If you have ever gone for a walk with a bitch in heat, you know that scent is a powerful message in the animal kingdom. Empirical research seems to argue against the existence of human sex pheromones, but there sure are a lot of spammers who would have us believe otherwise.
I have given the topic considerable thought, and I can say quite confidently that I can now reconcile these two seemingly contradictory points of view. Human sex pheromones indeed DO exist. They just don't work as attractants for the opposite sex--that's why the research studies have so far failed to reject their null hypotheses. What human sex pheromones do NOT do is attract your mate. What they DO do is attract your CHILDREN.
I have observed that our children have an unerring ability to detect any hint of amorous stirring when my wife and I are together. A simple hug and deep kiss is enough to bring them running from the opposite end of our 6500 sq. ft. home. They don't know why they are all of a suddeen in desperate need of getting our joint attention RIGHT NOW! They will come and physically insinuate themselves between us while chattering away, making any hope of liaison vanish completely. If asleep, they will waken. (This seems especially true in the early morning pre-dawn hours.) Because the effect is diametrically opposed to the idea connoted by the general use of the term "pheromones", I have proposed that the newly identified factors be referred to as "sexomones."
This sexomone effect has been consistently demonstrated by all four of our children in turn. The response has been most pronounced in neonates, and it seems to weaken steadily with advancing age. Upon entering puberty, there appears that there may be a "polarity reversal" of the effect wherein any hint of parental sexuality sends the adolescent bounding from the room, preferrably to a different floor of the house. I admit that I am less certain of the changing adolescent sexomone response, because so far only the first of our kids has hit that particular developmental stage. Replication of these observations must wait, for now.
Because the sexomone phenomenon has been so pronounced for us over the last decade-plus, we have become completely convinced it is a real effect. For a while it seemed to be a almost a running joke for us. Some joke. Sure a pratfall can be funny, but when it repeats over and over and over, it becomes nothing more than pain in the ass.
Sexomones seem to function only if the two of us (my wife and I) are in proximity. Gearing up for a vigorous session of masturbation (thankfully) doesn't seem to have nearly the same propensity to pring the preschoolers barrelling through the bedroom door. Conjoint non-sexual nudity, e.g., showers, baths, trimming body hair, etc., does not cause the sexomone effect to be manifest. A fully-clothed grope and grind will. It rarely fails.
The scientist in me wonders, "Why should our species be equipped with this kind of anti-sex pheromone? Would it not be counter-adaptive in propagating one's genes to be subject to this sexomone effect?" After some discussion we have concluded that the evolutionary pressure favours the emergence of sexomones because offspring (ours) of sexomone-producing adults (us) have a vested interest in reducing competition for resources from potential future siblings. If they can detect and prevent us parents having a good romp, then they are less likely to have a baby brother or baby sister to contend with. Selection pressure does not give a rat's ass about whether a marital relationship suffers, apparently.
Knowledge is power. With an understanding of how these sexomones work we have been able to adopt counter-strategies to beat natural selection at its own game. Together my wife and I have succeeded in producing a higher-than-statistical-average number of children. While this may not help the selfish genes of any one of our equally selfish carpet-apes, it has allowed us to more extensively propagate OUR genes. More importantly, it has made it so that the kids can't come between us quite so often.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Friday, December 1, 2006
Honestly...
Although Canada is not entirely a land of perpetual ice and snow (there are areas that broadly fit the description, but the vast majority of the population eschews them) winter does inevitably bring some of the white stuff. It had snowed off and on for several days. Altogether, there was about 20-30 cm of snow in my office parking lot.
Normally, that would not be too much of an issue, because a business would have an arrangement in place with a snow-removal service to deal with this sort of thing. Like much of life, this moment did not quite qualify to fit with the concept of "normally". My office had only officially become mine a few days earlier, and we had not yet moved into the building.
The contractor doing the leasehold improvements had finished just as the snow began falling. I was there alone, with a touque, a telephone, and a rapidly cooling paper cup full of dark-roast. And, the movers were on their way into town with all our stuff.
I found out how truly kind and considerate my fellow Canadians are, as I called around to get a Bobcat service to come and clear my 20-metre square lot. Not a single operator laughed at me (at least, not loud enough to be heard over the phone) as I was being told that they were either "swamped" and unable to consider us for several days or that they themselves were staying put and not heading out until after it stopped snowing. Being a relatively quick learner, it only took eight or ten of these calls before I concluded that, as usual, we were on our own. And, the movers were still coming.
