Truckin'

"How did you park that thing backwards at 2 a.m.?" I asked hubby, home from a long Santa Cruz shlep.  "You forget, I'm a professional.  I used to valet park.  I was a Pick Parketeer."  "How can I forget.  We were dating at the time."  Hubby refers to an extended period in his teens, when he used to park parties of the rich and famous.  Parking random luxury autos gave him the confidence he carries with him today, the strong belief that he can drive and parallel park and back up anything on four wheels, from Jags and Beemers to U-Hauls and Penskes.  Frankly, it makes the SJG nervous.  "Why don't you wait till the morning?" I asked him last night, when he decided to leave Santa Cruz.  "There'll be no traffic, and I'm bored.  I've packed everything."  And by packed everything, he means the college boy's apartment crap.  The youngest had planned to go back to the University of Tree Hugging, but he changed his mind.  After two years up there, he wants to go elsewhere.  This is his Transitional Soul-Searching Phase.  But my sources tell me he's just enrolled in the SJG University of Fun and Enlightenment.  (Just between us, he's been accepted, but shhhush.  I want it to be a surprise.)  Anyway, we all offered to go up to Santa Cruz with hubby, but he insisted on doing it alone, mainly so he could tell the guys at work about truckin' down the highway with all the other truckers in the middle of the night, all by himself... while his wife waited up for him, worried sick.  Welcome home, hubby.  Where we gonna put this stuff?