Don’t Be An Asshole. Or, Why the Social Contract SHOULD Still Mean Something.

Back in 1762, Jean Jaques Rousseau wrote a book called The Social Contract, or Principles of Political Right (spark notes summary linked for those of us who haven’t read it since college).

Rousseau said some crazy shit (like that there should be a state religion), but the bottom line of the Social Contract is that people give up some of their rights to live in harmony with each other. You know this is true. If you have ever lived in an apartment, you’ve probably given up your right to play your music as loud as you can. Or to have an epic screamer with your significant other- instead you just angrily snapped passive aggressive things at each other. Or is that just me? Nah, I know it’s not.

Generally, you take up one parking spot in a crowded lot. You use a normal speaking voice to have a conversation in a restaurant. You wait in line peacefully.

People who don’t do these things get shamed. Especially in the age of the internet. We post pictures of crap parking jobs.

Note to self: put chalk in car.

We leave people notes. Some people even have them printed up for ease of use.

We write entire article on the Huffington Post about how to wait in line properly.

A famously misattributed quote, “Your right to swing your fist ends just where the other man’s nose begins,” (good luck finding a correct source for this quote) is a really clear illustration of this idea.

You can misbehave ALL YOU WANT until you infringe on someone else’s rights.

Which is where we get to the kid screaming in the restaurant in Maine.

When you go to the restaurant, you’re expected to abide by the social contract. You’re in a relatively small space with other people around you. Behave yourself. If you are the parent of a child, you are required to both behave yourself, and teach them how to behave themselves.

The problem with that is that kids can’t always behave themselves. Maybe they’re tired, or hungry, or overstimulated, or whatever- and they lose their minds. When that happens, parents, BEHAVE YOURSELF. Your child’s right to be in that space has now violated the social contract. They are infringing on the ability of others to have a meal in a relatively normal environment.

So take your kid out. Get your butt outside- get your dining partners to ask for your meal to go.  Many a parent has taken their kid out of a restaurant due to the child’s behavior. I have done this. My husband has done this. Or we have realized – before ordering, but after sitting- that our child (or children) will NOT abide this meal. And we’ve peaced out.

Parents, you also need to understand that not every place in the world is for your child. If you take your kid into a bar and the woman next to you is talking about how her boss is a complete asshat hamster kicker , don’t bitch her out for using inappropriate language. Your kid is in an adult space. This is a good opportunity to teach your kids about adult words. On the other hand, if she’s hanging out at Chuck E. Cheese and loudly talking about how her boss is a fuckwit douchecanoe, go ahead and give her a chat about appropriate language usage.

AT THE SAME TIME, fellow diners who are without children, either for the night or forever- you’re going to have to chill the fuck out. You were once a kid. If you’re at a restaurant that welcomes kids, there’s going to be a certain amount of kid ambient noise. Even at an early morning or late night hour. It happens. If the kid makes some noise, let it fucking go. How do you think they learn appropriate behavior? How did you learn appropriate behavior? Here’s a hint: it wasn’t by being kept in a cage at home and being fed triscuits. If it was, you have some issues so much bigger than this blog post. Why are you still reading this? Go find a therapist.

Once, my family was at a Mexican restaurant with my dad & his wife, my sister, brother-in-law, and their (now oldest) son. My oldest nephew WORSHIPS my youngest son. When they are together, it is awesomeness- giggling, playing, and hilarity. We’re at this restaurant, and my youngest son decides to go to the bathroom. He gets up to go, and oldest nephew- age 3 at the time- shouts out “WAIT WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”

Because, you know, he was concerned that his BFF was leaving and he wanted to know why. My sister immediately shushed him- it wasn’t like this was totally acceptable behavior and she was explaining to him why that was.

Asshole middle-aged dude a few tables over yells out “SHIT!”

Entire restaurant looks at him like what the actual fuck, dude?

My sister, who has ovaries of titanium, stood up and asked the dude what he was thinking. He said, “I thought we were yelling things.” She bitched him out in a way that I still hold in the highest regard. This was also very good thing since if she didn’t, I feel confident we would have had to bail my dad out of jail as he would have bloodied his nose.

