I am not making any of this up. And it's so funny, I can barely type. (My legs are crossed together to keep from pissing myself entirely.) Yet I'm afraid to even begin writing, because I know I won't be able to do it justice. That's the disclaimer.
My husband's client (Client) has been working out of the agency for a few weeks. The Client drinks three, or sometimes four, quad-shot lattes every day. Every day. I've just eaten a bunch of ice cream and was with my kids all day, but I am still sharp enough to figure that's at least twelve shots of espresso per day. And you should know that these are non-fat, non-foam lattes, which makes it all better. (Somehow there isn't as much kick if you suck out all the fat and foam, right?) Apparently there is just the right milk-to-foam ratio, per the client. And it's becoming kind of obvious, caffeine vortex or not, that things are getting a little intense around the agency.
[As an aside: we have a spare blood pressure cuff sitting around our house (don't ask) that my husband is going to take to work on Monday. He is going to require employees to take a reading before walking through the door and if they're off the charts, they get to go home and rest until they've calmed down a little. This is also known as vacation in most workplaces.]
So this amped-up, jittering Client has been bouncing off the walls at my husband's agency for about three weeks now. It's not normal to have the Client in-house at an agency generally, but this latest campaign is apparently an advertising equivalent of brain surgery; a real code orange shit-your-pants emergency product is going to be launched soon by this big hotshot company, and they've asked crazy coffee guy to come and babysit. I imagine it's like if I asked my nanny to do a few speedballs and then babysit the kids (I can imagine the scene right now, with her hula-hooping super fast in the backyard until she just launches herself into space, with the kids and dog staring in amazement). I digress.
Today the Client broke down in my husband's office and wept with joy over something that was actually going right with the campaign. My husband is used to people crying in his office, but this is the first time a man, and a Client, has cried in his office. And I imagine my husband was groping in vain for some non-existent panic button under his desk, like they have in banks in case of robbery, that will bring the police or at least blow up the room so you don't have to be in this embarrassing situation any more. Luckily the agency's Creative Director was there to witness the whole thing, and after the client left (mincing steps leaving puddly footprints on the floor) they had a good laugh about it.
It gets better. During his crying jag, the Client began blubbering about how my husband was actually making him a better man. A better man! I'm sorry, but I (as I sit here typing and yes, still laughing) fail to see how advertising in any form could ever make anyone, man or woman, better at anything except working long hours and eating cheese dings for dinner. I mean, really? Really? Apparently through his daily contact with my manly husband, the Client is learning how to stand up for himself. I imagine he's becoming more assertive when ordering high-maintenance coffee drinks and not crying when they only put in three shots of espresso, or working only twenty instead of twenty-two hours a day, etc. These are important life lessons within the context of advertising.
So now I'm off to buy an extra large pair of fancy jeans as gift to this Client, so he has room for the bigger balls he's obviously grown over the last three weeks.
I told you this story wouldn't be as funny through my lense as it was in real life. But it's still funny.
