Tag Archives: Frustration

Honest Fight

19 Jan

There should be a way to fight this, “dirty. ”

…There should be a mental equivalent of brass-knuckle-packin’ fisticuffs you can haul out…and hair you can pull. You ought to be able to scratch it’s mutherfucking eyes out, bare-handed. You should be able to draw and see blood, to leave a wound with a scar that you can visualize later at other shitty times,  so you can point at it and say: “See?!  Kicked your ass that time, so I can damn-well do it again! ”

…If there was a way to fight this shit, dirty. I’d have long since done it by now. 

 …It can’t possibly be more taxing on my body than the only way I have to fight it: which is this absolutely exhausting step-by-step process…which besides the drudgery of “sameness, ” costs more and more frustration and stress with less and less yield. Because my brain is not playing fair. 

…So, IT can fight dirty as hell…and I’m stuck with throwing walks and meditation at it, feeling like some chumped up asshole whose just letting the inmates run the asylum from plays of sheer overpowering insistence. 

I don’t like losing. I don’t like being tied and strapped up in a helpless configuration of a straight jacket that my brain from time to time gets thrown into. I am in one right now…truth-told: I have been for a while. I am exhausted from fighting it. I keep waiting to find the combo out, and can’t. I’m doing all the “right” things,  fighting cleanly by all the “right” rules. 

…And it all means dick. 

It is beating the shit out of me. 

…And I have no choice…none whatsoever…but to let it. 

And it makes me mutherfucking FURIOUS. 

I am exhausted. I can’t work any harder than I am. I can’t screw a pretend smile and positive outlook on my face any more hours a day than this. I am losing my sense of personal strength as I try to temper my temper…my ONLY available asset I feel confidence in. I want to let the Hulk out and do a shit ton of damage…to show my brain that my will and fight IS stronger than “it.”

…And while that would feel absolutely AMAZING for a while: liberating and ass-kicking and power -infusing…I know that you cannot strong-arm this shit to “win. ” It is a lie that makes you feel good for a time..but it ends up costing so much more in the end. 

Like: your sanity. In full. 

…My rage right now is so great, that to unleash and feed it would be to throw a fifth of whiskey down it’s throat, tear off all it’s clothes, and go on a wild ride of nights full of random, wild, fuck-you, abandon. 

…Which is all fun and games and liberation. Until you wake up alone, in some other person’s bed you don’t know, and can’t remember what the hell even happened. 

My rage at my mental illness is exactly like an alcoholic blackout binge. 

…How else am I supposed to fight it? How else do I feel like I have any power at all?  When every “good for me” weapon is so supposedly “peaceful” and “enlightening ” and so very often feels totally and completely ill equipped for the monster fight it wakes up to…every day now for quite some time. 

I am tired of fighting an honest fight. 

I am tired of taking long walks every day in fresh air. 

I am tired of trying to refocus and meditate. 

I am tired of pretending I’m not scared about 11,000 ordinary things on any given day. 

I am tired of trying to spin my mental nightmares into something funny to laugh at in public, as they continue to privately terrify me. 

You are my people. This is this fucking blog’s purpose. I am standing here saying,  “I know I’m not alone. There are a lot of us. And we are all fighting and all tired.”

I know that. 

In the same “deep-truth” place where I also know that in some nondescript amount of time…just from out of nowhere, I will turn a corner…my brain will settle down a bit, and some semblance of peace (or at least far less struggle)  will come again. 

…But that time is not now. And while I fight on, I needed to stand up in the room and say:

It’s bad times. 

I am frustrated. 

I am very angry. 

I am tired. 

I am still FUCKING IN HERE. 

~D

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Donna Reed Disease

30 Oct

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Am in desperate need of a vacation.  

Somewhere not here.  

…Not where paperwork and same-routine waits at my office desk.  A place where phones don’t ring, or even exist.  

…I need a break from the depression of sitting on my couch for hours on end streaming Netflix until two a.m., and not taking showers on weekends till show call. I need a place with fresh air and detox facials…with yoga stretching, and books…with no beach bods in bikinis reminding me how horribly out of shape I am. 

…Also, no children.

And it needs to be virtually free.  

…If you google all these qualifications, you come up with a few pilgrimage monasteries and not much else.  But I hate dirt.  And road trips. And camping.  
I’m a sucky pilgrim. 

…Not as bad as the ones who swapped smallpox blankets for Indian corn…(I have morals)…but I can admit my limits.

