60 minutes

Over the past week, I’ve had the opportunity to catch up with some friends from high school who now call the left coast “home.” As could be expected, these friends’ time in town was in demand, so after a number of feverish coffee outings, I feel as though I’m quite competent in rehashing 2008 in sixty minutes or less. However, I’m just now coming down off my caffeine buzz, so the rehashing is going to be kind of lethargic – not unlike my energy level during the latter part of fall quarter.

I’d say that my most enjoyable classes this year were my creative writing classes. Not only were they the first non-engineering-related classes I’d taken since returning to Ohio State, but they were fun. My brain was getting a little lopsided from all that math and science stuff. In winter quarter I took a fiction writing class and pounded out my first short story (ever!) in two evenings (and then forced it upon people for months). Prior to that, the only fictional stories I’d concocted were responses to my relatives’ prying questions about my personal life. I like to fantasize that a variation on my short story “Rats!” (that is, rats in pneumatic tubes) could be parlayed into a big screen hit, maybe with little Muppety rats. Muppets make everything better.

Whatever kind of job I find myself working after graduation is more than likely going to follow a nontraditional path for an engineer. Truth be told, I still feel like an impostor engineer, and I don’t really see that sentiment changing anytime soon. My problem with not feeling like an engineer may stem from not being groomed to go into engineering – no one really encouraged me to consider the profession, and no one in my extended family has ever worked as an engineer. I don’t think like an engineer. And I’d convinced myself for so long that I wasn’t smart enough to be an engineer that I still kind of feel that way. It probably doesn’t help that I’m a recovering perfectionist. What kind of genius decides to formulate her own 12-step program to kick the perfectionism habit and then decides to pursue a degree in engineering? See? Not smart.

On the rare occasion I make it to my history/political science book discussion group from my undergrad (part 1) days, I end up feeling confident in my choice not to pursue a Ph.D. in history. The grad students (and even undergrads) who participate in the group are much more intensely focused than I ever was. Or maybe it’s that I find that they take themselves much too seriously. Whatever it is, it intimidates me, and I believe I would have been miserable had I chosen that route.

While 2008 was marked by a lot to mull over in terms of “What am I going to be when I grow up?” and “What have I gotten myself into?” there was also a fair degree of disappointment that didn’t help to bolster any positive feelings about engineering. Sexism. Mouthy, disrespectful freshman engineering students. The insanity of job interviews amid layoffs and hiring freezes. By the middle of fall quarter, I was getting a little desperate for lighthearted conversation with someone: a) not in engineering, and b) around my age. But then the anxiety monster came and clubbed me in the back of the head, and I wasn’t able to snap out of that freak-out funk until my finals were over. I’m better now, though, and the Anderson Cooper Frown Wrinkle™ between my eyebrows has faded. That being said, I’m hoping that 2009 will prove to be kinder. If nothing else, 2009 should prove to be much more interesting.

(I hope you didn’t think that Andy Rooney was going to make an appearance at this point.)

Happy holidays!

Although Charlie Brown annually decries the materialism of the holidays, materialism is what keeps us materials scientists employed. So let’s celebrate materials with a poll! (You’re welcome to choose more than one response – perhaps it’s been a good year and Santa brought you something in addition to your usual gift of coal.)

Book-reading weather

It’s pretty chilly here in Columbus tonight: temps below zero and wind chill WAY below zero. It’s a perfect night for settling in with a good book and a mug of hot rooibos tea. My desk is situated next to a big, drafty, cold window, so right now it feels as though I’m parked outside in my jammies, typing away. Which means that this is going to be a quick one.

*     *     *

Books I’m currently reading (currently, as in within the last week):

The Oxford Project: I happened to catch a segment on CBS Sunday Morning about this a month or so ago. The photos remind me of Richard Avedon’s work, which I love. And stories about regular ol’ people just going about their lives in small-town America – yes, I happen to have a thing for that as well. It doesn’t hurt that the town profiled is just down the road from my birthplace.

The Middle of Everything: Memoirs of Motherhood: This one was written by Ohio State’s own Michelle Herman. The portion I’ve read so far strikes me as more of a meditation on friendship than motherhood, and there have been a number of points in the book where I’ve found myself reflecting on my own experiences. I love writing that does that.

