My employer asked me to design his website with an “eighties feel” but also wanted it “clean and modern”. After several proposals, he says he’s still not getting the “eighties feel.”
Client: “Eighties — like pirates and quill pens.”
Me: “Oh, you mean the eighteenth century.”
Client: “Yeah, eighteenth century, eighties, same thing.”
Me: “‘The eighties’ generally refers to the 1980s.”
I’ve been working with this client for several months building a website for them. I’m dealing with barely legible emails, attempts to change the hosting with a client who is Internet illiterate, and requests to change things just after I’ve finished them exactly to the previous specifications.
Finally, I think I’ve found my way out of this client relationship.
Me: “Just so you are aware, I’m pretty close to my due date, so I will be taking maternity leave for several months at least, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to do any work on your site. You may want to find a new designer to work with.”
Client: “I’ll wait.”
Client: “Good morning, I’m interested in a website.”
Me: “Okay, we can help you with that. Can you tell me a little about your business and what the website needs to look like and do?”
Client: “I can, but before that, I want to see some examples of your work.”
I gave him the website address for our portfolio and waited while he typed it in and confirmed he could see it.
Me: “Can you see the portfolio?”
Client: “Your website is making noises at me. Make it stop.”
I could hear what sounded like a jingle or ringtone somewhere in the background.
Me: “I assure you that our website does not make noises.”
Client: *Getting irate* “Yes, it is! Make it stop now! You have no right to do this.”
Me: “It isn’t our website. Are you sure it’s not your phone?”
Client: “What? Hold on…”
I listened to the sounds of him rummaging through a bag, and then the ringing stopped. He continued without any hint of acknowledgment or apology.
Client: “So, back to your portfolio. What are you most proud of? What is your best work?”
Me: “Sorry, but I really don’t think we are going to be able to work together. Thanks for the inquiry, but we cannot help you with this. Bye.”
I was asked to do a little write-up explaining the difference between net weight ounces and fluid ounces for a website selling a bottled product. The boss and owner, an octogenarian, gave me a newspaper clipping of the information to make sure I got it right.
I already knew about basic measurements from school, but I checked the clipping and Google before putting it in my own words. I emailed it to them for approval, and they returned to me a printout of the tiny paragraph with red question marks scrawled around it.
Client: “Where the heck did you get this from? I told you to base it on the newspaper article I gave you! You can’t believe everything you read on the Internet!”
They had been defining fluid ounces as “the weight of the fluid in the bottle sans the weight of the bottle and cap” and explaining it that way to customers for decades as a selling point by saying, “Our competitors’ measurements include the whole bottle!”
Me: “Actually, fluid ounces are a measure of volume, not weight. They’re measuring the volume of the bottle, not adding its weight to their product.”
Client: “That’s not what I remember from my school days!”
The client insisted his definition was right, so rather than fight that battle, I convinced them not to put up anything about ounces. Although, I understand why they thought that information would be “useful to buyers!”
Me: “A two-page web design will cost [amount]. A four-page would be [higher amount], six—”
Client: “How much if it was double-sided?”
Me: “The website?”
Client: “Yes.”
