Two hours and forty-five minutes late.
Lunch was scheduled for 2:00. At 2:30, they called and said they were “shooting for” a 3:30 arrival. After one more message from us informing them that we were about to eat, they arrived at 4:45, with little more than a “Sorry. You have to expect that from us. We’re slackers.”
Mark busted his ass preparing for lunch, one of the few chances he’s had to entertain since we moved here. We cleaned the house top to bottom, bought food, and went to considerable effort, especially considering the past week’s events. And these two poster children for rudeness couldn’t even be bothered to show up within two and a half fucking hours of the time for which they were invited. And even then, they didn’t seem particularly concerned about it.
I’d have been too embarrassed to show up at all if I were that late. This is something I might have been able to excuse in an old friend with whom I had a lot of history, but this was the first time they’d ever been invited to our house.
Guess who’s never coming to dinner again?