A somewhat gripey aside: I’m still slightly miffed that fall quarter’s non-ferrous class prevented me from taking a writing class with Professor Herman (after waiting seven years for the opportunity – and yes, I realize that this is pathetic). This is one downfall to being in a small department like MSE – classes are offered only once a year, and scheduling conflicts with classes outside the department happen with depressing frequency.

Just After Sunset: Short stories by Stephen King, to get me back into shape so I can resume reading The Stand. And the Dark Tower series. I’m not going to hold it against King that I knew where the first story was going from the start. I enjoy stories that surprise me, and his typically do.

Watchmen: Graphic novel! Superheroes! Fun!

The War of Art: I don’t recall how this book found its way into my pile of library materials, but so far, it doesn’t reek too badly of self-help. I may have called Steven Pressfield a Scientologist at one point while reading it, and then developed this theory about how Will Smith got to star in “The Legend of Bagger Vance,” but I’ve kept reading anyway.

*     *     *

I’m going to excuse myself from all responsibility regarding the quality of my book quasi-recommendations here, especially after I’d admitted to reading Twilight not too long ago. My apologies to anyone who loves Twilight, but UGH. I didn’t make it very far before the risk of tossing my cookies skyrocketed.

What do you need to know about metal?

Answer: Everything.

I’m not a terribly crafty person. I’d probably give myself an “A” for effort (well, at least for the first ten minutes that I try something new), but my art projects never turn out quite as planned. My latest undertaking has been knitting, and more recently, crocheting…though I suppose it would be more accurate to say that my latest undertaking has been knitting, and frequently saying that I’m going to learn to crochet. In the upper portion of the photograph, you can see some skeins of yarn which are neither knitting nor crocheting themselves. Does anyone need a scarf?

I was first introduced to the idea of metalsmithing by Carole, one of my knitting group friends. She’s an extremely talented artist: knitting, drawing, beadwork, jewelry-making – you name it, she’s amazing at it. Often, when we both manage to make it to our knitting group, she’s wearing some of the jewelry she’s made, and it always looks better than store-bought. I usually compliment her on whatever pieces she’s wearing, and sometimes that leads into a discussion about some of the latest materials she’s been working with. And then that leads me to think grandiose thoughts about becoming a Carole-apprentice and learning to make jewelry.

And then I remember that I’m a good cook and you just can’t beat being able to eat what you create. Unless you can wear what you create…which technically, I do a bit of as well when I cook.

Anyway, the photo above is taken from one of the books I’m currently reading in a quest to get different perspectives on metallurgy and art: Jewelry: Fundamentals of Metalsmithing. Also tempting me are the art class offerings at the Cultural Arts Center downtown.

More rambling about the books I’m reading will surely follow in the next few days.

A nice, steaming mug of rejection

I have a hand-painted mug sitting on my desk that holds all of my pens. The mug was hand-painted by me two and a half years ago at La Noche Latina at the Union, an event that I wouldn’t normally have gone to, but ended up attending at the encouragement of a friend from Undergrad: Part 1. The event was actually pretty fun – lots of fancy dancing and good music on stage. On the mug, I painted flowers. I’m pretty lousy at visual arts, so whenever I’m at a loss as to what to draw or paint, I go to flowers, running stick people, or sheep. I kept painting with new colors before the previous color had fully dried, so I accidentally mixed some of the paints on the mug. Everyone oohed and ahhed over the colors, asking how I blended them like that, so I had to respond that my technique was called “ruining the paints for everyone who uses them afterward.” In addition to painting the mug, I danced with some random guy named Alfredo and in the process, met Rachel, who is now a very good friend of mine. (This is one thing I love about Ohio State and, well, life in general – you never know when or where you’ll meet your next good friend.)

Anyway, back to the mug and the way in which it’s constantly mocking me. Up until approximately seventy-one days ago, the mug held two cheap pens and a Sharpie. Now it features a collection of pens from some of the companies who’ve toyed with my heart this fall. It sure would be nice if some of those companies would cut back on recruitment swag and use the money they’d save to fund one more materials engineering position. In particular, one more materials engineering position for me.

(Although Rolls-Royce, thank you for the laptop bag. I’d been in need of one of those for a while now…though not as much as a full-time job.)

Fun things to do in Columbus over winter break

On Monday, December 15, Capital University is hosting the Columbus-area TubaChristmas. This is a fun one to go to and enjoy your favorite holiday tunes performed by a slew of volunteer low brass players. Be sure to arrive with jingle bells and a desire to sing along.

