in the throes of lust — aaarrrggghhh

I think it's lust.  Isn't that that uncontrollable desire that can't be sated until you act?  And the act has consequences. And you know it has consequences — and you just can't help yourself because, well — it's lust.  And around and around you go, trying to be rational about the whole thing — but your body's just aching, almost quaking with this desire you can't shake off. I know, that's way too many ache/quake/shakes for one sentence, but that's the trouble, see?  Complete loss of one's senses.

It's the adorable factor.

Michael Pollan wrote The Botany of Desire reminding us of what flowers can do to us.  Don't worry, this post is not about flowers.  I'm just using this as an example.  This post is about much worse than flowers, actually.  But it's not as bad as babies.

I guess there's a continuum of lusts.  Maybe put flowers (or hot cars) at one end of the continuum, and put babies at the other.  And sex, right smack between the two.  This lust is probably on the dial halfway between sex and babies.  And it's fucking killing me right now.

So. Michael Pollan.

Said that flowers are there to seduce us.  Their aroma, their look — they just go way overboard even in photographs to hook us and make us do their bidding. Even in a bulb catalog, those gorgeous combinations of wild colors and design just nail us. And we take out the old piece of plastic, make a phone call, or click our 'shopping cart' and a week later: bulbs to plant in the fall, and flowers that are not so picture perfect in the springtime.  But we do it. And then next year we do it again.

Puppies are more serious than flowers, in the lust department.  And I've been looking at puppy pictures now for two years, thinking it's time again.  Puppy love.  Not random pictures. Not random puppies.  Only Becky Bouchard's Best Shepherd puppies.  Puppies who are relatives of our  gorgeous long-haired German shepherd, Roshi.

Okay, stop.  I know it's vomit factor lust.  The too adorable for words lust. Might as well be babies kind of lust.  I swore up and down that I wouldn't 'do' another puppy until one of two things happened — neither of which have — and therefore I suppose I'm bound to that agreement.  But hell, sex and babies and puppies just don't happen by making rational well-timed decisions, do they?  They just happen.

They happen exactly because we're quaking with desire. Because we're in the throes of lust that cannot be denied.

And then you live with the consequences.  Michael Pollan's beautiful bulbs have it easy.   If that's 'desire' — it's desire lite.  The commitment to our springtime flowers is nothing compared to the commitment to those babies —

Phone call.

She says, "thank you for letting me be the voice of reason..."

Aaarrrggghhhh —

I hate the voice of reason.  Unless it's mine.  Talking someone else down from their irrational desire.  Telling someone else just how much this is going to cost.  Reminding someone else that this is a major long term commitment they're engaging in.  Think. Think about this.  It's not the right time...  blablabla...

But that's the thing with lust. It is not amused by rationality.

All rationality does is piss us off.

"Substitute sex for puppy lust..." she recommends. But no, it just won't work.  Or. Maybe it will work.  Okay, I'll have to try it.  Can you really substitute one lust for another just to come down off this terrible ache?

Drug lust.  That's what it feels like.  Insatiable. Undeniable. Irrational. Intense — and immediate. That's why God gave us evolution, right? We've evolved both rationality and irrationality — and it's the latter that drives us to action.

Think of the long-term consequences, the voice of reason says.  But that takes all the fun out of it.

For the first time in my life I am not making a unilateral decision.  The new girlfriend's "NOT NOW" is rational and reasonable, and right.  And somehow I'm going to try to manage to try to consider being considerate and somehow (maybe) get over this puppy ache.  And that's despite the fact that I've already started negotiating this pup.  I could list all the reasons why she (the pup) is exactly right, and why the timing (which is all wrong) is exactly right.  More blabla.  I do good bla.

Fact is, I'm still completely out of control.

So. This is me on the other side of my rationality.  On the side that actually takes unilateral action.  The side that brought home every stray or designer critter of my life so far. The side that ran off to Europe for three years with my boyfriend. That headed off overland to Afghanistan and ended up at the Nepalese border. The side that got married on the spur of the moment (rationality side says: okay, I needed a visa). The side that made each (glorious) child. The side that got divorced, that bought every house, painted every color. The side that starts blogs, has sex, falls in love.  The side I don't want to control at all.