Thing is, I’m still depressed from “Rita” closing.  I miss the work it took, the challenge, the journey.  “Dial M” is like being in a radio show with costume changes. I go home afterwards, tired and depressed from doing nothing but crying…because it’s all I’m scriptually allowed to do. Ten or twelve different ways. And then I go home and drink while chanting, “suck it up, you have a job, other people don’t.”  

I wish I could do that.  

…Instead, I’ve contracted Donna Reed Disease.

Donna Reed the PERSON was one of the first women executives in television history.  She launched her own production company, siting lack of roles being shopped her way, even after winning an Oscar four years previously… proceeding to then create her own vehicle to star in, which ran for 8 seasons.  

…But nobody knows that part.  

You say “Donna Reed” and everyone immediately thinks of the stepford-like perfection of 1950’s housewife: subservient to her husband, dutiful to her children, vacuuming the carpets in high heels and circle-skirts, with a full five course home-cooked meal on the table… greeting hubby at the door in formal wear with a cocktail in hand, every evening by five.

I love the 50’s…don’t get me wrong.  But after playing a lot of back-to-back ball-buster women in a row…I have never, until now, been so keenly aware of the backslide in women’s lib, post-40’s.

The 1940’s were my years.  

…Women tossed off the housedress and went to work and fucking OWNED it.  Cuz they had to…cuz they could.  Cuz War happens.  Then the War ended and the fellas came back and womanity backslid about 5 paces, right off the bat.  Again, because they had to…because PTSD’s are fucked up…and the women respectfully backed off to help heal and encourage the fellas to find their footing again.  

…But they bowed down and backed off so far, it became the social equivalent of going from Egyptian pyramid-building with full septic systems, to log-cabins with outhouses.  It was an entire decade of backtracking so hard we became virtually a sex of soap opera stars: melodramatic damsels in distress, consumed in Barbie doll perfections.  

…This should not be new to me.  The concept isn’t, but fighting this script to find SOMETHING to do with this role, became nothing more than a frustration of limitation.  You can only serve the script as writ.  I came in hoping for that 40’s Noir dame of awesome, whose seen some things, done some things, and knows some things…a woman of the world. None of which is written, nor supportable in this text. 

…She is a flat-out victim.  Written as a flat-out victim.  At every man’s whim to either destroy or save her.

I’m a pretty damn capable actor who can sniff out good dirt just about anywhere…but when there is none, there is nothing you can do.  

…But cry.

…As many different ways as you can.

…Then disappear for 20 – 30 pages at a time, and come back to cry some more.

It is frustrating.

…It’s a job. I’m thankful to have something. I’m trying to enjoy it.  To at least gain some level of cathartic channeling from a bad day in it or something.

…But it doesn’t work.

Donna Reed Disease.

There’s a lot more here of wasted wealth…and no one will see it or give a shit. And it bothers me.  I said it.

…In the end: I’m not good at being the “just-stand-there-and-look-helpless-and-pretty” character. I don’t do any one of those things good enough to fulfill my artistic needs.

…But what I DO get (thankfully) is a cast and crew of great people.  The fellas are hilarious and dandy drinking buds, and if I’m pressed to admit it: I kinda do really like that blue dress in scene one. Even if it is girl-clothes. 

Also: the murder scene doesn’t suck.  So there’s that.

…Which is why I think, most of all, I just really need a vacation right now.  Followed by some kind of steak-sized role to dig into, directly after.

“Hedda Gabler” for Christmas, anyone???

~D

 
 

* Enter Title Here

9 Aug

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I was just saying to m’carpool buddy last night…as we unlocked our seatbelts and began collecting our bags of crap to take with us into the theatre…that it’s prob’ly a really good thing that I’m doing a show right now, else I’d be pretty plowed with this cloud of “suck” I’ve got stalking me.

Work at the office it just hell-squared and multiplied, with too muchness and no rest or reprieve in sight…and finances are for total shit, with now added stress of getting license fees paid so I can rejoin the rest of the adult driving population, plus some personal stuff has really gotten me down.

I dunno ’bout you, but every so often, life likes to hit me these shitty ground balls, that keep popping up at the last second and smacking me in the face.  It’s never just the one, it’s often three or four…they are always in close succession, and at the most inconvenient times. 

This is one of those times.

…And it’s hard to find a good balance to that.

