Memories...Like the Corners of My Mind

Hello Ladies and Happy Wednesday!

It was a beautiful, sunny day in Portland today and all the flowers of spring are blooming. Those (sunny days) do happen here more frequently than you'd think. In fact, I'm now convinced the whole "the weather sucks in Portland" thing is a hoax to keep people from moving here. But, I digress.

So tonight I thought I'd post a couple of recent pictures of Ian, which first required me to download some photos into iPhoto. In the process I realized that we took a few pics of him last weekend (St. Patty's Day) in the new house. Which then lead me to start flipping through my photo album of our Arlington house (we kept an electronic album from the pics we took for the sale). And before I knew it, I was singing Babs and my eyes were welling up with tears. Don't get me wrong, I'm totally stoked about our new house. And, I think you'll find that it's basically the complete opposite of our old house. But, I think there's nothing like the fondness you feel for your first home. It was a cute place, if I do say so myself. And I just loved sitting in the glider chair in Ian's room after he was born. But really, there is no point to this except maybe to say I guess I haven't left my "old" life totally behind...yet.

So, to get back to the original point of this post - Ian recently became a full-blown walker. It was several weeks ago that he actually took his first very unexpected steps while we were sitting in the hallway of our rental house. But after that, no real action for a few weeks until we were in CA over President's Day weekend and something inspired him to really start taking steps at his grandparent's house. Since then, he's quickly gone from our little Speedy G crawler to our Speedy G walker. Boy, it happens fast. For the first couple of weeks he walked like Frankenstein with arms out in front and a smile plastered to his face (clearly very proud of himself). Now he's getting a bit more skilled and is starting to master carrying something while walking. We are proud parents.

A Forester I am Not (Apparently)

Okay, so now that I've accomplished my first blog comment (I hope I wasn't too harsh, Cat...I have had a few glasses of wine), I'm ready to tackle my first blog post. So many topics to choose from...new city, new house, new(ish) kid. Yet, one recent experience stands out...my worst job interview EVER!!!

Being new to the blogging world as I am, I'm not going to say the name of the organization for fear that people Googling it might come up with this post (for future reference, can that happen?), but let's just say it's a government organization that has to do with trees (you get the idea, right?). And, somewhat ironically, it's the first government job I've ever applied for.

So, I saw this job posting back in December for this state agency representing trees and that does a lot of educational programs and they were looking for a comm. director to head up their public education campaign. I was mainly interested given that I happen to have a lot of experience at this point in doing public education campaigns for various crazy industries (steel, propane, diesel...need I say more). So, I figured I'd apply because it's worth at least learning more about the position. Well, apparently that was mistake number one: Assuming that I'd have the opportunity to actually learn more from an interview to gauge my interest in the position.

For starters, this was the application process from hell. Not only was it a long application form, but I had to answer four essay questions, no more than two pages each. Questions included:
*What are the elements of a communications plan? Have you ever written a communications plan? What do you feel you could have done differently?
*What's the difference between public relations and public education?

Okay, this is kind of lame, but fine. So I submit my application and for weeks didn't hear anything to the point that I had written them off thinking apparently my essay answers were not sufficient. Finally, in the spirit of "when it rains, it pours", one week when I was in the middle of juggling about five other balls on the job front, I get a message asking me to come in one day the following week for an interview. Well, of course it's not as easy as me just being able to walk out the door of my house without being accompanied by a one-year-old, so I talk with Jeff about what day he can leave work and cover me and then I call back with a message requesting that I do another day where I could get childcare. Then I get a message back saying that I am being offered this one time slot on this one day and I can take it or leave it. Oooookkkaaaay. So, we rearrange schedules so I can make it. Then I am informed that I will receive a letter (not verbally, not an email, but a postal letter) telling me where to be. As you might guess, flags are already going up at this point that this might be a waste of my time.

When the letter arrives, I am informed that I am to bring references with me and that I will be interviewing with a "panel" of people consisting of the director of the organziation and three board members. Okay. Somehow, this makes me more nervous. I keep telling Jeff I'm having visions of going before some firing squad, to which he tells me I'm being ridiculous and worrying too much.

So, interview day arrives. My day starts with Ian deciding he's not in the mood for a morning nap that day (which of course rarely happens), so I spend my time mentally preparing myself and getting back into "business" mode by taking a shower and getting dressed while he screams in his crib. I have no other choice but to leave him there because I have to get ready. Fun. Then Jeff comes home to take over and I leave for the interview. I walk in and it's the most depressing, drab office I've ever seen in my life. I already want to walk out.