I'm (somehow) letting the new girlfriend have veto power here.  Knowing how much the rest of the time I actually am in control, and can be the rational being I respect.  Why is it that my lust-side gets to have all the fun — and my rational side has to pay the vet bills for the following 18 years?  Some 'intelligent designer' somehow designed that one all wrong.

This is me, calming down.  Just a little.  Puppy lust is one of the most uncontrollable desires on planet earth.  The heart's still thumping, the extremities still quivering —  Those goddamned photos of the super-cute!  If this weren't happening to me, I'd be close to throwing up.  The vomit factor of gooey cute. I don't know how long I can hold out ... Rational side is saying: next summer.  Wait until those variables are all lined up.  Lust side, says — well, lust side is beyond words...

Antidote?  Dunno.

If it's not sex, I'm just hoping it's not Bud's French vanilla ice cream or designer dark dark chocolate.

the vomit factor

You know this one. There's this couple on the bus next to you, or at the next table — or somewhere, anywhere (but definitely in public) — and they just can't keep their hands off each other. And their lips off each other. And they're pawing each other. And they can't get enough of each other. Or there's the mother — or the grandmother, which is even worse — who's got pictures in her hand. She's forcing them on you. A cute cherubic face at different ages. And now, of course, grandma's got 10,000 more on her iPhone. And you can't escape.

It's called 'the vomit factor.'

I just heard that term the other day. I'd always wanted a name for it, and that's just perfect.

When I was pregnant with my first kid, I vowed never ever ever to be one of those moms. And every time I found myself slipping subtly into my wallet, just happening to also pull out a baby picture by accident, I knew that I too was a perpetrator of the vomit factor.

Luckily, the people I've encountered are a lot nicer than I am. They haven't rolled their eyes and scowled. They haven't turned away. Or yawned. Or maybe it was all internal. Or maybe, so caught up in my own preciousness, I didn't notice. Worse case scenario: the truth.

Anything with the word 'cute' appended to it bespeaks of the vomit factor.

That includes kitties and pups. I carry their pictures too. Plus the 10 million others on the iPhone. Although, my favorite picture that I walk around with and want to show off is the one I took of the enormous banner over the Castro Theater that reads 'Milk' and a picture of Sean Penn as Harvey, with all the glittering neon lights flashing at the same time. I'm proudest of that picture. I remember Harvey well, from the days in his little camera shop. I think my kids can handle that being my favorite shot just fine.

So. This couple the other day. Having breakfast at a place I go with T. There were four of us. And at least two of us were cringing mightily. Probably all four, but I couldn't tell. But we — we were smacking each other's shoulders in utter horror and revulsion. That's when she came up with the term.

The vomit factor.

And there we were having a great Mexican breakfast. And there we were ready to puke.

I'm not sure all four of us noticed, but two of us did, at least. We tried to be polite about it. Tried really hard. We failed miserably.

"Let's never ever do that," said one.

"Agreed," the other one agreed.

But it's a lost cause, really. It's just so hard to self-restrain.

Even with the iPhone, I'm still carrying pictures in my wallet. Happiest-couple-in-America pictures. Happiest-family-in-America pictures. Aren't-they-adorable pictures. Sweet-puppy pictures. My wallet is weighed down with the vomit factor.

There's the more gracious word for it, of course. We call it love. Maybe blind love, is that a term? That kind of love where you can't see that the rest of the planet is just not in there with you. The gushiness. The mushiness. The cute, adorable, and banally sweet.

This is me, intolerant, and yet just as gushy [shudder] as everybody else on earth when it comes to me and mine.

This is me, with apologies to all, for when even unsentimental I slip up and gush in public. Another [shudder] is in order here. And for that couple the other day at breakfast, maybe a better response is to cheer?

Maybe more of that is what we need in public spaces. Maybe a lot more.