Am contemplating a more philosophical post for later this week that requires a conversation with my father, so for now, an anecdote:
Ex-boyfriend #6, hereafter to be known as Isaac for referential purposes, had a dog. A 95-pound full-blooded male American Bulldog I’m going to call Skeeter. I hated this dog; he was a very nice dog, somewhere underneath all the jumping on you and slobbering on your clothes and shoving his face in between your legs at the dinner table and eating everything in sight and barking incessantly and mauling animals smaller than himself.
Technically, Skeeter was Isaac’s parents’ dog—Isaac was living at home while he was in school. What Isaac did have was a car, and six years of payments, which was slightly overwhelming for someone with a full-time course load and a part-time job. So Isaac decided he wanted to sell the car, and one day he took his dad to lunch to have a man-to-man with him about his financial situation and his desire to sell the car and buy a used one instead.
Later that day Isaac came over to my new apartment—he was helping me move in, actually—and, backing out of the covered parking spot, scraped the left front bumper against the metal support pole, causing roughly $400 in damage. He got out, inspected the damage, took a couple testosterone-infused kicks at the pole, called me, and came back into the apartment. I gave him a strawberry popsicle to make him feel better.
Finally, he called his dad to tell him the news about the car; his dad took it pretty well but after they had discussed insurance deductibles and collision repair shops, his dad said, “Hey, Isaac?”
“What’s up, dad?” he asked, sensing a change in tone.
“Look, I really need you to keep a lid on your garbage can so Skeeter can’t get in there,” he said. “I’m glad you’re having safe sex, but I just found a condom in his poop and had to pull another one out of his ass.”
So much for our untimely attempts at adulthood.