I am officially “the bitch who lives downstairs.” Such a title is not something one is lucky… I am officially “the bitch who lives downstairs.” Such a title is not something one is lucky enough to merely stumble upon, nor is this a reign that is held temporarily. It is a hard-earned, permanent position that is bestowed without request and has no chance of ever being refuted. It has uncanny similarities to the characteristics of horrendous sweaters knitted by grandmothers that are later distributed to favorite grandchildren as gifts. In addition to adjusting to living with new roommates, meeting the new neighbors is always an exciting event that comes at the beginning of each school year. Each year I keep my fingers crossed in the hopes that ridiculously sexy, soon-to-be rock stars set up camp next door. As fate would have it, I’ve always been left with a bunch of chicks. I really don’t have the foggiest idea who any of these gals are. I know their names only from the tag on the mailbox, and recognize them only en route to the laundry room. I’m willing to bet that they are all perfectly kindhearted and good-natured people who were equally disappointed to discover that their neighbors were not of the male gender and didn’t possess the aesthetic qualities of, say, Gavin Rossdale. I admit that I know as much about these girls as I do the intricacies of quantum physics. After three months of residing a floor below them, I am well aware of a few of their living habits.

It has become abundantly clear that they are animal lovers. Few can disapprove of affection for wildlife, but harboring elephants that stomp and bang around incessantly in a South Oakland apartment is not only cruel, but also breaks the lease constructed by our shady landlord.

Besides having such affection for rowdy animalia, they have also developed a deep devotion to the relay races they run non-stop. Their nightly exercises start around midnight and end somewhere in the vicinity of 4 a.m.

Because I have been blessed with the ability to slumber though all but a nuclear fallout, the sheer fact that I have even noticed their behavior is evidence that there is an impressive amount of racket hovering above. Despite its being annoying, I felt no need to be a typical girl by starting a petty argument over a situation as trivial as neighborly noise pollution. I figured this was an unspoken mutual arrangement.

I figured wrong.

One afternoon, I was diligently working on a paper due all too soon when I heard a knock at the door. It was my neighbor, who had shown up to request that I turn my music down. I said “sure,” and obediently complied.

It was not until a few minutes later, when I emerged from my academic haze, that I suddenly felt shafted. Here I was, putting up with the elephant Olympics every day and night, — all without complaint — and yet I was being reprimanded for simply playing music.

To be fair, my stereo was a little loud. In my defense, I was rocking along to the most kick-ass compilation I’ve been able to mastermind in my entire CD-burning career. Realistically, she should have knocked on the door to thank me for creating “Break Out Your Flannel … It’s the ’90s!” and supplying her with such an awesome array of musical pleasure — free of charge.

I was able to hold my fury inside until recently, when a rehearsal for the musical “Stomp” was taking place upstairs. Under the influence of a few rum-and-Diet-Cokes and looking strikingly similar to Mount St. Helens minutes prior to eruption, I threw open the door and less-than-politely asked that the frequent furniture rearrangement and pogo stick competitions come to a halt.

As soon as I shut the door, I knew I’d just branded myself for life. These girls would be 40 years old, reminiscing about their glory days of college, and rest assured I would come up in conversation. “Remember that bitchy blonde who lived below us? She sucked!”

As much as I claim to not give a damn what anyone thinks, it’s important to keep a neighborly peace. After all, who would I borrow sugar from, should I ever attempt to bake?

Not everyone has a proper appreciation of Nirvana’s “Verse Chorus Verse,” or 3 a.m. indoor shuttle-runs, but for the sake of friendly apartment building co-habitation, grin and bear it. Most importantly, bite your tongue — hard, if necessary.

Colleen was voted “loudest” in her high school graduation class for a reason. E-mail her at [email protected].