Going Somewhere?

There's a mini-fridge in the hallway, parked by the front door.  I came downstairs this morning, and asked, "Going somewhere?"  There are hangers hanging on the sofa. There's a soccer ball on the table where we tend to dine.  Nice centerpiece.  So festive.  There's a basketball, a frisbee.  Bongos, too.  Well, why not.  Drum circles, people.  Howling at the moon.  Come as you are.  Do your thing.  Destination:  Not San Clemente. There's a non-deli spread over yonder.  A smorgasboard of "What To Bring" and "What You Probably Don't Need, But Bring It, Anyway."  Bedding, Extra-Long. Towels and toiletries.  Heavy jacket.  Warm jacket.  Shoes, shoes, shoes.  For sports and hiking and that other thing people do.  It's got a name.  Wait, it's coming to me.  Walking.  You can never have enough shoes.  Am I right?  Of course, I am.  Just humor me, folks.  I'm fragile. 

There are cords and surge protectors.  A printer and a Brita.  A plastic cup or two.  Kleenex and a keyboard.  A backpack full of unread summer reading with names I can't pronounce.  Oresteia.  Persepolis.  Orxyx and Crake.  Heady stuff to pass the time.  Digest it well, my son.  There'll be a short quiz at the end. There's a heap of this, that and whatever.  A suitcase, an over-nighter. Dear God, it's a lot of stuff.  A whole lotta way-too-much.  This morning, hubby and I looked at each other, united in fear. Where's it all going? We're in denial, a good place to be.  Wait.  It's coming to me.  Santa Cruz, the UC.  Santa Cruz, where banana slugs roam free.  And here's the best part, the kicker, the rib-tickler: hubby thinks it's all going to fit in my car.  We shall see.