The picture above was taken at my 30th birthday party…a co-birthday party shared with my friend Joe.  The epitome of my bachelorette season, though technically I had a boyfriend, who attended that birthday party.  I didn’t have a care in the world.  I was happy and in love.

This is a characterization of the urban bachelorette.  At least my version of it. 

You date, but you don’t really have relationships.  Anyone you do become entangled with, you don’t do their laundry or regularly cook for them.  When you do cook for them, it’s a big deal and for show.

You have a good income, more than enough for your single self.  Your bills take up a third of it.  The rest gets swallowed into the black hole of you-don’t-remember-but-it-sure-was-a-lot-of-fun!!!  And oh yeah, your credit card debt is probably a fourth of that yearly income.

You don’t really inhabit your apartment.  You sleep in it, you shower in it.  You throw shopping bags into it.  Sometimes you chill in it with company.  You rarely eat in it.  Your fridge is a hodgepodge of take-out containers, a lone beer from last summer, and a bowl of tuna fish.  People are only allowed in when it’s presentable.  Your closest friends can come in when it isn’t so presentable.  That’s how much you love them.  And how much they love you.

Though I was in a long-distance relationship, we only saw each other once a month.  When I moved in with him, sobering reality started hitting full force.  What??!!!  You mean I have to stop being a slob?  I have to clean???  I can’t live out of a can??? 

I became a housewife and was quite content with it.  I loved doing his laundry.  I loved folding it just so.  And cleaning, for the most part, was fine.  The only remainder of that former bachelorette self was a pile of clothes on the bedroom floor.  The last hold-out.  I mark a bit of slobbiness as a sign of a creative, if errant and flighty, mind.

I love cooking, but only when someone else is enjoying it.  Someone else who is special.  We ate well.  I made proper meals with meat, vegetables, and a starch.  An average meal took thirty minutes to make, rather than five.

But there have always been convenient staples which have stamped an imprint on my independent self .  I have a longstanding tortilla chip obsession.  It started when I was teenager.  I could vacuum a whole bag with no thought at all. 

When I went to college, it was the advent of the instant mac-n-cheese years.  My parents always brought an entire pallet of mac-n-cheese boxes when they visited me at the dorm.  How terrible.  But hey, what ramen was to others, mac-n-cheese was to me.

In the last phase of bachelorettedom, I gravitated to substandard dinners.  Tortilla chips with salsa.  Popcorn.  Hot fudge sundaes.  Tuna on crackers.  Goat cheese or brie on crusty bread. 

I married these sides of myself.  I consulted a Betty Crocker mac-n-cheese recipe, but I added my own twists. No mustard or Worcestershire sauce.  It still came from the box.  And….

I added my usual bachelorette cheeses.  Goat cheese and camembert. 

The glorious cheese powder.  It wouldn’t be orange without the cheese powder!

The finishing note…pulverized tortilla chips on top!