I walked into the garage yesterday, Saturday, at about 3:20 PST, looked around and actually said out loud, “Only one of us can win. It will not be you.”

The first battle was a complete victory for us, you as well as me (the humans) and a shattering defeat for the garbage. Final score: Humanity, two hours, two carloads, two garbage cans; Garage, zero. A hit! A palpable hit!

It’s a triple garage, with one two-car door and one single door, and my wife’s car, a Volvo 90 SUV is in the single side.

(A QUICK WORD ABOUT THAT: I’ve mentioned this before, but my wife has been hit twice on our block and is, thank God, fine, but that Volvo has held up just fine, and that’s the car she feels safe in, and if that’s not good enough for you, you can go to h-e-double hockey sticks (as the kids say). It gets terrible gas mileage, but if it had been a Prius or some other crumple-box — well, I don’t even want to think about that. You want to bicycle to work, God bless you; you want to take buses, congratulations, but my wife is going to drive that Volvo (or another one just like it) as long as that what she feels safe in, and if you feel like saying anything about it, get yourself a soapbox and stand on it, but we don’t need your help in this decision.)

So I moved her car out and began loading, separating, bagging, sweeping, carting — and that was just to get my sweats on for the job.

My older boy came down to look for something, but that was his hard luck, and I snagged him into helping. The younger one, very cagey in his way, saw this taking place and tip-toed back upstairs to hit the computer. Unhappily for him I saw this coming and snagged him like a Pteradactyl nipping a pig.

We were going along just fine, too, until The Divine Mrs. M. sensed some efficient movement of energy in the house and left her decorating show to assume the role of Field Marshall and direct all activity with the crisp, firm (shrill? disrespectful?) manner all male family members in history quickly come to hate. (Remember, if she asks about that joke, pretend I didn’t write it.)

So now it’s Sunday, and I’ve already done my characteristically twelve important household-running things, and it just so happens that includes watching three quarters of the Jets and sneaking a couple of drinks. But it’s just after twelve, and we’re looking at another swoop down on the garage today, when my older boy asked if he could start painting his room (our Christmas vacation plan).

By starting to paint he meant getting the things out of his closet, separating things, taking all the Red Sox stuff off the shelves and walls, and dusting, all of which pleased and surprised and thrilled me as much as Marilyn Monroe coming back to life with a letter from God that says it’s okay and a stopwatch that stops time and a fancy hotel room with a wet bar. (Why she would ever want to do all this in the first place is beyond me, of course, but this is a male fantasy, and that’s the way they go.)

So it looks like here’s the rest of the day: Number One Son gets a head of steam up in prepping his room. Number two son furtively plays on the fringes and, on the whole, pretends he’s not part of the family, until…

Daddy pulls the trigger on the garage and gets Number Two Son to cart and haul while N.O.S. shores up the timbers in the mine that is his bedroom. This will allow Daddy also to finish writing, keep catching a little of the J-E-T-S, Jets, Jets, JETS!, and snag another drink or two, while the most important element is kept constant and at bay: Mommy in bed with the dog watching “Rosemary’s Baby”.

We are all jugglers of our little worlds, while God juggles the big world… and women rule the whole shebang.

REMEMBER: IF YOU WALKED OUT OF BED TODAY AND HAD THE ILLUSION OF CONTROL IN YOUR LIFE… FOLKS, THE GAME’S OVER, AND DON’T SPEND TOO MUCH TIME WAITING AROUND FOR MARILYN MONROE.