Certified Apology

Three weeks later the Crazies sent a letter to apologize. Just kidding. They sent a certified letter, copied to their attorney and CPA, stating that our outstanding account balance was going to be turned over to a collections agency if we didn’t respond in seven days. They cried a river about how they did so much for us that they didn’t bill for—and how apologetic they were about the difficulties. We thought an apology was the only thing they could or should do, but since the letter was marked “return receipt requested,” I really knew better before I opened it.

Apparently, these former ladies who lunch got to thinking about their misfortune, talked it over with their Bunco buddies, and decided that they had done nothing wrong and that they deserved to be paid for their labor and materials. On over two pages, they outlined their case for suffering and distress.

Vendors always say a lot of things to reassure you that they can do their job, while hinting at all the additional service they are going to throw in special for you. Simply tell them to write it down and sign it. That was our first thought. We should have finalized our contract, right after we got the invitations, and not given them a chance to cry over their spilled decaf nonfat Frappuccinos. Your self-esteem should be proportionate to your abilities. Please leave us alone. Where is that damn kangaroo?

My dad and brother are attorneys. I called them and asked, “What should we do here?”

As a result of their advice, I spent the good part of a day typing out our version of the events over four pages, which included counter-bullet-pointing their bullet points about hurt feelings and how normally everyone likes us. I, of course, quantified the miles traveled for auto depreciation, estimated the financial value of the emotional abuse, and noted that I didn’t even charge them for doing their job for them.

If I know my dad, he probably sent a two-sentence letter on the official-looking, law firm stationery, stating, “I think both parties can agree that the services rendered equate to the money already exchanged. I consider this matter resolved.”

We have not heard from them again, for which I am thankful. But I am somewhat disappointed that my four pages, filled with non-legalese jabs at their character and professional competency, didn’t get passed along.

Did I mention how effectively my kangaroo expels those trying to enter my jelly bean haven with a copyrighted double roo-foot frontal attack to the torso? The perpetrators explode backwards, quickly fading to a single perspective point and disappear to a faint popping sound.

As a footnote, once completed, the invitations we designed and half-manufactured were superb. Numerous people responded that they loved them, and a couple of our friends said the invitations made them want to get married all over again. Did this make it all worthwhile? Hell, no!

I believe Christa said it best: “Evil people like that make me not want to get married. It’s not worth the stress. They should go back to their country club and rot.”

It takes extraordinary circumstances for Christa to want another human being to rot. This is not in her character. You don’t want your wedding to be called off because the invitation makers are incompetent, but eloping made a lot of sense some days.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival