I am a mid-twenties doctoral student, in a large Midwestern university. I am female and single, and heterosexual. I have dated a lot and had a couple of serious relationships (and have been told I’m great in bed), but never with an American. I am of Swiss, Dutch, and Anglo descent. I show up in famous paintings sometimes; here is a good one. I am very interested in having an academic job. My grandfathers’ ancestors were academics and theologians; my grandmothers were housemaids. WWII ruined college for all of them, and I’m hoping to be the generation that gets it back. My first solely-authored publication, in a peer-reviewed journal, came out this (or rather last…) month.
I am neurotic. I live in an apartment and loathe it; every noise my neighbors makes gets on my nerves. I spend most of my free time designing and looking at house plans, preparing for the day I have one of my own. I adore houses, and all the things that go in them. A lot of my disposable income goes into chintz curtains and down pillows and Spode plates. I have recently discovered that my university’s library is a very useful resource; my latest triumph of knowledge was evidence that differentiated forks, knives, and spoons are a 20th-century invention and that I therefore don’t need fish knives to be respectable.
I do have a heavy share of domestic talent, to gird up the materialism. I am a very good cook (with special credentials in Indian and Mediterranean cuisine) and a reasonably good house-cleaner. I sew, quilt, knit, crochet, and embroider when bored. In the past I have stitched temari and done mehndi. I read a lot. I read The Straight Dope a lot. I post to my LiveJournal a lot. Sometimes I even do some reading and writing for the classes I take–and I take rather a lot, for a graduate student. Classes are hopeless, for me; I do what I need to scrape out an A, and put my real energy into burning questions–like fish knives.
I dress well; I overdress, rather. I like tweed, and cashmere sweaters, and lovely thick scarves. I love jewelry, especially pearls. I hate being cold and wet, and gird myself against it. I love good movies, paintings, sculpture, and music. I view Europe as a theme park. If I’m going to bear the jetlag and uncomfortable beds and incompetent hotel staff, there had better be some cathedrals and museums to make up for it. I took French in high school, and it has so wormed its way into my subconscious that I speak it, suddenly and rather well, but only when under duress. For a while, a sweet young Frenchman kept calling me to say that he loved me very much, and could he speak to Derrida. That has stopped now, obviously. Consciously, Italian has polluted my French, and as a result I speak my own charming and expressive dialect of “Romance language.” I have also dabbled in Swahili.
I’m pretty damn in love with myself.