You know what I mean?

…Turning the crap parts off, at the end of the day, has become like a third job for the past several weeks.  And carpooling with Mr. Director means I have less than the average time to do that in, as his schedule requires earlier arrivals for production meetings.  Which means for the past week, I have not “been done” yet in the converting process of Part “A” into Part “B,” by the time I’m supposed to be moving on into “the next thing.”

…Plus, for the past TWO days of that, I’ve been hormonal as well.

…Which meant my needing (for sanity purposes) to unplug from the world the second I get into the car, until nearly the second we arrive at the theatre…in which time I’m over my head with blaring music coming at me through my earbuds, and trying my very best NOT to fixate on the crap that I cannot control across about thirty minutes of commute time, after which, I’m supposed to magically emerge as: “funny.”

“Funny” isn’t easy in any circumstances, and it’s even harder when you really, really, really, would rather just sit and cry…alone…in the bathtub…for a few minutes.

…Not in a total melt-down capacity.  Not because life is beyond the point of undertaking, but rather because you are frustrated, and tired, and broke and see no reason that won’t continue for a great deal of time to come. Or, like Holly Hunter in “Broadcast News” where she gives herself that 5 minute pre-cry release every morning, as a prep for all the shit that will likely be flung at her that day.

I feel like this kind of depression needs it’s own name, really.  It surpasses a “groan,” but isn’t as bad as “travesty.” 

…It’s “important” and constantly “present”…like the reverse gut-fear feeling of an adrenaline rush, but it isn’t a major disease, and you aren’t being evicted.

…It makes sleeping spotty, involuntary sighs a natural byproduct, and stupid people annoy you a little bit more than they usually do, but you haven’t burst into tears due to a malfunctioning stapler, punched a wall, or set your desk on fire. (yet.)

Actually, this emotional space I’m currently at, is what I picture a LOT of poor adult bastards live in…like 80% of the time.  So I should be glad that it’s just come to my attention as being a current “thing” and not a life-long “constant”…which is about two steps lower than my average emo state…which still puts me better off than the chick with 5 kids, working the drive thu at McDonalds right now.

…And I can appreciate that fact. 

Some of the time.

…Only mostly, this week, I have not.  Appreciated it, that is.  Not even the part where I “get to” go to rehearsal every night. 

Nope.

This week, absolutely everything but breathing and sleeping has been one gigantic personal pain in my ass.  Even eating. 

…And yet, every night in it, by the end of a rehearsal that I sincerely did NOT want to go to, where I insisted to myself that there was no fucking way on god’s green earth that I would ever be able to be FUNNY at, (because why in the hell SHOULD I, given the current circumstances?!) Every night (by the end), I had somehow or another been slapped out of it.

…Which ended up helping a lot more than I originally thought it did.

It meant, going to bed every night, minus the cloud of “shit.” 

…Sure, it would come in throughout the night, like a light fog, and start to seep and settle and collect and grow by morning, back to it’s original size. But in the meantime, at least I got some sleep outta the deal.  Some laughs the night before…

…And every once in a while…for reasons surpassing understanding…for about three hours or so, I could even be “funny.”

I don’t know what I’m trying to say with all that.  But whatever it is, involves art somehow, and how it’s a good thing, I guess. 

So: now you know.

  ~D

Time Out

1 Aug

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Hello.

I am here on a self-imposed “time out.”

…In my second hour of script study for the night, I’ve become revved up to such a level of frustration that I want to tear that sunofabitch to shreds. 

And I kinda need it still. 

Like, we haven’t even started blocking yet. 

…So, instead of dousing it with alcohol and lighting it a-flame, while watching the ashes crumple into a mighty heap…I’ve decided to take a break and blog.

It’s the “healthier” choice, I think.

…Also, better in product preservation.

Listen: this isn’t m’first night of work on this thing.  I may be behind where I originally set myself to be at this point (aren’t I always?)…but I’ve nailed two of the three dialects to the ground, am off book for all of the German (with the bulk of my nonsense monologues) and several scenes of the English.  I had skipped the Scottish on purpose, you see.  For two weeks. First, in order to get the German where I wanted it, and then: to make an easier segue going from English work, so at least we are dealing with somewhat the same mouth shapes and sounds scenarios.

…Which brings us to today.

