ripped up. Appliances trashed. Yesterday we saw the plans for the new kitchen, picked out cabinets, looked at counter-tops, thought about floors. And in late March or early April, cabinets will be delivered and sledgehammers will be swung. We will be inconvenienced mightily but it will be worth it.

I foresee a month of takeout, eating out of our garage fridge, and dinners out. As well as a fine layer of dust covering everything. But it'll be well worth it. We're a close family. We seem to always be occupying the same eight square feet of space. Usually in the kitchen. These family bonding moments usually end with Beth saying something to the effect of would everyone please get out of the kitchen...NOW!.

All of this is nice but exactly what have we signed ourselves up for?

I told you it was a guilty pleasure.

The premise of Voyage To The Planet Of The Prehistoric Women is pretty simple. Astronauts visit Venus and find a tribe of prehistoric women. Except they're not really prehistoric. They're hot. Or what passed for hot in the early sixties. In Italy. Because that's where this was filmed. English was dubbed and clearly an afterthought. The sad thing is that 20 minutes in I realized I'd actually seen Voyage To The Planet Of The Prehistoric Women.

I'm not sure what it is about these bad movies that I love. Maybe it's the antiquated vision of the future, model spaceships hurtling into outerspace, strings clearly visible, and narration about the wonders that lie in front of us.

I'm realistic about it. Voyage To The Planet Of The Prehistoric Women was a suckfest. It was a terrible, terrible movie. The director should have been shot and the special effects people lobotomized. But, hey, it made for a good Tuesday night.

What are your guiltiest pleasures?

Eventually I found it.

I returned to that same office today to drop aforementioned picked-up thing. I wrote myself a note.

It's happening to me more often. Walking through the parking garage muttering to myself I wondered if maybe I had some sort of issue. I haven't come to any conclusions yet. But if I post the same entry tomorrow or a week from now, you'll have your answer.

The Game. The game was actually pretty decent. Not mind-blowingly intense until the end but being that it's pretty much the only football I watch all year, it held my interest. Five out of ten possible points.

The Commercials. Let me say it clearly. The commercials sucked. I mean, really and truly bit. There were maybe one or two memorable ones but I'd already seen them. They'd lost the element of surprise. It was a waste of time and money, from a marketing perspective. One out of ten possible points.

The Halftime Show. The heavily lip-synced halftime extravaganza looked cool but it was so not. By the end, I was left thinking about how cool Cee Lo Green was (not Madonna), reminded how absolutely mediocre Madonna's lyrics are, and startled by how inappropriate it was for a woman Madonna's age to be doing what she did on stage. Yes, I'm getting old. But so is Madonna. Three out of ten possible points, and I think that's generous.

The Verdict. Out of thirty possible points, this Superbowl gets a whopping nine.

Okay, so, how many of you watched The Big Game last night? And how many of you thought it lived up to the hype?

The Weekly Read. Last week I read my first Ed McBain book. This week I read my second - Killer's Choice. And I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm going to be the proud owner and reader of all McBain's 50+ 87th Precinct novels. They're stupendous. He writes a damn fine book with a compelling cast of characters. It doesn't hurt that the mysteries are good.

The Weekly Television Cock Block. We ran out of Breaking Bad. Sadness ensued.

The Weekly Podcast. No music this week but I did manage to discover a damn fine podcast. While nothing could be better than The Mike O'Meara Show, the Mike & Tom Eat Snacks Podcast is pretty damn awesome. It's pretty much what it sounds like - Michael Ian Black (who's appeared on damn near everything) and Tom Cavanagh (you might remember him from TV's Ed) eat a snack and talk about it. I know, it sounds moronic but these guys are funny and totally worth a listen.

The Weekly Schadenfreude. The Susan G. Komen fund shot itself in the foot this week, severing ties to Planned Parenthood. What happened? Celebrities and other activists severed ties to the Susan G. Komen fund, instead directing donations to Planned Parenthood. Donations skyrocketed in spectacular fashion.

The Weekly Question. Who does the most good? What charity to you feel is most deserving of your money?

There's one thing I can't go cheap on. Work shirts. There are few clothing items for men in which quality makes a true difference. Shirts are definitely one.

What can't you skimp on?

Is it behaving like winter where you are?

You can squint really hard or you could head to my Flickr stream to see them embiggened.

Are you a picture taker? Or do you own a camera that rarely gets dusted off?

The Big Work Thing was something that most wouldn't consider a lot of fun. It can be quite grueling. And it's something I have to admit I live in a little bit of fear of being asked to do. I'm sure accountants feel the same trepidation about an approaching tax season.