Then they call me into the board room. They tell me I am to take a seat at the head of the table. Then they each pull out lengthy stapled questinnaires and tell me that we have one hour (no more, no less) and they will be going around the table asking me questions in alternating order and I should provide brief, yet comprehensive answers to each question. Then I will have a few minutes at the end to ask them any questions I may have. Um, okay. I'm thinking, well, how about maybe first telling me a little more about the organization, or maybe a little more about the position? But apparently that wasn't important. And firing squad, it was. Each question had two, sometimes three parts to it, so I had to do the whole: Um, can you back and repeat the third part of that question? SO WEIRD!! These people clearly had no interest in knowing me or understanding who I was at all. Case in point: I had to start off explaining why my experience was relevant to the position. Fine. So of course I talked about my extensive agency background. And then the next question was: Do you have any experience working in a deadline-driven, fast-paced environment? ARE YOU PEOPLE DEAF????

Seriously, it was a complete nightmare. All they did was go around the table and fire questions at me for an hour while they all furiously dictated my answers on paper. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone. Some of my favorite questions were:
*What is your perception of the image of the foresty industry in Ore. and what are you going to do to change it?
*If we hire you, what will you accomplish in your first six months on the job? (I don't know, can I learn more about the position first????????????????)

It took EVERY ounce of me not to stand up five minutes in and tell them that I needed to leave because this was a waste of my time, and theirs. Unfortunately I've already learned that this is a small town and that would not be a smart idea.

But once I was done in that room, that wasn't the end. Then I was escorted to another plain-walled room where all the employees were sitting around a table and they too had questionnaires and went around the table asking me questions. Even the admin was asking me questions, and clearly had no idea what she was even asking me because when I asked her to clarify one question, that very much threw her off since it varied from what was written on her sheet of paper.

Seriously, I was never so happy to get out of a place in my life when it was over. As I told Jeff, you would have thought I was testifying at a Senate Committee hearing on Iraq instead of interviewing for some po-dunk state agency in Oregon.

Needless to say, they did not call me back to tell me I had been selected for the job. Thank God.

Feeling Myself Up

Ok girls, I have a problem and I don't know what to do about it.

I am frequently catching myself feeling myself up these days. To see if I'm fat. In public.

My obsession with my weight is no longer staying under wraps (um, not that it ever did...) But now I am catching myself frequently squeezing and groping my waist, stomach, and love handles to see if I feel noticeably fatter, especially after I've eaten. But in public, which is not good.

I think this has been going on for some time now, but I have only recently become conscious of it. Like, just now at work I was doing it while at the printer when a co-worker asked me, "Cat, what are you doing?"

"Seeing if I'm fat."

"Oh, ok...."

(They are all scared of me here, I know it...)

I need to stop this, I fear it is becoming a bit OCD and out of my control.

I come from a family of proud belly rubbers. My neices are very proud of their bellies and rub them in public quite often, mostly out of pride. But they are 8, 5 and 2. I am 34. And my belly rubbing is not out of pride.

I fear I am one sick and twisted cookie. Where does one even begin searching the yellow pages for self-groping therapy and rehab? In New York, I am sure this is a valid medical condition covered by health insurance. But here in happy fish-n-chips eating London, where girls proudly display and show off their bare midrifs, usually hanging over their jeans, I might be stuck....

Hola Chicas!

Hola Chicas! I am back from Mexico and ready to start blogging! This is my first time blogging, so be gentle with me. So, yes, back from a long weekend in San Jose del Cabo with Andy. You will not be surprised to hear that all day people at work were saying, "Oh my God I can't believe how tan you are!" Even though I swear I used SPF 30 every half hour, I now look like George Hamilton, minus the gelled hair and snazzy suit. We were at an all-inclusive resort and took full advantage! Emphasis on the full -- I should never eat again. Why can't I restrain myself at a buffet? WHYYYYY????

Actually the worst incident of gluttony took place when we left the resort and ventured into town -- they were celebrating an annual fiesta, complete with rides, booths, and... churros! I bought a bag of 5, but when I pulled one out, another was attached - no problem for the large mouthed! Andy snapped the attractive photo.

And now that we're back, I have become a widow to March Madness. It really IS madness I think. Having gone to school in Canada (a little EBM trivia for those outside the 5 who happen to be reading), I can't understand the hysteria. But Andy is all over it. Sent out his pool, and taking this Thursday afternoon off to go to Sacramento to watch GW play.

In other news, the Reverends visit this weekend - an unprecedented visit without any work-related activities attached; they're just coming to visit. It marks another in a string of visitors we're having this spring - saw Melinda and Jeff last month, which was great!! Samantha & Molly Mandell are coming out next weekend; then Mary and Anna are visiting in April, and then Andy's mom & her beau Pat come in May, as do Jesse & Stephen and Katy & Ann Elizabeth Montgomery. I hope they like house hunting! Kate, you'll have to give them all pointers for how to be a good quasi realtor. We've bid, and lost, on three houses, and I am ready to win!! There are some cute ones in great SF neighborhoods - we just have to act fast.

Dressing Room Wrestling...Game On

It begins girls. As you all are well aware I have an addiction to buying bathing suits likened only in intensity to a cocaine problem. The faintest glimpse of a bathing suit section in a store, catalogue or online and I'm uncontrollably salivating feeling myself pulled there with some giant invisible magnet.