In my head, I was gonna be off freakin’ book entirely and halfway into character physical work by now.  In reality, I’ve got a truly terrible German dialect (as it should be), and a hoity-toity English Finishing School “Call The Midwife” thing going.  I’ve slapped the worst of the bulked monologues into memory slot submission, and shoved “Gwendolen” from my consciousness to allow a new kind of bratty Brit to take her place.

…Things could be a whole lot worse, is the point I’m trying to make to me, right now.

…Only all I can see at the moment, is the three scenes of Scottish I’ve been working on…all fucking night long. 

I am in Glasgow hell. 

…It sounds like every place except Glasgow. And mostly like Newark.

I haven’t been so incredibly dialect-frustrated since I learned that north west Lancashire one for “Accrington Pals,’ forever ago. 

…Of course, what I should take from that was the fact that I eventually totally nailed it.  But instead, all I can think of was the sheer-terror-panic just before I finally did.

…And how it all just sorta “happened” one day.  With the speed of a snap.  A switch flipped and I “got it.”  I still dunno why or how.  And up to that point, (and since) I’ve never met an accent I couldn’t blitz with fifteen minutes of study time.  Dutch. Swedish. Italian. French. Irish. Russian. German. Canadian. Any mass variety of English. Any mass variety of American.  To me: it’s like music.  I hear it done well, by a native.  I listen to the musicality of the cadence.  And just like learning a song, I learn the accent.

It’s usually that simple.

…Except today. 

Being mostly Latina, I’ve never been called upon to pull out a Scottish accent before this.  Like the other more white-bred ones, I thought I’d simply slap it on when and if I needed it.  Because prepping for an all-inclusive what-if accent arsenal for a character actor is insane. I have no idea how many I even know. I’ve played just about everything except what I actually am, at this point. 

…So, silly me, I thought: “whelp, I’ll put a half hour in on this one, and I’ll be good to go.”

Only I ain’t.

Which is just STUPID.

…It’s only Scottish, for shit-slingin’-sake.

…Yet, here I sit, frustrated beyond belief, as I keep trying to prevent the width of it from sliding all the way to the back of the throat like that Lancashire I know, and not go too crazy with the cut-off endings so the lilt doesn’t slip into Irish, and the double “O’s” don’t float into some weird kind of Canadian, while the “R’s” are tapped just right and and not wandering lazily off into French ones.

It’s just too damn much happening at the same time ‘tween the circuits of my brain.  Maybe I know too many fucking accents.  And now it’s like every cocking one of them, that side of the pond, got together in my head and started to have a party.

…Who invited these people, even?!? 

I sure as hell didn’t!

…And I wish they’d go home already! I have work to do…and they’re just freakin’ me the fuck out right now!

(beat.)

So, yes.

…I’m really glad I took that “time out”…

~D

Point Me To A Boxing Ring, & Place Your Bets

10 Jun

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I’m pissed.

…Not pissed as in “drunk” (yet)…but pissed as in “holy reign of terror.”

…It is 100% fueled by frustration.  Frustration in a field issue, I only rather recently overcame to begin with.  So this is pissed over an old wound being re-administered for the same reasons, in a different region.

The region is immaterial. 

This is still a compound fracture of nerve-temper being fucked with.

Which isn’t good.

It’s not good in my head.  Not good on a sunny day.  Not good with a week of work still ahead, and shows to open and bills to pay, and all the things that go with being a grown-up.

What I want right now, is a goblet of whiskey, certain pictures tacked on a wall, and some butcher knives for aiming practice. 

…No it’s not.  Why lie?  What I WANT is an explosive confrontation that leaves flames and general carnage in BBQ’d after-wake.

…What I have, instead, is a bottle of wine and plans to watch a super blast-your-fucking-ears-out action movie.

I am hoping the explosions help eradicate the rage.

…And as for the grape in lieu of grain: I learned long ago not to feed the Hulk beast with the hard stuff.  It only makes him Hulkier. 

Technically speaking, the wine isn’t practiced medical procedure either.  In fact, they frown on it.  I know, having been in therapy.  But if I’m not aloud to break things, or yell a lot…(and I refuse to take a Xanax)…then this is my deal breaker, people.

Me: and this bottled vineyard.

Much like morphine, it does absolutely nothing at fixing the actual problem, but does (if given in heavy enough dosage) keep you absolutely from even giving a flying fuck.

…Which, given the time crunch, day of week, and mental obstructions, is about the best I can hope for at the moment.

So: Go Me!

