In which I rant about how “common courtesy” is not so common…
Walter, the really bad dog, ate half a plate of brownies on Saturday night. I’m not mad at him. It’s not his fault. It’s their fault.
Geoff and I hosted a little party this weekend. We sent out an invitation to 24 people. Fourteen of those 24 did not respond to the Evite. And since fourteen people suddenly developed carpal tunnel syndrome and could not possibly click a mouse button to respond to a friends' invitation, we did not know how many people were going to show up. Geoff said we should assume that they wouldn’t not be attending if they didn’t respond, but I felt the little hostess in me say, “But what if they do?” If they were to show up, I’d need enough food and drink and space. So I baked a batch of brownies. I prepared other food items. I put a leaf in the table. I was ready for those extra fourteen people to show up.
We had a nice time. When the evening was winding down, Geoff and I and our guests took our drinks up to the roof deck to check out the ocean and the stars. As we were enjoying one of the last beautiful nights of summer, our dogs were enjoying blissful moments of non-human supervision in our place.
We came downstairs to find that young Walter had eaten a pile of brownies from the table -- the pile of brownies that would not have existed if the fourteen non-responders had either shown up or said they weren’t going to show up. If my idiot dog dies from a chocolate overdose, I’m going to invite them to the funeral.
Do you think they’ll R.S.V.P.?