Friends, this dude was being an asshole. It’s not like oldest nephew was yelling constantly. His misbehavior- short-lived and relatively unoffensive- was being addressed by his adult-in-charge. And we were in a Mexican restaurant, for the love of all things chips & salsa. They’re not traditionally known for being serious, white linen type joints. And this one followed tradition.

The bottom line is that parents (regardless of the age of the kid) and non-parents- y’all need to behave yourselves. Appropriate behavior is dictated by the situation at hand. Consider the remainder of humanity when you are in public and how your behavior impacts those around you. Treat people the way you want to be treated. Be polite. Follow the rules for courteous behavior.

I can’t even believe I just blogged about this. Behave yourselves, people.

The Struggle With Stuff

Internet,

If you only know me from this blog, you don’t know that I’m moving. Well, I’m moving. My husband’s job hasn’t been a good fit for him and so he’s cast his net afield. In his particular profession, the jobs are few and far between- emphasis on the far between- so we have put our house on the market.

As someone who is looking at her 8th address in 15 years… and possibly her 4th state, you might think I am an expert at this moving thing.

Dear Reader, I am not. I freak out about it as much as the next person. I have a few tricks that I like to employ, and I have learned via failure of the ones not to employ.

Good trick: use clothes to pad fragile things- it’s like bubble wrap, but you don’t throw it away.

Bad trick: do NOT use shredded paper to pad fragile things. When you first shred it, it’s all fluffy. After sitting in a box, it gets compacted and does not so much do the job you intended. And it’s MESSY.

You may also think that I am good at minimizing what I move, since moving is a lot of work and the less you carry, the less taxing it is.

Again, Dear Reader, I am not. I have tons of crap. I have gotten rid of tons of crap. Our trash service started charging us more in the past month because we’re throwing away too much crap.

I’ve become a bit obsessed with getting rid of stuff. Someday I want to live in a small house. Not tiny, just really small. I want to have less stuff holding me down and more freedom to have what I need and nothing more. Our society is obsessed with that- just google “declutter” and there’s books and services and websites all dedicated to helping us get rid of stuff.

I realized, in a moment of angsty self-reflection, why it is exactly I just can’t give some things up even though I want to minimize the material items I hold… because of the nature of impermanence. We hold on to things that indicate who we want to be. We get rid of what we don’t want to be.

A few years ago, I lost some weight. And as soon as I shrunk out of an item of clothing, I got rid of it. I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I didn’t keep a lot of “skinny” clothes- except for 2 formal dresses for some reason. And now I’ve shrunk even smaller than those dresses, but I still don’t want to get rid of them because who knows when you’ll need a formal dress? I know exactly when: never.

I keep the binders of notes from classes I no longer teach because I enjoyed teaching them. I want to remember the person I was when I was teaching those classes. I loved those kids and I miss them. I keep books I haven’t read – maybe will never read? – because I want to be the kind of person who reads them. I keep books I want my kids to read because I want them to be the kind of people who read them and I want to be the kind of mom who gives them the key to the amazing worlds that can open up when you read them.

But books are heavy and libraries are free.

I realized today why I keep these things-

• When I see the scarf I knitted but never wear because I’m just not a scarf person- I’m reminded of the summer course on teaching gifted & talented students that I had to take after I was certified. I’m reminded of my friends in that course and how they marveled at how I could listen and knit at the same time. How I’ve lost touch with them despite the joys of Facebook, and how I wonder if they’re still teaching.
• When I see the book Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser- I’m reminded of my friend who recommended it to me. I’m reminded of how when we rented an apartment together and when I finished that book, how I threw it across the room and how she sympathized with my feelings about that book. I still hate it, but I’ve carried it with me.
• When I see the book A People’s History of the United States by Howard Zinn- I’m reminded of the first AP US History class I taught and how getting them to discuss things was like putting a cat in a bathtub, but eventually they started talking and I couldn’t shut them up. I’m reminded of the great times we had together and how I hold those memories so dearly in my heart.
• When I see the black formal dress with the beaded flowers- I’m reminded of how I wore it on my honeymoon in 1999 and how I wore it again in 2010 at the last prom I went to when I was teaching in the classroom. And how in between I had 2 kids, moved to a different state, went back to school, changed careers, gained and lost 50 pounds, and lived to tell about it.

And I have to remind myself that if I give these things away, I’m not giving away the memories that go with them.

But sometimes, it’s hard to remember that. And I keep them for just one more move.