I will drink this fucking fermented grape juice, STUPID, and unnecessarily blast my TV sound system in something supremely obnoxious, and try my damndest to intoxicate the living-a-shit out of my current situation so that at some point tonight, I will be not-pissed-off-enough to actually sleep.

How the hell I deal with it all again tomorrow, is of course, an entirely other deal.

Suggestions are welcome.

…But only if they are artfully retaliatory, deliciously devilish, or painfully pointed in overall plot and procedure.

I have zero patience for reasonable, responsible, resolutions at the moment. 

Thank you.

~D

Plowed

14 May

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Rehearsal kicked my ass tonight…or rather, I kicked my own ass AT rehearsal tonight.  Every moment not consumed in my first fitting or on stage was spent pacing at furious speeds outside, while running my lines, hoping it would somehow help them stick with the sheer force of energy.

…This went on for 3 hours.

…And for all of that, I kept screwing them up when I really actually needed them, anyway.

I don’t know what the fucking mental block on this is, but I’ve easily dedicated twice the amount of time to these lines than my last two shows put together, and the cocking things just won’t fucking stick.

…All my usual bag of tricks have been applied. The retention is massively slow, and occasionally word-spotty.  I might get three of the four direct adjectives in a row, but always forget that one middle one…the one that begins with an “R”…and ALWAYS screws up the flow of my recitation by going AWOL whenever possibly able.

I really just can’t do any more tonight. 

…Off book for Act 1 and half of Act 2, which would be great at one-week in…if that didn’t take me about 18 hours to accomplish, and still in a lot of cases, only “tentatively.”

…Things at work weren’t really the greatest, either, actually.

It all adds up.

I’m tired.

I’m gonna go to bed now and think of “not-lines” and forget about Corporate Reports on PURPOSE.

…Possibly contemplate how I’m going to clean my entire house in like 15 minutes tomorrow, after work, before some road tripping California Cousins arrive.

…And also: pay bills.

Gawd. I could really go for a glass of wine right about now…

And a thing of chocolate, with a side of grease.

And potatoes.

Instead, I’ll gargle mouthwash and go to bed.

Not a cool trade-off, friends.

~D

Dear SWAL 3.0

31 Jan

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Welcome back to Dear SWAL…our monthly installment of where Marty fwds me her Customer Service woes and I answer them the way we would all want to, if it wouldn’t get us fired by doing so. For last month’s episode, click here. For the rest of us, let’s move on to a review of a common problem: Blatant Customer Stupidity, or BCS.

…A lot of us who deal with BCS on a daily basis, have figured out a variety of trouble shooting exercises and go-tos that can help, when their common sense has all but failed them. But sometimes, you’ll get someone in such an advanced stage of BCS that even the tried-and-true tricks of the trade are beyond their capabilities. And sometimes those people aren’t even customers really, their whole purpose is to review your product and write about it. These people are called just plain BS’s. (Conveniently this abbreviation works for both the placeholder of what they are AND what they DO, for a living.) And this is Marty’s exchange (in edit form) with them.

…SWAL’S comments are bolded for your convenience.

***

BS: I’d be interested in checking out a review copy of “X” so at least I’d know how to promote your new book…I doubt I’ll make it to your top ten list on this promotion. Since I haven’t started a list of my own yet. But, I do get over 1,800 visitors a day…so, I may be able to sell a few.

Thank you for the heads up about this

~BS

Marty: The first link is for the sign up and the second is to an affiliate copy of the program

(Link 1) (Link 2)

Login: “login”

Password: “password”

~ M

***

SWAL: …So far, so good…

***

BS: Oh, you’re such a tease. (SWAL: Uh, what??) If you didn’t want to send me a review copy why did you bother sending me this e-mail? (SWAL: She fucking sent you a link. TO THE COPY.) Clicked your first link and signed up, fine, I went through your first hoop like a trained puppy dog. (SWAL: Ummm…) Second link, put the e-mail and the password in you sent me and NOTHING! NOT-A. A waist of time.

…So, I’ll tell you what. If you’d like for me to get the review copy so I can promote the book then jump through the hoops for me and the download link should end up in my e-mail box. (SWAL: Woa buddy, excuse me?!) Or better yet just send me a download link and not waist each others time with this busy work non productive stuff.

~ BS

***

SWAL: …Oh HELL no…!

