Country roads, take me home

Thanksgiving weekend marked my annual reunion with Ohio Route 3, otherwise known as the 3-C highway (it runs through Cincinnati, Columbus, and Cleveland). Traffic on I-71 heading out of Columbus is always hideous the day before Thanksgiving, but Route 3 offers a scenic alternative through little dots on the map like Bangs, Centerburg (the geographical center of Ohio), and Jelloway. The route also includes a stretch through downtown Mount Vernon, past Mohican National Park, and through the edge of the largest Amish community in the world. (An aside on the Amish: Roadside signs indicating the presence of buggies were fairly common on road trips in my childhood. Also, my favorite bike trail in Northeast Ohio has signs at each trailhead warning that buggies are not allowed on the path. The Amish in Holmes and Wayne counties are a pretty fascinating group of people – plus they produce amazing cheese.)

In the past, I think I’ve always driven Route 3 in the dark, which isn’t particularly fun because it’s an old twisty, hilly, two-lane highway in the middle of farm country. This year, the scenery was absolutely beautiful as I drove along in the late afternoon as the sun set, casting an orange glow on the fields of harvested corn and the farms sprawling across the rolling hills. I was tempted to stop and take pictures far too many times.

Driving through these rural towns always makes me think that, if left to my own devices, I’m going to end up being some sort of Studs Terkel/Charles Kuralt-esque chick who wanders the back roads of America looking for good stories. I love the character of small towns. I attribute this to my inner history nerd, my love of stories, and the fact that I grew up in bland suburbia. Whenever I spend a day at my grandpa’s house, I like to head out for a bit to roam the streets of the small town in the Appalachian foothills where he lives. This may also explain why this past summer, while driving from Athens to Cincinnati, I felt compelled to drive through Knockemstiff (at the time, I was reading the book of the same name by Donald Ray Pollock). My Knockemstiff adventure was the only time I’ve ever made myself motion sick with my own driving – those Southern Ohio roads are rough. Anyway, driving these back roads provides so much scope for the imagination (to paraphrase Anne of Green Gables).

Here’s some materials trivia about roads: did you know that the orange-ish spots that sometimes show up on concrete or asphalt come from the corrosion of the slag mixed into the surface layer? This is something I learned on a recent steel mill tour, this and the fact that I should make sure, if I’m ever having a driveway put in, that the guys pouring my driveway are not using slag as the reinforcement. I’m sure they’ll appreciate me telling them to keep their steel scum off my lawn.

[Photograph from The 3C Highway.]

Rusty muffins

To answer the question many people have had after they’ve heard about the senior design project that Amanda and I are working on, this is what you get if you pay less than $10 for bakeware:

Rust!

I purchased this muffin pan at Target over the summer in an effort to increase my muffin-baking power. (I may or may not have used muffins as motivation for technicians at GE to bump my projects up in their queues.) Anyway, it appears that this time I let my muffin pan soak in water for too long in an effort to loosen the dried-on blueberry glop. Normally, I don’t let my bakeware get away from me like this, but I’ve been very lazy busy lately. Perhaps expensive bakeware is coated properly so that the base metal doesn’t corrode? I wouldn’t know – I’m too poor to have fancy baking pans. I think I may save up for a name brand pan this time around, though. My muffins don’t need to be sporting any kind of orange tinge.

At any rate, in this case, corrosion is not so beautiful.

*   *   *

‘Tis the season for sharing, and people are sharing colds. This morning in 663, I ended up being sandwiched between two cold-sufferers. Poor Kent was issuing a fine spray of germs into the back of my head at regular 47-second intervals. Amanda didn’t sound too good either. Kent apologized for the coughing after class, and I asked him if he wouldn’t mind hitting the back of my head with a can of Lysol (although the way in which I phrased it sounded violent). Then Nat came over to talk to us, and tapping his throat, he croaked, “Yeah, I’m still sick.”

“GAH!” I said. “I’m outta here!” And then I ran out the classroom door.

It’s too bad that when it comes to illness and the MSE department, you can run, but you can’t hide.

