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I am a bachelor. I came to this
realization after my daughter, on one of her visits. complained
that there was lipstick on the mouthwash bottle. I always swig it
right from the bottle ... why not? I’m the only one who uses
it. The words just flew from my lips like Listerine,
“Mommy’s a bachelor.” It made sense to her. It
made sense to me.
We have all seen bachelors in action,
whether on TV or firsthand. There’s the kitty litter tracked
through the house, the pool table in the living room, and the empty
egg carton and milk bottle in the fridge. Many times the evidence
is a little trickier to spot. The bachelor may have an immaculate
apartment, but he’ll forget to unlock the passenger side door
of the car as you stand there waiting to get in. The sheets may
smell a little “gamey”. The salt has congealed to
carvability in the one shaker in the house, and it’s in the
peppershaker. Clothes are in dry cleaning bags. There is no dental
floss in the medicine cabinet. There are no “guest
tampons”, but there are PLENTY of condoms. His unopened mail,
junk and otherwise, requires it’s own kitchen counter.
A bachelor usually lives alone, so does
not remember how to share. He really doesn’t have to.
There’s no one to take offense at the empty ice cube trays.
There’s no one to complain about the litter stuck to the
bottom of their feet. He doesn’t have to worry about being
home for dinner, or even having dinner. He doesn’t care about
the position of the toilet seat. The bachelor is the king of his
castle. Within his realm, he can be or not be whatever he wants.
Selfish does not come into play when only dealing with the
self.
I am a bachelor. My refrigerator gets down
to nothing, but I ALWAYS have macaroni, I buy milk, but it usually
goes bad before I think to use it over the healthy cereal
I’ve vowed to eat every morning instead of Doritos. How long
can you keep a box of cereal if you haven’t opened it? What
about fish? I stand at the kitchen counter to eat, a typical
bacheloresque thing to do. I eat bachelor food. I often make
Triscuits (low fat ones) with sliced green olives, hot sauce, and
provolone on top. I stick those babies in a microwave for just
under a minute and VOILA! A dinner to die for. I also make a mean
whole-wheat pasta dish with lima beans, Hunan hot pepper oil, and
tons of Smart Balance butter. Ooooo, BABY!
I can wander around in my robe on a Sunday
for hours with bed-head hair, and not cute bed-head hair like Meg
Ryan had in Sleepless in Seattle... more like Don King. I
don’t wear make-up, and I walk around in my favorite purple,
cotton socks with holes in the bottom. No one looks at me and
wonders why in the world he EVER wanted to marry me. I can be
gaseous in my abode ... impressively gaseous.
And I can swig my mouthwash.
This is the thing. I believe the time has
come to make people aware of our sexist vernacular. I believe men
and women can start using words where they were not used, and stop
using words where they were. If we make a concerted effort,
I’m confident that it’s possible. A movement is
afoot.
Why, for example do single men have nifty
handles? Men, of a certain age, are “confirmed
bachelors”, or unmarried men, or single men, or men who
can’t be “tied down.” Single women, of a certain
age, are “spinsters” or “old maids”. These
are words that conjure images of little white-haired ladies with
lacey collars, floral print, polyester dresses, support hose, and
sensible shoes, who always smell of lavender or gardenia. They have
many cats. They knit. Don’t get me wrong. I love white-haired
ladies with lace collars. Some of my best friends are white-haired
ladies with lace collars...
Why? WHY don’t women get the good
words?? If you’re a man and you sleep around, you’re a
“philanderer” or a “player” (pronounced
“playa”). Philanderer almost sounds intelligent, and
playa sounds downright FUN. But women who sleep around are
“sluts,” ... .... whores,” “cheap”,
or worse.
So, in the spirit of fairness and
enlightenment, I have begun to use bachelor when referring to
single women, or myself. I do not add an “ette” at the
end because that makes it cute, or tentative, and somehow smaller,
like dinette or kitchenette. I do not believe the word has to have
a gender qualifier. After all, women in theater are now actors, and
rightfully so. A good friend of mine has taken a vow with me that
the spinster or slut words will never cross our lips when referring
to women. Women, by and large, tend to be the worst propagators of
negative handles when referring to their own gender.
I have assigned the word
“slut” to men who sleep around. Call it what it is
gentlemen. Let’s not pretty it up because somehow the
behavior was deemed acceptable, or at the very least, expected of
your gender. That pro basketball player was a real slut. That feels
right. And a bachelor by any other name is still a party of one and
easier to seat.
Debbie Cashon Klein is a Safety Harbor
resident.
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