Move Therapy

I bought an antique desk on Nextdoor over the weekend and last night Bevan and I drove the half mile from our house to Duboce Triangle to pick it up. Upon our arrival we discovered that the desk, a squat, chartreuse tank measuring four feet wide by two and a half feet deep, was stationed on the seller’s second-floor back patio that was accessible only by way of a narrow, low-ceilinged alleyway. It was during the hauling of said desk through said alleyway that the following conversation took place.

Me: Lower your end, Bevan! I can’t lift mine any higher!

Bevan: I’m trying, Corey! This thing’s heavy!

The Seller: Do you guys need some help?

Me (straining out a smile): Nope, all good! I said lower it, Bevan! Jesus Christ!

Bevan: Thanks for the offer though! You wanna do it yourself, Corey? I’m more than happy to let you try!

The Seller: How long have you two been together?

Me: A trillion millenniums. Tilt it to the right, Bevan!

Bevan: Seven and a half years. I am tilting it to the right, Corey!

The Seller: Do you live in the neighborhood?

Me: In the Castro. Dammit Bevan, watch the corner!

Bevan: Just above the flag. You watch the corner, Corey!

The Seller: That’s close to my office.

Me: Neat! Ow, Bevan! You could have told me there was a pipe behind me!

Bevan: What do you do for work? I would have, Corey, if you weren’t pulling so damn hard!

The Seller: I’m a therapist.

Me: Great! Walk faster, Bevan!

Bevan: A worthy profession! Walk slower, Corey!

The Seller: A couples therapist.

Me: Oh, neat. Lookin’ strong, B! Keep it up!

Bevan: Therapy is very important. Doin’ great, Core!

H Takes Manhattan

My sister caught my five-year-old nephew stuffing legos and a blanket into his backpack this afternoon, the teepee from his playroom rolled up on the floor next to him, and the following conversation ensued.

Kelly: What are you doing?

Harrison: Packing.

Kelly: I can see that. Where are you going?

Harrison: New York.

Kelly: How come?

Harrison: To see the beautiful lights.

Kelly: And what’s the teepee for?

Harrison: I don’t want to pay for a hotel.

Something tells me that kid will do just fine in the Big Apple.

Elton John Lives

We were mixing whites and yolks for a mid-afternoon batch of scrambled eggs today, Sid and I, when he confided in me his latest musical leanings.

Sid: I have a new favorite decade of music.

Me: Oh yeah? Which?

Sid: The 70s.

Me: That’s a good one. Who are some of your favorite artists so far?

Sid: Umm, Fleet Macwood, Van Morris, Elton John.

Me: You know he’s playing the Chase Center in September.

Sid: Really? I figured he was dead.

My Niece Is a Damn Dirty Cheat, or a Two-Year-Old’s Guide to Beating an Adult at a Popular Children’s Game

We were playing hide-and-go-seek before school yesterday morning, my two-year-old niece Ella Rose and I, when, following my discovery of her giggling, pajama-ed frame tucked oh-so-sloppily into a comically well-lit corner of her parents’ bedroom, the following verbal exchange occurred.

Me: I found you!

Two-Year-Old Niece Ella: No.

Me: Yes I did.

Two-Year-Old Niece Ella: No.

Me: My eyes are literally looking directly at you in this very moment.

Two-Year-Old Niece Ella: No.

Me: Yeah they are.

Two-Year-Old Niece Ella: No.

Me: You’re cheating right now.

Two-Year-Old Niece Ella: No.

Me: Yes you are! You’re cheating and lying!

Two-Year-Old Niece Ella: No.

Me: Fine! Forget it! I don’t even care! You win! Are you happy?

Two-Year-Old Niece Ella (smiling): Wanna play again?