*   *   *

In other news, at some point during this past weekend, it seems I did something funky to one side of my jaw. It could be from talking so much at the interviews on Friday – I’m not a big talker normally, so maybe I pulled a talking muscle. Then again, it could be from trying to smile all day Saturday for the wedding, or from the intense chattering my teeth did as I sprinted from one end of the church to the other, outside, in 25-degree snowy darkness, in a dress that made me feel as though I was actually streaking. Then there’s the possibility that, during all that weekend driving and singing along to the radio in an effort to stay awake, I forgot to unhinge my jaw before attempting to hit the high notes of Boston’s “More Than a Feeling.”

Most likely, I slept on my face funny. It happens.

The last time I did this to my jaw, I was answering phones at the ad firm. I could barely open my mouth without one side of my jaw locking or making a disgusting grinding and popping noise, so there were a lot of times that I picked up the phone and instead of greeting the caller with the standard company salutation, I just moaned.

Unfortunately, I have to go to the dental school tomorrow for a check-up, so I’m hopeful that I’ll be able to open wide enough for them without dislocating my jaw. Lately, my life seems to be just one big series of situations adding insult to injury.

My little chupacabra, part two

I’m sad to report that I won’t be needing to find that chew toy after all – Chester was put to sleep this past week. Before you get all “Holy crap, Caitlin! It was just a flesh wound!” on me, the reason he had to go was because his health was getting to be just too bad. He used to act like a petulant adolescent anytime I got carried away with my affection while holding him. This usually resulted in me exclaiming, “Too much love! TOO! MUCH! LOVE!” as he pushed away from me. More recently, he wasn’t even fighting the love (except for the chomp last weekend, which maybe was just an extra-hard love bite). He couldn’t even be bothered to knock over his favorite white lacy pillow to nap on like a noodle cat (as pictured above), because his tummy hurt him so much.

As a follow-up to the previous chomp story, the cat and I were totally on speaking terms as soon as I slapped the Band-Aid on. I spent a fair amount of the rest of the morning hugging him and smothering him with affection, as usual.

This will most likely win the grand prize for Understatement of the Year, but I was really pretty fond of the little guy.

The most I’ll ever talk about football. Ever.

I’m headed to Indianapolis today for yet another job interview tomorrow. I’ve got Mellencamp’s greatest hits cued up in the car and a smattering of deceptively delicious high-fiber snacks that will most likely require me to take too many pit stops on tomorrow’s drive back to Ohio. One of the last times I was in Indianapolis, police were chasing a white Ford Bronco down the California highways. Perhaps Indiana misses me after all these years.

Probably not.

Also topping the list of exciting weekend events is my final wedding appearance of 2008. My best friend Shari, who I met in Comparative Studies H100 during our first quarter at Ohio State long, long ago, and who I pestered for years before she was finally charmed into being friends with me, she is this weekend’s beautiful bride. Because she’s awesome, I’m not terribly crabby about driving from Indianapolis to Youngstown. She’s particularly awesome because she let me pick out my own bridesmaid dress (I am the sole bridesmaid) and – AND – she’s letting me wear heels. It doesn’t take much to tickle me.

There’s also a big football game this weekend. People like me, those who don’t pay attention to football, make up about 0.001% of OSU’s student population. Last week when I was being shuttled from the Houston airport to my hotel, the driver asked who OSU was playing next. I felt so un-American when I responded, “Um, I really don’t know.” And when Shari had told me that her wedding was going to be on Michigan game day, I said, “Well, then, you don’t have to worry about me bringing a date.” I’d feel evil enough toting someone along to a wedding, one of the most awkward of all awkward social engagements, but to tear that someone away from the epicenter of all football rivalries? Unthinkable. I may not like football, but I know enough not to mess with OSU-Michigan football spectating.

Spreading awkwardness wherever I go

Today, as I was walking across campus to run a quick errand, I was sidetracked by a sign advertising a blood drive in the basement of the SEL. So like a kid distracted by a shiny object, I forgot about my errand and instead lined up for my routine bloodletting.

