Why must people be this way?

I'm sweet. I really am. I'm friendly and pleasant, and I'd really like to be cordial with you. And you. You, too. Everyone, really.

But then folks have to go and be motherfuckers. Why do these motherfuckers have to act like motherfuckers? I'll be very polite but direct about it for a few times, but once I reach the end of my rope, which I believe to be longer than most people's...It's not good for anyone. I don't like being bitchy. You don't want me to be bitchy. We'll both feel badly about it afterwards, but if I must be bitchy to get what I need--such as basic courtesy--I will.

Take The Dudes. The Dudes live below me. Some nights, they make a hell of a lot of noise. On many occasions, they've woken me from a dead sleep at about 3 AM with blaring video games and excited, video-game-related yelling. A few times, they've woken me around 1:30 with a boisterous party. The Dudes have angered me many times, but I've usually taken the following course of action:

1. Grit teeth.
2. Bury head under pillow.
3. Will it away.
4. Focus on my breath.
5. After half an hour, tiptoe downstairs in PJs and knock on the door. "Excuse me," I say with a wan smile and the miraculous bedhead only thick, curly hair can produce, "But you've woken me. Could you please quiet down?" Usually Luna, the little cat, follows me downstairs for the adventure. At this point, she races past me into Apartment of the Dudes.
Dude: "Oh, OK. Sorry. I didn't realize we were being loud."
Me: "Thanks. I'll take my cat back now."

This approach served me well for a few months. Then, the noise became more regular on weekends. I developed a new approach:

1. Grit teeth.
2. Bury head under pillow.
3. Will it away.
4. Focus on my breath.
5. After half an hour, grow incredibly resentful that I work every weekday and most weekends, but The Dudes apparently have no concern for employment.
6. Rise from my bed.
7. Jump on the floor above them like a vengeance demon straight from the Hellmouth.
8. They get the idea and stop.

This second approach has served me well for several weeks now. However, the employment resentment has been augmented and fueled by twin resentment that enjoyment of our hard-earned condo (not to mention my precious, precious sleep) is being noisily ripped to shreds by some Dudes who live for free in their sister's condo.

Dude. Dudes. Not cool.

Add to this picture some work frustrations of late, specifically that, while we're all terribly overworked, a few people seem to think it means they can be divas...and no one stops them. I verbally check them from time to time, but it's a bigger battle than I can wage alone.

So tonight, as a fatigued little moi cleaned the kitchen very quietly at 10 PM, she/I was not pleased to hear strains of hyena-like laughter emanating from the floor below. No mistaking it: a Dude party was in effect.

I waited until 10:15. I asked G to remind me exactly what the condo rules say. I marched downstairs. I knocked. Loudly.

A cute young gal with red pigtails answered the door, wide-eyed. I looked past her at the Head Dude standing behind. I maintained a civil tone, but in that sort of haughty, clipped, prissy-pissy way I can get when I'm pissed. My eyes lasered holes through The Dude's baby face.

"The condo rules say that noise is not aloud after 10 PM."
"Okay."
"I've had to ask you many times now."
"Okay," he replied, pleasantly.
"You need. To. Stop. Please."
"Okay," he sang sweetly.

I returned upstairs. Sure enough, The Dudes quieted right down, as they have every time I've asked. I felt bad about being pissy for a moment, but then I remembered I shouldn't have to ask.

I was also, I admit, pissy with G. Why am I always the one who has to go downstairs and be the bitch? I might have...sorta...told him to be more of a man. I was feeling exasperrated, okay? He promised to write the official letter of complaint tomorrow: This is the First Warning; next time you get fined. But I would rather write the damn letter than do the confrontation--who wouldn't? Doesn't seem freakin' fair.

Dude.