Being in London now (during my time of exile) there are SOOO many shops and I've been surrounded by the bright colors, fun patterns and great accessories. I've nearly had to call Cat twice from a store to ask her to talk me down. "Put the suit down Kate you don't need it!...It will only bring you pain!"

Now if I had the supermodel body I would feel justified in buying thousands of suits as I could run around anytime I wanted in one of these things and feel justified - why not I look good! HOWEVER...not the case. Bathing suits hold such fascination for me on the rack and make me believe I would look good in them. This is where I have hysterical memory loss about my own body. What the hell I know what I look like, where do I become do delusional that I think my body has magically morphed into Heidi Klume and I should don a bright yellow string bikini?

So this inevitably leads to me dragging 16 suits into a dressing room and being stunned when the bathing suite looks like shit and then triggering me to feel like shit and go eat 25 baguettes. nice.

I currently own 12. Yes girls 12!!! That's just ridiculous for someone who #1 lives in Holland the land of friggin bad weather and access to the frigid North Sea, and #2 goes to the beach once a year!

However our planned summer vacay to Cape Cod has rallied a kind of bathing suit hysteria that is until now unmatched. I am rabid. Everywhere I look I see them - I LOVE them - and my baguette count is getting dangerously high.

Agression Therapy

So, I just joined a trendy new gym 5 minutes ago. Was going into Starbucks to blog and passed this place I've heard raves about, so I stopped in and joined. It's a new gym called GymBox and it's totally rad -- sort of looks like you're in an Ian Schraeger Hotel (the Hudson Hotel in NYC to be specific...think yellow neon everywhere!)

There is a bit of a "Fight Club" theme. I got a pair of snazzy red boxing gloves for joining (cool!). There is a boxing ring in the middle of the place, several levels and there is a live DJ that spins the tunes every night!

But what I really like are the classes, which include "Bitch Boxing," "Fight Club," "Hula Hips," "Pole Dancing," "Hip Hop Honeyze," "Volcanic Vibes," and "Brazilian Ju Jutzu."

Even the website is cool -- check it out:
http://www.gymbox.co.uk

I've been told recently that I'm a bit aggressive. Maybe even angry. But you gals already know this well. Anyway, this gym may be the cure. (Even though I think I kinda like being aggressive and a little angry...it's comfortable). To be continued...

OK, gotta run, I am late to meet Kate and our friend Alyson for Saturday night fun....I'm loving this deportation business!!!

DE-PORTED!!!

We all knew it had to come crashing down at some point right? The Cindarella story that found me moving to Amsterdam, landing a magazine spread and meeting fabulous friends instantly was just tempting karma to wing a curveball at me right? Well forget curveball, Karma has flung a giant boulder at my head and is now laughing hysterically at me.

It would seem that the ease of my transition was a bit too easy. I was in a meeting in London a few weeks ago, checking my email when I got the following note from the relocation agency: "Miss Milner. We have received a notice about your visa from immigration. You should get a copy at your house as well. We are working on this."

'We are working on this?' uhhhhh that doesn't sound very good. Methinks there's a problem? I then get a voicemail from my boss who was trying hard to remain calm telling me that my work and residence visa had been REJECTED meaning I may have to leave the country. CALL ME!

One very good benefit of being completely snowed under at work feeling like you are barely handing on juggling 1,000 balls which could all come crashing down at any second is that there's only so much you can stress about before you've just got not more room. I had reached that point so for some reason I didn't seem too bothered by all this. Ok, it could have been that or it could have been that I was staying in London for the weekend visiting my friend Cat whose boyfriend had just broken up with her and we had a full agenda of fun nights ahead of us. Afterall I figured there wasn't anything I could do about it anyway so why ruin my weekend.

Monday morning rolls around and after being relieved that I didn't get stopped or stripsearched re-entering the Netherlands on Sunday I met with my boss to get a more full description of what the hell is going on. It seems that there was a technical glitch in the payment of my visa application. nice. The result of this lovely fiasco being that the Dutchies have deemed me undesirable to stay in their country so I am booted out! WTFMF!?!?!?

Being the obnoxious American the first thought that came to my mind was...WHAT? I'm American - EVERYONE wants us! Are you kidding me!?!

So I've taken refuge in our London office. I know I know, life could have been A LOT worse. I easily could have been sent to anywhere, but thankfully London was an easy pick. So I am Persona Non Grata...Man Without A Country...A REFUGEE! ok that's a bit dramatic.

Thank god my good friend Cat is here to help me fill my time. Shopping, parties, friends, I could get used to this!

So...if you get a knock at the door from the Dutchies asking how you know me, my personal habits and if I have any terrorist ties please don't mention my penchant for hording the ONLY banned substance in Amsterdam - Sudafed.

The Five of Us

Here we are at Erica's wedding in October 2005. Aren't we pretty?
(From left to right: Molly, Cat, Erica, Kate and Melinda)