Zhaba Zhournal
Wednesday, August 25, 2004 
Our Client from Hell has been giving us, guess what, hell; and even worse, my boss is in one of his conciliatory moods towards them. (Blah blah blah customer is always right blah blah yeah, right out of their f!cking minds.) So all morning it's been "yes, that was our fault, no, it won't happen again, of course, I'll talk to the editors"—when the problem is mostly that they give us manuscripts that are crap, change the specs every time they talk to us, don't look at the edits or typesetting samples till the last minute, then say "oh, this isn't what we want, when we said 'make it look exactly like such-and-such a book we didn't mean that exactly," and generally blame us for everything they don't like about their thoroughly crappy books. (The metaphor that those of us who work on the projects use is "when we spend all our time overhauling the engine, there's not much time to worry about painting it the right color." [And, to continue the metaphor, they probably didn't tell us what color they wanted in the first place, and if they did they changed their minds a dozen times and forgot to tell us what the final decision was.])

So it's been "our fault, our fault, our fault" all morning, and I literally can't stand to listen to it; it makes me feel like bursting into tears, or biting my lip till it bleeds, or banging my head against my desk till I pass out. I settled for putting on my headphones and cranking up the volume on my Soothing Ocean Noises CD until I could only vaguely make out the conversations in the rest of the office; wearing headphones always gives me a headache, and loud CD-playing does too, but it beats having to hear Client from Hell conversations.

Errrrggggh. I don't see that I have any choice but to go to South Street and engage in retail therapy; buy myself a shiny rock at Mineralistic, or a tarot deck at Garland of Letters. And I wouldn't be adverse to a long lunch at a place that serves alcohol, although I probably can't get away with that.

Ah, finally, 11:45. An acceptable lunch break time. My credit cards and I are going to take a walk now...

[ at 11:46 AM • by Abby • permalink  ]

Yes, that's me.


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