Snowshovel in hand, touque on head, I went out to exert mastery over our newly acquired little piece of the environment.
It was going reasonably well. Slow, dreary and soul-destroying, yes, yet no more so than I expected. For the first two hours I chipped away. Literally, as the 15-25 cm soft fluffy icing-like layer hid a 5 cm ice layer fused to the exposed agregate of the parking lot surface. Occasionally the rattle of apporaching diesel fuel injectors would interrupt my stream of muttered epithets and I would look up to see if it was the now overdue moving truck. Usually it was a 4-wheel drive pickup carrying its occupants on some unknown errand. Most disheartening were the plow trucks that rolled past, not coming to my rescue, not slowing down. Not even a sympathetic nod from the driver. As I said, it was going reasonably well. I had not yet pierced the toe of my boot with the corner of the snowshovel that had been honed to a savage edge by the conctete of the driveway. My supraspinatus tendons were at that point still intact and causing no pain whatsoever. No road salt had yet worked its way under my upper right eyelid. I was just busy, exasperated, and peeved that I had to be doing manual labour when there were clients I could be billing instead.
About that time, a figure walked up. His trouser cuffs were tucked into his boot-tops. His hands jammed deep into the pockets of his parka. The tip of his HS810 was just peeking out from under his touque. "Are you open?" he called. I recognized the voice immediately as one of my regulars. He had known about the move from being in to see me at the old out of town office on the last day before we shut it down to pack and portage. He had also taken away a notifcation card that gave the address of this new place. Clearly, he had read the card. Perhaps not the part about our openning date though--it was still three days away.
"I called your office but there was no answer. I was in the neighbourhood anyway, so I thought I would drop by. Are you open?"
God bless him. He offered to help me shovel.
Normally, that would not be too much of an issue, because a business would have an arrangement in place with a snow-removal service to deal with this sort of thing. Like much of life, this moment did not quite qualify to fit with the concept of "normally". My office had only officially become mine a few days earlier, and we had not yet moved into the building.
The contractor doing the leasehold improvements had finished just as the snow began falling. I was there alone, with a touque, a telephone, and a rapidly cooling paper cup full of dark-roast. And, the movers were on their way into town with all our stuff.
I found out how truly kind and considerate my fellow Canadians are, as I called around to get a Bobcat service to come and clear my 20-metre square lot. Not a single operator laughed at me (at least, not loud enough to be heard over the phone) as I was being told that they were either "swamped" and unable to consider us for several days or that they themselves were staying put and not heading out until after it stopped snowing. Being a relatively quick learner, it only took eight or ten of these calls before I concluded that, as usual, we were on our own. And, the movers were still coming.
Snowshovel in hand, touque on head, I went out to exert mastery over our newly acquired little piece of the environment.
It was going reasonably well. Slow, dreary and soul-destroying, yes, yet no more so than I expected. For the first two hours I chipped away. Literally, as the 15-25 cm soft fluffy icing-like layer hid a 5 cm ice layer fused to the exposed agregate of the parking lot surface. Occasionally the rattle of apporaching diesel fuel injectors would interrupt my stream of muttered epithets and I would look up to see if it was the now overdue moving truck. Usually it was a 4-wheel drive pickup carrying its occupants on some unknown errand. Most disheartening were the plow trucks that rolled past, not coming to my rescue, not slowing down. Not even a sympathetic nod from the driver. As I said, it was going reasonably well. I had not yet pierced the toe of my boot with the corner of the snowshovel that had been honed to a savage edge by the conctete of the driveway. My supraspinatus tendons were at that point still intact and causing no pain whatsoever. No road salt had yet worked its way under my upper right eyelid. I was just busy, exasperated, and peeved that I had to be doing manual labour when there were clients I could be billing instead.
About that time, a figure walked up. His trouser cuffs were tucked into his boot-tops. His hands jammed deep into the pockets of his parka. The tip of his HS810 was just peeking out from under his touque. "Are you open?" he called. I recognized the voice immediately as one of my regulars. He had known about the move from being in to see me at the old out of town office on the last day before we shut it down to pack and portage. He had also taken away a notifcation card that gave the address of this new place. Clearly, he had read the card. Perhaps not the part about our openning date though--it was still three days away.
"I called your office but there was no answer. I was in the neighbourhood anyway, so I thought I would drop by. Are you open?"
God bless him. He offered to help me shovel.
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