A few years ago, my friend Christy (a longtime TubaChristmas participant) encouraged me to play in the TubaChristmas at the University of Akron, so I borrowed a baritone from my old high school, bedecked the thing with Christmas flair, and then honked a bunch of wrong notes. (In my defense, playing on a baritone mouthpiece with a French horn embouchure ensures many, many wrong notes. It was quite a surprise, halfway through our last performance, when I realized I’d been trying to play everything about two octaves too high.) Anyway, it was a sight to behold, some 250+ festively-decorated low brass packed onto the stage and into the first few rows of the audience at EJ Thomas Hall. And oh, the beauty of the brass. Sigh.

As long as you have some experience playing a valved brass instrument and you’re able to snag a baritone, euphonium, sousaphone, or tuba for the day, you’re welcome to perform at most TubaChristmas locations. (Visit the main TubaChristmas website for information about TubaChristmas locations throughout the U.S.)

* * *

There’s still a little over a week to catch BalletMet’s performance of the Nutcracker. This year I opted to treat my mom to our local ballet company’s Nutcracker show. It’s been twenty years since I danced as one of Mother Ginger’s polichinelles at the Palace Theatre downtown, so it’ll be fun to marvel at the adorableness of those little kids scampering out from underneath Mother Ginger’s skirt during that scene. I’m also curious as to whether the choreography has changed much, because unfortunately, I will probably remember that routine until the day I die.

‘Tis the season for sharing (too much)

“Mom,” I said, stopping to stand just next to her. “Bend over and breathe deeply.”

“Oh, no,” she said, turning to look at me in alarm. “Goodbye, cruel world!”

“Oh my gosh, Mom. I didn’t fart. I’m not that mean.” I stuck my leg out in front of her. “Smell my knee.” She bent over and smelled my knee. “It REEKS of soup!”

She nodded in agreement. “Yeah, it does kinda smell like soup.”

I sighed and walked away, the friction of my jeans causing a cloud of soup-stink to follow me in my wake.

I’ve spent a good portion of the past two days on soup duty at the monastery near my parents’ house. Every month and a half or so, the nuns who live there host a soup and bread sale to raise funds for their utility costs. (They live in an old mansion.)

I’ve known the Sisters for nearly three years now, and I enjoy watching how new volunteers interact with the Sisters: most seem a little uneasy, and some appear to be downright terrified. These nuns are some of the gentlest, most compassionate, and utterly ornery ladies you’d ever meet. By the ends of my visits with them, my face usually hurts from laughing so hard.

Cooking with the Sisters reminds me sometimes of cooking with the other Sisters – the Mormon missionaries – during the two years I volunteered in the kitchen at Project OpenHand-Columbus. Back in my days at POHC (2002-2004), it was located in Summit United Methodist Church on the corner of 16th and Waldeck, just east of campus. The nearby location attracted a fair number of OSU students who needed to fulfill some kind of volunteering requirement, but there were a few of us diehards who just had too much fun at POHC, and we stayed on board from quarter to quarter. This hardcore group included the Mormon missionaries.

I adored my Mormons – they were very sweet, fun girls whose company I really enjoyed. They taught me all sorts of things about Utah and Idaho, they loved soccer even more than I did, and they were generous huggers (which is saying something, since the girls I ran high school cross country with hugged with reckless abandon). Also, they didn’t try to convert me.

I’m a bit of a magnet for the Mormon missionaries, actually. Last fall, I was lovingly accosted by two elders on campus, and after assuring them that I wasn’t interested in converting, I somehow got myself signed up for LDS lessons. Since I’m a bit of a religion nerd, I was totally game for learning more about the LDS church as long as they kept in mind that I was not going to convert. I tried to engage them in intellectual discussions (for example, how Jesus’ ethnicity in artwork generally reflects the artist’s ethnicity, and how it was highly unlikely that Jesus was “American,” as they told me, or “Western European,” as I tried to clarify for them), taught them a few things about the Catholic church, and explained cool stuff from my Jewish history classes (like the Dead Sea Scrolls) to them. Since both boys were planning to head off to BYU after their missions, I felt it especially crucial that I introduce a tiny shred of liberal thought into their brains. After one too many hypothetical questions, though, I was not allowed to talk during lessons anymore. Interestingly enough, since my lessons ended a year ago, I’ve not run into any more missionaries. I imagine that there’s a photo of me down at the ward with a red circle and slash through it.