***

Marty: I am very sorry but when I click on that link and type in the below, I get logged into the program no problem. What problems did you have? There is no need to be rude, I will help you.

login: “login”
password: “password”

~ M

BS: Hey, I apologize, I didn’t mean to sound rude! (SWAL: Coulda fuckin’ fooled me.) I’m just frustrated now. My e-mail address is (“his personal email”) Right? The password you give me was (“password”) Right? It still doesn’t work for me. So, when I click lost password it says there is no such e-mail address in your data base or something along that line.

…I’m really getting tired of playing around with something so simple yet still won’t work for me. (SWAL: **facepalm**) Can you just send me a download link PLEASE? I don’t know what else to do.

~ BS

Marty: I am very sorry for any confusion, but I now see what the problem is. You need to use the login I gave you, as well. The (“login”) login.

login: “login”
password: “password”

~ M

***

SWAL: Its one thing when you “hear” something and mix it up so can’t follow it properly…but when the fucker is IN TYPE, what is your excuse then??)

***

BS: I know we are both speaking English here, (SWAL: ARE you though? ARE you?) maybe I’m just too stupid to do this… (SWAL: Well, OBVIOUSLY. Yes.) …but when I click login: and login…It takes me to a screen to write an e-mail. Is that what you want before you send me a download link? An e-mail with the password you gave me? Well here you go: “Account” (SWAL: **Double facepalm**)

…Now, it may be on my end (SWAL: Yuh think?!) …but, we are having a really bad misunderstanding of each other here. (SWAL: Only YOU, buddy, she understands you perfectly. Unfortunately.) All I asked for was a download link for the preview of this book so I could read it to get the jest of this book to know how to promote it without making promises to my readers the book won’t fulfill. Saving us both refunds and hurting our rankings in clickbank. (SWAL: And I believe that is exactly what she did.)

No other marketer has made me jump through this many hoops to promote their book before. (SWAL: What is with the fucking “hoops” crap?!) I’m confused and frustrated now. Skip the password stuff and PLEASE just send me a download link because I’m tired of these games where I’m on the losing end. (SWAL: She can only help your incompetence so far, pal…) …Maybe you’re getting paid to play e-mail tag but, I’m NOT. The time I’ve spent in our correspondence with this issue could have been spent writing a blog post promoting something else. (SWAL: And based on your performance here, no doubt with efficiency and intelligent, educated judgement.)

I’ll tell you what, if you can make your link work for you and the password work for you (which it doesn’t for me) I’ve tried it. Do me a favor and do it with using my e-mail address…
(SWAL: **Triple facepalm.** Have run out of faces and palms and am now borrowing other people’s.) …and I should see the download link in my e-mail box.

…One thing for sure is my blog readers will ask for a refund before they go through this much hassle to get a download. (SWAL: I would hope your blog readers are smarter then this, but then if they follow your blog, we can only hold out so much hope.) … And I’ve never had a return so far and don’t want to start now.

My goal of this e-mail was to be a simple thank you note to express my appreciation to you for even bothering to deal with me (SWAL: As well it SHOULD be.) …and say I got the download link and I was able to read the book now.

…But instead I have to admit I’m a stupid asshole that had to bug you again still without a clue what the heck I’m suppose to do to get a review copy. (SWAL: JUST FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS! ) Oh sure I could have just said still can’t get the book to download for me (but where’s the fun in that?) I never made it to a download page to begin with. (SWAL: HOW?! HOW?! HOW can you STILL not figure it OUT?!) …And I’m not known for short and sweet anyway. I hope I didn’t sound too bitter or offensive with my comments here though.

Your Frustrated Buddy,

~ BS

***

SWAL: Dear Lord…how does she DEAL with this shit…

***

Marty: Am very sorry if any of this isn’t clear and will do my best to make it more clear. Apologies

Please click on this link

(“Link”)

That link should take you to a page where you are asked to type in a login and password. For the login please type: (“Login.”) For the password please type: (“Password.”) Do not type in your own personal email for the login. Please use the login and password I have given you.

I cannot send you a download of the book to read because we don’t have a direct download link for the book. The book is separated into modules and we do not have a link for all the material that we can give out right now. I hope those instructions are clear.

~ M

***

…And he was never heard from again.

That concludes this month’s edition of Dear SWAL. Here’s hoping all our retail friends in Customer Service, here and abroad, have less BCS and BS’s in their lives this month. And if not: at least you now know: you ain’t alone.

~D

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