It doesn't matter what the Big Work Thing was. Think of it as building a car from scratch. I was given some parts and plenty of help but it had to be crafted by hand. The nuts and bolts were there but the engine and transmission had to be assembled. The well-appointed interior had to be measured and installed. The stereo had to have precisely the right sound. The paint job needed to sparkle and the chrome needed to shine. Everything had fit in just the right place and there were really no instructions provided.

This particular Big Work Thing wasn't just your average, run-of-the-mill Honda. No, this Big Work Thing was a Bentley, huge, highly complex, with lots of moving parts and pieces. And I pulled it off.

Here's the thing - I'm not scared anymore. Another Big Work Thing rolled across my desk yesterday. I didn't bat an eye. I just took charge of the garage, organized all my parts and workers, and started assembling. There's a certain - and, if truth be told, massive - amount of pride I take in this.

The other day, Mia and I had a long talk about what it means to learn things the hard way. It's rare when something is best and most effectively learned the hard way but this was one of them. That and the fact that sometimes you just have to trust yourself, believe that you're good at what you do, plow forward and ask forgiveness later if it turns out you were wrong.

The Weekly Beer. Centennial IPA.

The Weekly Read. Ed McBain's 50+ volume 87th Precinct series has been recently reprinted. Now, I'd never read anything by McBain but I figured I should give him a shot. I'm so glad I did. The Con Man was a great police procedural but what's more remarkable is the wonder way in which is was written. McBain had a fantastic sense of humor that he wrapped around his stories though that humor didn't detract from the seriousness of the stories or the people in them. It was a brief book but he painted his characters so wonderfully I can see how they compelled people to read 50 novels about them. This is a fantastic book. I'm already reading my second.

The Weekly Music. Remember Nada Surf? No? You should. They just released their latest, the wonderfully titled The Stars Are Indifferent To Astronomy. It's chock full of alt-goodness. It's got hooks aplenty and is smart (though not quite Hold Steady or Fountains of Wayne smart). Define thumbs up.

The Weekly Television Addiction. Restaurant Impossible.

The Weekly Quote. "Even when there's a fire in Mitt Romney, it's just a weird electrical fire." - John Stewart

The Weekly Question. Do you know of any way to insert more hours in the day? Please?

Your readers could help save a 4-year-old's life.

That's a hard subject line to ignore. Especially since I have an almost-four year old. So I read the email, clicked the link and read a little more. I read about Kyle, his aplastic anemia, saw his pictures, read about his love of whales and I was hooked. Kyle isn't asking for money. All he's looking for is a bone marrow donor...and people to spread the word.

The world doesn't need product placement or reviews or random bloggers pimping the latest Disney flick. The world needs Kyles.

The other day I asked him what his superpowers would be if he had them. He told me walking backwards. He'd be Walking Backwards Man. Apparently he and I need to do some brainstorming around the relative awesomeness of potential superpowers. I've already identified a few for myself.

Flying. I'd definitely like to fly. It would be awesome. Plus, I hate airplanes so I'm thinking that if I knew how to fly I could end up in Paris without starting to smoke again.

Hypnotism. I'd be able to hypnotize anyone, on sight. Using unparalleled mind control techniques, I'd turn bad guys into good, right wrongs, and force shitty drivers into giving up their licenses and buying bikes.

Singing. I realize it's not a superpower but every superhero has to have a real identity and mine would be a rock star. My voice would be an odd combination of Chris Cornell and Peter Gabriel. I would tour extensively but only when I wanted to and every fourth album I recorded would consist of covers of lesser-known, horribly underrated bands who needed the exposure.

Oh, and I'd poop money.

What would your superpowers be?

I awoke at 4:15 to the pitter-patter of little-boy feet. Those little-boy feet were attached to a little-boy body who navigated his mother's side of the bed and, quickly and stealthily, crawled into bed on the non-Mia side of me, picked up my arm, placed it over his body and fell fast asleep. Then snored.

My kids excel at snuggling. Mia sets the bar high but Owen could go pro. And when they snuggle, they both have to be as close as is humanly possible. Which is why I woke up at 6:10 in a somewhat surprising amount of pain with a wrenched back, twisted next, a boy in my liver and a girl in my spleen. And Beth in Owen's long-abandoned bed.

Then my alarm went off. Despite the pain and the fact that I hadn't really had any sleep since the fateful hour of 3:15, I just stayed there. I was sandwiched between these awesome little people. They were cuddly and warm and they only wanted to be close to me. And I was okay with that.

Some days it's the little things. Some days it's the big ones. Some days it's both.