My solo venture in graphic design went awry

Please permit me to parrot the righteously indignant words of heroic space pilot, Han Solo: 

"It's not my fault."

I will admit, to perhaps, lacking a bit of foresight but there is NO WAY anyone could have seen this coming.

"I saw it coming," my husband muttered, bitterly.

("Me, too," laughed Katiel hysterically, hearing about it later.)

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A week ago, Brad Mosiman wordlessly handed me a postie note. As far as I knew, we weren't appearing before a Congressional hearing but as that scenario was not too far-fetched, I surreptitiously scanned it before casting a casual glance around. "What are my parameters?" I murmured, pretending to peruse the newspaper that I had no intention of reading. "You have carte blanche," he answered, weary of the inevitable battle that is fought each time he tries to rein me in. Nodding, I stood and stretched, seamlessly tucking the postie note into the interior pocket of my Burberry brown trench coat before silently sliding the metal garden chair beneath the table, exiting the small French cafe and disappearing into the early morning mist that shrouded Paris. "You were wearing your lambie-jammies and watching The Office in our living room when I asked you to please type up the information about a change in location of next week's class," Brad corrected, oblivious to the importance of setting and build-up to a story.
 

Naturally, I put all of my other critically-important projects on hold. Designing a 4th grade field days shirt...side-lined. Lesson plans...stalled. Paying bills...postponed. Doing dishes, cooking dinner, dusting...delayed. "Can you let the dogs out?" Brad yelled from downstairs as he flipped the laundry. "I'd love to," I yelled back, "but I'm busy brainstorming the implementational design of your postie note prototype." 

Several days later, the seedling idea began to blossom. The dry bones of Brad's postie note began to flesh out. My friend, Katriel walked into my classroom and saw the almost-finished design projected on my Smartboard. Suppressing a smile, Katriel first complimented my composition and then carefully inquired about Brad's input. "Basically, he handed me a blank check," I said, happily. "This is really gonna cost him," Katriel predicted. "No! It's funny!" I protested. 

Brad graciously accepted the finished project and thanked me for the use of my valuable time and creative talent. Naturally, I pointed out the subtle nuances of the design so he could truly appreciate the many levels of wise-cracking wit woven into the more mundane meat of the informational invitation. 

For me...that was the end of the story.

For Brad...not so much.

"Did your friends like the invitation?" I asked when he got home. "Yeah," he nodded, "they thought it was cute."

I won't lie. That cut deep.

But I'm sure Michelangelo's contemporaries didn't understand his work either.

A few nights later, Brad stomped into the house. That got my attention. Typically, I'm the House Stomper. 

"Guess what conversation I had to have tonight?" he growled.

I was flummoxed...unprepared how to defend against this unseen enemy.

"One of my students' mothers bought him a tuxedo because your invitation said 'formal'..." Brad began. I interrupted quickly, "Your postie note specifically said 'formal'." "But...," he continued, glowering at me, "My postie note DID NOT have pictures of the Karate Kid wearing a floofy dress shirt or a martial arts couple cake topper."  I covered my face with my hands in horror. "Didn't she read the parenthetical notation?" Brad frowned, "You mean the microscopic parenthetical notation? No...apparently not."

Weary, my husband sank down onto the couch.

"How did you handle it?" I asked softly.

"I had to go out to the parking lot and explain my wife's weird humor to her," Brad said, matter-of-factly. "Fortunately, I am used to doing THAT."

Wow.

"That poor, sweet woman," I commiserated, "Will she be able to return the tuxedo?"

"What about 'My poor, sweet husband'?" Brad asked before saying, "And, if I were you, I'd worry less about the return of a tuxedo and more about the return of a customer."

We sat together in the darkness of our living room for some time; both lost in our own thoughts.

Finally...I spoke.

"What are the odds...?"

Brad quickly interrupted.

"Never tell me the odds."