It ended up working out quite well, as I got to be stuck with a needle a couple times in lieu of being whined at by the 11:30 class I TA. I know this is very irresponsible of me, donating blood when I should be sacrificing my sanity to the 11:30 section, but I think I’ll be able to live with it.

The students are currently working on their team projects during class time. I’ve been trying to encourage them to be creative with their group presentations, because otherwise, these presentations tend to be a big snoozefest. A lot of the time, students will Photoshop the professor’s face into other photographs, insert them into their PowerPoint show, and integrate these fabricated images into the story they’re telling. That is, at least the most memorable groups do.

When I finally got to class, I decided not to spend my entire time in the classroom cowering behind the computer cupboard as I usually do, so I roamed around the room a bit to see what kinds of fun the students were creating. As I walked to the back of the room to retrieve something from the printer, I passed a student who was looking at online photographs of an excessively muscular man flexing, clad only in one of those frighteningly tiny undergarments that bodybuilders wear.

“Eek!” I said, imagining that the 75-year-old professor’s face was going to be pasted onto that body. “Those are some scary pictures!” I should also admit that I have a longstanding fear of large muscles. I chalk it up to some traumatic childhood experience, the memory of which I’ve repressed.

I’d visibly startled the student with my comment, and he immediately exited out of the image window. Any student who happened to be watching my facial expressions as I continued toward the printer would have witnessed the rapid sequence of my amusement, confusion, realization, then horror.

Those photographs were of that student. And I’d just told him that he looked scary.

I tried to sneak past the student as I walked back to the front of the room, hoping that the incident would never be mentioned ever, ever again. As I passed him, he said nervously, “Sorry, you caught me off guard!”

My response, “Um, yeah. Me, too,” was dripping with mortification – I couldn’t make eye contact with him without convulsing into a full-body cringe. I continued to shuffle back to the front of the room, back to my safety zone behind the computer cupboard, which is where I stayed for the remainder of the class.

My little chupacabra

Yesterday morning when I awoke, I felt a weight pressing down on my chest. This was not an unusual feeling during the past week, as I’d found myself reverting to my old frantic perfectionist ways when confronted with intimidating interviews, a last-minute 40-minute-long technical presentation, and a midterm of doom. Luckily, in the case of Sunday morning, that weight I felt was just the cat.

I opened my eyes to see a sweet little gray face in mine and reveled in the little motor chugging away in the depths of the cat. Chester* and I have a close bond – he’s the one who helped me realize my cat wrangler/whisperer talents, and he likes to follow me around whenever I’m visiting my parents, sometimes stalking me to the point of creepiness. I can be wholly consumed by something like brushing my teeth, and I’ll happen to glance in the bathroom mirror and see him sitting there behind me, staring at me. The only thing missing is the soundtrack of shrieking violins.

Anyway, a few minutes after I’d opened my eyes, Chester decided that his work there was done and launched himself to the floor. Seconds later, I heard the sound of kitty teeth gnawing on a plastic hanger I’d left on the floor. Sleepily, I rolled out of bed to extract the cat from the hanger and bring him back to bed for more quality snuggle time. I grabbed the gray furry blob (I’m horribly nearsighted without my glasses) and hugged him to me. Then I made the mistake of sticking my face in that sweet spot below his cheek and above his shoulder. Before I realized what was happening, the cat’s head rotated over 180-degrees, all Exorcist-like, and he held the underside of my chin in a death-chomp. I’m used to playful nips from this little booger, but this time, he was not letting go. I literally had to pry his fuzzy mug off my chin. If you’ve ever had the pleasure of wrangling a cat, you’ll understand that this is no mean feat. I flung him to the floor, tossed my glasses on, and ran to the bathroom to inspect the damage: four distinct puncture wounds, two of which were bleeding quite a bit. I pressed a wad of toilet paper to my chin and wandered out to my dad in the family room.

“Good morning!” he said cheerfully, unaware of the street fight that had just taken place.

I scowled, pointing at my chin while my hair pointed in every other direction. “The cat got me.” After a brief exchange of details, I was fixed up with some hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic ointment, and a gigantic Band-Aid.

The cat and I are no longer on speaking terms.

My request for my dear readers is this: if you happen to know of any thick chew toys (for dogs or cats) made out of the same plastic as Crocs or those LiveStrong bracelets, please let me know. Christmas is coming, and more than anything else, this cat needs a chew toy that is not me.

*The cat was named Chester before we realized his affinity for lying on people’s chests. Also, due to my love of tacking modifiers onto people’s names, he may be temporarily referred to as Terrible Chester, not unlike the cat in the Odd Thomas series by Dean Koontz.

Reason #1 why I cannot relocate to the South

I love snow!

Don’t mess with Texas

View from my hotel

Just thought I’d leave a quick note to say that I survived Houston and my interview. It rained the entire time I was there, which was okay with me because Ohio? Ohio is cloudy and gray for some ten months out of the year. But what Texas has that Ohio does not is nearly-80-degree temperatures in November. It was like a quick visit to Summer for me. Too bad I had to wear a business suit.

Anyway, now I’m off to another job interview, this time with a company headquartered near my hometown. It’ll be nice not to feel so country-mouse-in-the-big-city for this one. And also, my Midwestern accent shouldn’t stick out so much this time around.

Post-election laugh for today

This past Tuesday afternoon, the Hungarian professor for whom I TA was telling the class jokes, as he has a habit of doing. He’s extremely sharp with the cultural commentary, and sometimes inserts song lyrics into whatever he’s saying. The students don’t always catch these – I’m afraid that they may be too young these days to get the reference to the Cranberries’ “Zombie.” But I enjoy his sense of humor, and really, isn’t that what matters?

Anyway, picture it: Tuesday afternoon, Election Day…

Professor: “Are we going to elect a female vice president today?”
Silence from the class.
Professor: “Hey! You know what? I can see Hungary from my front porch!”

Under pressure

These are exciting days here in CaitlinMSE-land, and nothing says “festive” quite like clip art and a post title taken from a Queen & David Bowie duet! Now that the fun of my on-campus interviews has come to a close, I’m staring down three on-site final interviews. Have you seen me lately? Do I look particularly terrified? Yes, I’m not so good at hiding my anxiety, am I? The on-campus interviews, they were becoming old hat, no sweat. Next week I’ll be out of my element on two separate occasions, and that isn’t counting that non-ferrous midterm or ferrous quiz sandwiched between my interview trips. I’m desperately trying to keep everything in perspective, which is difficult to do when you’re treading water in the deep end of engineering. (It’s especially difficult when you’re dealing with the fear that you’re innately a humanities major who just happens to be sporting a colorful engineering candy coating.) My advice to all MSE majors: schedule a very, very light autumn quarter class load your senior year. Also, don’t try to TA three sections of a class four days a week. Otherwise, unless you’re superhuman, you’ll become so stressed by the middle of the quarter that even cheese won’t sound appetizing to you. Cheese! Your favorite!

In an effort to divert my attention from the impending terror of next week, I’ll explain a little about how great Engineering Career Services (ECS) is in helping with the job search. I’ve heard students complain that it’s good only for students looking to stay in Ohio – not true. My interviews are in Texas, Indiana, and…okay, Ohio. A lot of the companies are located all over the country, and yes, a lot of them have branches in Ohio, but many hire for all of their locations. Another benefit of ECS: they bring the interviews to you. I suppose this is hard to appreciate unless you’ve had experience pounding the pavement, hunting for a job. Trust me, not having to drive all over the place for interviews is amazing. And when it comes time for on-site interviews, the companies usually foot the bill for travel. Finally, the staff at ECS is super-helpful when it comes time to make your resume look all buff and toned. Also, if you give the counselors an idea of what you’re looking for job- or internship-wise, they’ll keep an eye out for any special work prospects that come their way and encourage you to pursue those opportunities. The job database is exhaustive, and once you pay your one-time $25 fee, it’s yours to peruse whenever you so choose. You can go hog-wild and apply for any job that’s looking for employees with your credentials, or you can be more selective and just follow the companies in which you have a keen interest. In essence, ECS is well worth the time, effort, and money.