Weddinggate.

I am currently embroiled in a brouhaha over a misaddressed invitation.
When addressing envelopes, I decided not to preface names with Mr., Ms., or similar. Ironically, this is because I wanted to avoid offending anyone—some people like to be called “Mrs.,” while others prefer “Mademoiselle” or “Her Royal Highness.” To some, “Ms.” symbolizes a hard-won freedom from the tyranny of social titles, while to others, it means only “manuscript.” In an attempt to avoid these issues altogether, and yet keep the invitations fancy-like, I decided to use full names without prefixes.
(This story is already enormously boring, but I can’t seem to stop myself. Forge ahead, if you can stand it.)
The Actually has an aunt–for the purposes of this story, we’ll call her Shelly. Shelly is only ever referred to as Shelly, but on the invitation, she became Rochelle (her full name). I actually quite like Aunt Shelly, though I only met her for the first time two weeks ago, at the shower.

A few days after the invitations were mailed, the Actually received a phone call from his mother, who had received a phone call from her sister, who had received a phone call from her other sister. Apparently, I had addressed the invitation to Michelle instead of Rochelle, and Shelly was furious. Furious, and demanding an apology from the Actually (for bringing such a careless girl into the family? For failing to proofread my work? Your guess is as good as mine).
This has developed into quite the scandal, and no, I’m not kidding, I wish to god I were. Admittedly, a mistake was made. Some combination of exhaustion and wine (two parts exhaustion to one part wine, if you must know) caused me to misaddress the envelope, and I am suitably embarrassed. I actually cried when the Actually told me, though I also cried last week over a particularly delicious piece of Easter candy, so make of that what you will. In my defense, I was addressing invitations in the midst of finals week while working a full-time job, but still—my bad.
However…isn’t there something more pressing we could all be giving our attention to, like Iraq or tax season or what I’m supposed to wear now that I’ve lost seven pounds and nothing fits correctly? Also, wouldn’t the very rules of etiquette to which Shelly is apparently so devoted demand that she handle my faux-pas graciously, rather than reacting as if I had spit in her face and then backed over her with my car? The wedding is six weeks from yesterday, and instead of taking the soothing hot bath I so desperately need, I am spending my time navigating the choppy diplomatic waters and trying to calm the Actually, who is refusing to supply the requested apology, which has caused a tearful phone call from my NMIL and further Hrrumphing on the part of the wronged aunt.
All over two letters on an envelope, my friends.
It’s like a really, really boring Jane Austen novel over here. Someone send help.