WD-40 = ...Victory? Yes. Yes, it does.

My last full day in New York City (yes, I realize this was three days ago, but this post is so necessary): I stretched my long weekend to almost an entire week when my second interview with H________ got rescheduled for Thursday. If I had to sum up the whole experience in one word, it would probably be “WD-40.” Why? Why, I’ll tell you why.

After leaving Marlena’s apartment with Juan to meet her, her friend Sylvana, and one of my sorority sisters, Lauren, I was on my way back to Marlena’s apartment. Being me, I was too terrified to take the subway (during my visit here, we have officially established my list of irrational phobias: the New York train system, airports [but not flying – just airports], stairs [really, though], et al), so Juan put me in a cab back to Washington Heights. I manage to figure out, like any five-year-old could, which key was for the building, and then, unlike a five-year-old, I couldn’t find out which key was for the door lock and which was for the deadbolt. So I squish one key into the wrong hole, it magically breaks off at a very inconvenient place (basically, the whole key was stuck in the lock), and I proceed to attempt prying out the key with my fingernails, resulting in a fair amount of lost blood and jagged, really-not-cute nails.

Panicked, I proceed to call Marlena. She tells me where the nearest key store is, and I walk there, hoping to resolve this situation in the hour I have left before Marlena returns from work. Nope. No such luck. My level of surprise is…oh, right, I don’t have one. Because this kind of crap happens all too often. The first locksmith I call refuses to come “so far” at this time of day (5:00 p.m.?). I get out my smart phone (thank God for something) and Google “locksmith” and Marlena’s zip code. I am in tears at this point. The second locksmith agrees to show up (40 minutes later) for a $40 fee service fee, plus the cost of any services rendered. New item on my list of things that I hate more than those cheap, hideous, knock-off versions of Louis Vuitton purses (I don’t even like the real ones): SERVICE FEES.

Then, there’s the lovely joy of this extortionist ass charging me $165 to drill a hole into the deadbolt to get the door open. Miraculously, at this very moment, Marlena appears, copy of key in hand. We open the door, and Marlena, with her incredible verbal prowess, knocks the price of the new deadbolt from $100 to $75.

Shortly after he leaves and I have paid him with all of the precious cash I really can’t spare, Marlena discovers that the locksmith did an extremely shoddy job of “fixing” the deadbolt. It’s sticking, it’s nearly impossible to lock from the inside – everything’s a mess. We call his cell phone. It goes to voicemail. We call again. Voicemail. We call the company. We’re told a myriad of lies for several hours about how “someone will be arriving in less than twenty minutes” to remedy the situation. After the fourth time we’re told this and no one is here, we’re, oh, just a tad pissed. We call the company. Again. We’re hung up on. Repeatedly.

Around midnight, the same technician shows up, muttering about how he’s only here because of “[his] stupid boss.” Marlena is not happy. And with good reason. When she responds to the locksmith’s snarky remarks, he explains that he’s “two minutes from walking away from this job.” Marlena calls his bluff. “Look, I’m doing this service for free,” he says. “You mean the service we already paid for earlier that you didn’t do?” Marlena shoots back.

Finally, finally, he finishes installing and adjusting all the equipment that he should have done hours and hours ago. I am in utter disbelief that I’ve wasted $300 on this technician who’s about as competent as a fruit fly…post-smashed by a kitchen pan.

Marlena, in one of her most brilliant moments yet, sets her sights on revenge. Sure, it’s petty and childish. But do we care? Um, no. Without my even noticing her do it, she swipes the locksmith’s WD-40 from his equipment. VICTORY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As for the rest of my trip, there was an inordinate amount of drinking with Marlena’s amazing friends. Oh, and Scattergories. And laughter. All the trappings for a perfect getaway. And doors that don’t squeak.

In A New York State of Mind...

So I try not to get my hopes up too easily (I always do, anyway), but my interview at H_____ was AWESOME yesterday. Not only did I know that I answered all of their questions with exactly what they seemed to want to hear but I walked out and, for the first time, I felt no doubt in myself and what I’d said during the interview. I walked out the door with supreme confidence into the city, worrying only about what my references might say about me.

Well, in a strange twist of fate, my former colleague e-mails me this morning congratulating me on the interview, as well as to inform me that my old company has some policy where you can’t list any of its employees as references. If contacted, the respective employee is required to transfer the call/e-mail to HR. Okay, fine… Good? Bad? Either way, the nice guy from HR at H______ seemed to want some sort of contact with my old company, A_____, as a mere formality and he lets me know that the decision has already been made…for me to go onto the next round of interviews! I’m available next Tuesday, correct? Why, yes, sir – you are indeed correct!

Even if I don’t get this job, this is a clear sign that there is justice in the world and God apparently loves me and maybe there is something to be said for all that karma crap. After all, this was one of the first jobs I applied to after leaving A_____, I was contacted for a phone interview the next day, I had an in-person interview the day after that, and today, I’m being asked to move forward in the interview process as soon as I return from New York next week. Oh, and did I mention H______ is one of A_____’s rival companies?

It’s barely past noon and I’m beyond ecstatic. And the day’s only going to get better! In about an hour, I’m off to the train station to see one of my all-time best friends in New York City for a long weekend. I get to sleep in a lavender room. (For whatever reason, I find this highly exciting.) And…I can take a deep breath and stop being the “Virginia Me.” Virginia Me is a lot of things: at times, prim and proper, other times drunk and obnoxious. I fit in all too well with the high concentration of white people in my social circles here (primarily my sorority sisters). Most importantly, though, Virginia Me is the me that evolved from age 18 on, when I left a broken home and shattered past behind.

Virginia Me is missing some very important components of who I really am. Marlena brings out the “Real Me.” In fact, she herself is a huge part of who I am – she has been more than a friend to me over the past decade. She is my sister. We have shared wounds, we practically share DNA, we’ve watched one another spin out of (and back into) control, she has fiercely protected me from myself when I needed it most and I have tried to do my best in return. She is the only person I know who can make me laugh as much as she does. I mean, seriously, I dare you to find someone wittier or cleverer. It’s an insurmountable task. I mean, REALLY:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Epigramess/111866325537964

(If you don’t already follow her on Facebook, you really should…)

And with that, I have a train to catch!