I travel for work. Actually, my husband travels for work and sometimes I go with him — one of the main reasons we got married was because we like spending time together. The other reasons are more complicated and require the kinds compromises that are rarely rewarded with air-miles.
I’m a sorta-housewife. Mostly because, since moving to London, I haven't been hired anywhere. Sometimes I go on interviews. Admin, officey kinds of jobs — positions I don’t really want where half-way through the interview I have to bite my lip and try not to disintegrate. No, I don't have a good example of a time I provided outstanding customer service.
I have a bachelor’s degree in Life Experience. And Anthropology. Mostly Anthropology. I can participate-observe the shit out of the grocery store and I’m really good at knowing exactly why I don’t like most people — especially men who wear sandals or anyone who uses French in a conversation that is not occurring in French. I also dislike five-dollar words and ten-dollar cocktails, and I am precisely as charming as you probably think I am.
And that’s why I would like to work in your office.
Actually, I'm really torn between wanting to earn money and wanting to write all of my cover letters as poetry. I favor haikus. Sometimes dirty limericks — because I am nothing if not a traditionalist. For the right job I might write a sonnet, but I cannot begin to guess what the right job might be.
Most days my husband goes to his office and then I do the same thing I’ve done for a long time — whether we're in Tucson or Tunis. I find a café with good windows and I watch people walking by. Sometimes I write. And I spend a lot of time thinking about what it means to be an anthropologist, while not being an Anthropologist.