Last night was no fun and that's no lie. However, since we always build up a bad crescendo as the week progresses, we expected it. Major rule of Recovery: Expect the worst and you won't be disappointed.
So we were expecting the worst. For me, six full hours of non-stop, mind-boggling brain teasers. What happened to the advertising, and how can we fix it? For my immediate boss, four or more hours of how can we avoid all the problems we had this week? For graphics coworkers, how do we pile fifteen pounds into a five-pound sack, while our clients are poking holes in it? For weekend worker, seven and one-half hours of watching the unfolding trainwreck and reporting to all sides of it.
Icing on the cake? The circulation manager/physical plant supervisor had to personally bring in the niche product that was forgotten in Central. He's a wonderfully burly guy, the sort who watches your back, and you are glad it's your back he's watching.
In the end, we'd solved a huge boatload of troubles, and yes, that will bring the crescendo down to a screaming roar. Intermediate fixes buy time for true redirection and actual solutions. And there were chicken wings for everyone. At midnight, however, nobody in our department wants them. But the gesture was a lovely one, and Warren went up miles and miles in our esteem. And those who were called in to load and unload the publications (on such short notice!) surely did them justice.
Sometimes a bossman just needs to throw on his sleeveless jersey and pitch in, tossing encouraging words in passing. Result? The happy demise of the stuffed shirt image. We back-room production guys despise "suits."
We are still not satisfied with my morning paper, though. Ah, well. Little by little.
Maybe now I can begin to heal from this nasty exacerbation.