To volunteer with or donate to Project OpenHand-Columbus, please visit their web page at LifeCare Alliance.

This post has nothing to do with metallurgy

Recently I’ve become reacquainted with television. There are only a couple of shows I enjoy watching, but I usually fall asleep while trying to watch them. My brain gets very excited the moment it realizes it can take a break. It gets on the bodily bullhorn and barks, “AT EASE!” And then I don’t wake up until the 11 o’clock news is on and my cheek has adhered itself to the pillow.

Anyway, slightly more TV-watching has been going on lately, partially due to my brain being fried, and partially due to the addition of a digital converter box. It’s almost like having cable, this converter box. Who knew that it doesn’t actually snow that much inside the law firm of Crane, Poole, and Schmidt? I, for one, feel enlightened.

I am also somewhat amused by the holiday commercials. Apparently, the big ticket items this year are: 1) diamond rings, 2) Lexuses (Lexi?), and 3) electric toothbrushes. At least that’s what’s being marketed to my demographic, the demographic of wealthy middle-aged white folks. I’d always suspected I’d been raised to be a premature 53-year-old, and if my ever-present disappointment in the behavior of the freshman engineering whippersnappers wasn’t a strong enough indication of the truth of my hypothesis, then the jewelry, luxury vehicles, and dental care requiring power beyond the strength of my right arm certainly is.

Of course, it’s not my intention to insult anyone who gives or receives any of these three items. In fact, I once received an electric toothbrush for Christmas. But seeing as how the act of brushing my teeth constitutes the only upper body exercise I see on a daily basis, I felt that sticking with my two-dollar garishly-colored toothbrush would be a prudent choice.

Also, is it only me, or do those toothbrushes in the commercials look particularly jolly? I can’t watch them without thinking that the toothbrushes are laughing and having a grand old time.

Did I mention that my brain is fried?

Friday photo

Poor Nietzsche!

At capacity

Every morning when I wake up, I run across my room to turn off my alarm clock, and then return to my nightstand to put my glasses on. It’s when I put my glasses on that I can see more clearly what’s been going on during the previous eight hours, just by looking at my pillow. Covering my pillow are splotches of information I’d stashed away in my brain earlier in the week.

“They must’ve slipped out my ears,” I say. I try to recall what was said in lecture the day before. Nothing. On this morning, I look at my pillow and see titanium alloy compositions scattered among mismatched photos of microstructures.

“Oh, NO,” I say. With my right hand, I try to brush all of the information off the pillow and into my cupped left hand. The information won’t budge.

I pick up my pillow at one end and shake it vigorously, hoping to send the information airborne. I watch as the lyrics to last summer’s Coldplay single hit my bedroom wall and slide slowly to the carpet. I’m happy to see that I’ve rid my brain of that space-monger, but am distressed to see that the superalloys are still clinging to my pillowcase.

I cock my head to the left as I try to decide my next plan of attack. Within seconds, I feel something dripping down my left shoulder. I look down and watch with horror as everything I once knew about TTT diagrams slips down my upper arm. I cup my right hand beneath the flow of information and guide it back up my arm, across my shoulder, up to my ear. I bend to the right as I shove the TTT diagrams back into my left ear, giving my head a little shake to try to ensure that the information stays put. The force of the diagrams reentering my brain knocks loose the lyrics to MMMBop. I know that these lyrics are so deeply embedded in my brain that they’ll never seep out of my ears at night; they’ll only torment me by rattling around in the depths of my brain at inopportune moments. Like this moment.

Plugging my ear, I run to the closet to grab my vacuum cleaner. This should work! I reassure myself. I hook the smallest attachment to the end of the vacuum hose and flip the switch. The appliance begins to moan and wail as usual as I drag the attachment across my pillow. I watch as Ti64 and Ti17 are choked down by the vacuum.

Yes! I do a little jig of joy as the vacuum sucks up the last of my brain loss, and then I turn the thing off. I kneel down on the floor, open the compartment that contains the vacuum bag, and gently remove the bag, taking care not to spill its contents. I carry the bag into the kitchen, pour some of its contents into an empty bowl, and add milk.

It’s final exam time, and guess what I’m eating for breakfast?