How Else Can I Accommodate You?

Coddling in a snarky, endearing, and warped segmented memoir

Jun 29, 2023

In The Foxhole, my she-shed office. Don’t ask me to do anything for you.

It’s been a pensive week for me, so that naturally made me add tags to my posts. (Can you see them? I can’t.) “The Gnawing” tag is for those posts where I’m shooting the breeze or dissecting some writing or life attribute. “The Cavity” signals you’re reading a previously published work for which I’m particularly fond. (How lucky for you to have the opportunity to catch up!) Finally, this post introduces my favorite tag, “The First Cut.” TFC posts will be pieces that are new and odd, most likely having been rejected multiple times.

“How Else Can I Accommodate You?” is a delightful mess in five segments. I don’t like explaining my quirky pieces, so tell me what you think in the comments.

“How Else Can I Accommodate You?”

Help Ticket #1: Toxic C*ck Syndrome

My dad said he didn’t feel comfortable about it. And after all, this was about his comfort, right?

Oh, nope. This was actually about my comfort as I wondered why I couldn’t use a tampon during my third or fourth menstrual cycle of my life. As thirteen-year-old me worried about leaks and odor, my dad worried I might like the feeling of a cotton plug in my vagina and get off, or, even worse, probably turn into a lesbian. I don’t remember.

Huddled in the bathroom, my mom divulged my dad’s fears with her mocking New York accent and prolonged eye-roll and handed me a tampon.

Apparently, my dad thought I was in danger of sexual arousal during a monthly act I didn’t label as very sexual.

My body was an involuntary receptor for sin, an assumption I was trying to be deceitful.

But I wasn’t… with tampons.

I already had a handle on pleasuring myself on my own. No worries, Dad.

And, so sorry I’m bi, though.

***

Help Ticket #2: Don’t Save the Ta-Tas

The sprinkling of chlorinated water startled me as we waited for our turn on the simulated surfing ride at the water park. My husband was leading youth, and one pastor made a comment questioning why I would come on this trip in a two-piece bathing suit… without the responsible cover of a dark-colored t-shirt.

Forget the fact I had seen his wife in a two-piece countless times. This was different because the teens were present, and I was a role model.

I failed. My cheeks set ablaze. My posture ratcheted down.

I looked over at one of our middle school girls who was already very busty. Even draped in a trash bag, they would label this poor girl a “Jezebel.”

The trash bag would probably hinder her ability to swim in the wave pool, bringing her demise, but at least that would prevent a handful of men from stumbling into temptation.

Hate the sin, not the swimmer.

***

Help Ticket #3: Delinquent Account

“No, no, please don’t take me anywhere fancy.”

“But I want to treat you.”

I ordered a vodka soda and ahi tuna.

He ordered an old-fashioned and a main course of complaining about his pharmacist-wife and her boyfriend. His whining remained like that one sticky spot on the kitchen floor. In fact, I would have preferred mopping linoleum over this extravagant dinner.

In the parking lot, I thanked him but told him I wanted to go home.

His mouth dropped as he removed a paper grocery bag from his car. I knew it was full of sex toys to use on me.

“But why?” he asked, inviting himself into the safety of my breathing space. The branches of a prickly tree behind me poked my flesh.

“Tell me everything you don’t like about me,” he continued.

Thankfully, another couple kept their eyes on us. Thankfully, he noticed.

“But you owe me.”

My backbone and voice grew in substance. “I’m going home.”

His whining got digital via blowing up my phone in texts until he exhausted his tirade with:

“I’m sad.”

It’s okay. His wife has access to Lexapro. For herself, of course.

***

Help Ticket #4: Bedtime at the Mental Recycling Plant

His messages come into my digital nursery as a nagging lullaby. My eyelids slip down, but my mind needs to be sharp and my heart deliverable.

He needs me for support, and I really do care for him. Our alluring yet toxic landfill is ripe with the secrets that overflow from each other's voids.

But the unbalance is stark. Numerous times I’ve deleted my confessions because his kept coming in hot and heavy. This is his version of foreplay. We jump back and forth between the sheets and his cycle of defeats. One minute his sexual muse and the next his mommy-therapist, I soothe his body and ego repeatedly, aerating the decomposition.

I want to say no. I cannot store his perishables. It’s his cowardice and complacency that prevents him from doing his own sorting.

He imagines escape via paper airplanes.

He searches for genies in plastic bottles.

He stomps over plump flesh as he juggles his glass heart.

But I push aside my own needs, get my proverbial shovel, and gather up enough wisdom from four decades of life to dole out a response to comfort him.

Now I understand why people say recycling is too expensive.

***

End of Day: Meeting with the Bosses

I continue to spoon-feed as I give my report and go through my closing procedure:

In your lap, I take on your pain and coddle your doubts.

In your ear, I whisper woven affirmations to make you feel whole:

“Baby, I will absorb your insecurity and ignorance.”

“You are so brave, love, in keeping yourself tame when I involuntarily tempt you with my flesh.”