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if you don’t know let me show you how*

March 17, 2009

The people below us are having a party.  We realize this around 8pm, but it doesn’t really start to bother us until 11:30 at which point Chloe declares, “I’m calling the cops.”  I can only assume that this don’t take no shit attitude has been brought on by the final moments of tonight’s episode of The City in which Whitney fails to get the hoped for promotion to ‘London Liasion’ for Diane Von Furstenberg, and almost simultaneously gets a call from the scoundrely aussie who just dumped her that he is at that moment standing outside needing to tell her something of utmost importance.  When she meets him on the dark Manhattan street corner, he tells her that he didn’t realize until now that he is indeed in love with her, and all the cheating and lying can now become part of a distant memory.  We are convinced that she will acquiesce as Whitney has so far proven herself to be unable to deal with confrontation or rejection.  But then in a wildly unprecedented move she tells him that she does not love him and will not take him back, and then turns and walks back to her swanky loft party with more panache than you should be able to balance on a Manolo heel.  The promotion went to her bitchy coworker, but the pass over made Whitney stronger.  It was all very inspiring really.  

However, I still kind of thought it was a life fail to report a party to the police before you had even asked said partiers to keep it down as it is a Monday night.  At this point Jacqueline declares that she will go down and tell them in no uncertain terms to kindly quiet down or accept the consequences, which we are all hoping would be something akin to a DEA raid.  In a show of alliance I say I will go with her, and Chloe pipes up from the bathroom where she is brushing her teeth that she too will come, and so like a band holy warriors we descend the back stairs in a line ready to meet our foes.  From the shared stairs we are deposited onto their porch where we can see their motley crew through the open kitchen door.  We march up to the door still in a line, as that is the only way we can fit, so that we appear on the dark porch one behind the other three sleepy girls in their pajamas, who I’m sure look like this is the closest they have ever come to an actual party.  Jacqueline asks them in voice that is at once apologetic and authoritarian to please keep it down, at which point they make the observation that it took three of us to deliver this message, and suddenly what had seemed like an act of solidarity becomes in their eyes and maybe in ours too simple cowardice, but we stand strong and declare that we will not be kept awake by the likes of them, and that no we will not come in for a drink, and with that we turn as one and march back the way we came.

As soon as we have climbed back up to our balcony we all stop as though at some unspoken order and lean over the railing listening to their voices rising up from the dark below.  They are talking about us.  How we must have done rock, paper, scissors to figure out who would come down.  How we probably have a test in the morning, which we scoff at as only newly graduated 20-somethings can do.  We listen for a few more moments as they admit to each other that we were really nice about it.  But it is disheartening to hear as we are about the head inside, “Yeah but who cares? We don’t even live here.”  At which point we are back in the kitchen calling the police.  

*Mickey Avalon, “Jane Fonda”

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