Itches and Twitches

 

 

I’m not sure if I always was a twitchy person, or if this is something that happened over the years.

When I go to bed or try to relax in a comfortable chair, it takes me a long time to get situated, find just the right position. Even then I tend to move around quite a bit.

One thing I do know, and I’m not sure whether or not this is a form of claustrophobia or something else entirely, is that I can’t stand to have both hands taken out of commission at the same time.

I first discovered this when I was 17 and had been in a car accident.  In those days seatbelts were only just coming into use beyond the high end luxury cars. The car I was in was not one of those, so there were no seat belts (and don’t even think air bags. They simply didn’t exist). Anyway, the car I was in rear-ended another car and I was thrown forward, hitting my head hard enough on the windshield that the glass cracked.

I didn’t lose consciousness, but a concussion was suspected, and they took me out of the car, put me on a stretcher, and loaded me into an ambulance. The EMTs put a blanket over me and then strapped me onto the stretcher for safety. Unfortunately, both arms were trapped under that strap. Immediately, my nose began to itch. Then other parts of my face. It made it hard to stay still because I was trying to free my arms so I could scratch my face.

Even though one of the EMTs tried to scratch whatever was itchy on my face – apparently, this isn’t a reaction that’s novel to me – it was a very uncomfortable ride. While she meant well, another person can never adequately calm an itch.

I don’t recall the situation being more than a bit uncomfortable, and once at the hospital, my arms were freed.

In more recent times, I’ve noticed more severe, almost panic attack level issues.

At night, especially once I’ve gone to bed, I get itchy. Not everywhere all at once but more like an Old MacDonald’s Farm variety of itchiness: here an itch, there and itch, everywhere an itch, itch… I will scratch one place, only to find another crop up as I try to settle into a comfortable sleep position.

Yes, it may partially be due to dry skin, but sometimes, especially if I try this just before bedtime, putting on lotion or cream of some sort makes things worse, especially in summer. I suspect sweat or humidity have more to do with it in summer. So, it takes a while, between itchiness and being fidgety to find sleep.

While that’s not panic attack level, a few other things are. And just to be clear, I am not on the spectrum.

I’ve had two very mild cases of Covid-19. The entire first few years of the pandemic, I was blessed to be free of the infection. In fact, both times I had it were in 2024. Both times it lasted about 24 hours, except for the cough.

During that 24 hour period, everything seemed to bother me. Clothes that felt like they were strangling me or twisting on my body when I lay down, when sitting in a confined space, trying to sleep, walking any distance, and so on. I sometimes felt as if I were going to suffocate.

Since then, the lingering issue with clothes and confined space has been a challenge. No, I don’t mean I can’t wear clothes. But sitting on a bus, either at a window seat (which used to be my favorite) or in the middle, which I’ve never liked much, I have to have the chance to get situated before anyone sits next to me. I’ve found that if I’m wearing a coat, I have to take the coat off or I start to feel like I can’t breathe.

I’ve also noticed that I can no longer wear turtle neck shirts or hoodies – unless they’re zip front. Either of those things feels like I’m being strangled. While it’s easy enough to simply not wear that type of clothing, it’s resulted in my having to give away several things that I used to like to wear. It isn’t the texture or the material, it’s the way it sits on my skin and closes in on my neck.

The other part of Covid-19 that affected me was the cough. I’ve had coughs often in my life, and they never much bothered me. But this one is a heavier one, one that forces you to work very hard to get it out. Sometimes I’ve had to stand up to make the cough effective. Of course, my doctor prescribed me medication that wiped it out in a few days.

Unfortunately, I spent the last year trying to get rid of such a cough when it came back. I didn’t have Covid-19. I tested and the test was clear. I only had a cough, not even a cold.

My original doctor died suddenly in 2024, and I had to find a new doctor. Unfortunately, all there are now are groups: revolving door doctors where you theoretically have a main doctor, but when you make an appointment, you never know who you’re going to get.

After the cough coming and going for several months, it decided to stay. I made an appointment. “My doctor” wasn’t available, so I got someone else. I told her what my previous doctor prescribed. She smiled and ignored me. When I left I had a prescription for something else.

The prescription did nothing for about a week, then began to work until I finished the first container. I renewed it. The renewal, the exact same thing, stopped working. I gave it a couple of weeks, but nothing.

Back to the doctor I went. A different one of the group. I had to start from scratch explaining everything because they apparently don’t read the notes of previous appointments. Since the prescription didn’t work, and she thought it should, she prescribed me something else. It did not work at all.

A third time I tried to make an appointment, but no one was available, so I had to go the tele-med route with my medical group. That doctor, even though yet again I went through the history of the cough, and once again told her what my previous doctor prescribed that worked, wrote me a prescription for something else. When I asked why no one was giving me what I knew worked, she told me that they don’t prescribe that for “someone your age.” Last year I was only a year younger. It didn’t cause a problem then. Why would it cause a problem now? Still, she insisted on something else. It didn’t work.

By the time I had waited a few days for it to not work, we were up against the weekend, when doctors no longer have office hours. Having not slept in two days because of the cough, and the walk-in clinics having no hours left, I went to the ER. There, I was given an x-ray, which they said was normal, and two pills containing some cough suppressant and codeine. I suppose it got rid of the cough for the night. I know it knocked me out by the time I got home. I was supposed to get a full prescription of it the next day at the pharmacy.

Before filling the prescription, I called my primary doctor, and she was actually there, and made an appointment for me for that day. She didn’t want me taking codeine, so she prescribed something else. She also wanted me to see a pulmonologist and a gastroenterologist.

Well, her prescription was as useless as the others. But now I had other doctors unnecessarily involved, and I was also told I needed to see an ENT. The ENT gave me four prescriptions and scheduled me for a CT scan!

Somewhere along the line, with pretty much none of the prescriptions doing anything but taking up counter space, someone finally prescribed what I had said on the first visit worked. Lo and behold, within a week, the cough cleared up.

But I had a bunch of unnecessary (and expensive) tests done, all because no one would listen to me. I was given about a dozen useless prescriptions because someone decided that what would work shouldn’t be given to “someone my age.” I could understand that if I’d never taken the drug before, but considering I’d had it a year earlier, that platitude was meaningless.

I understand that the doctors wanted to find out what was causing the cough, but none of the tests showed that. And the cough itself just generated more panic-attack like behavior. I reached a point where, despite constant exhaustion, I practically feared going to bed because it usually meant a resurgence of the cough. I developed rituals to help me relax and sleep. And when I get in one of those uncomfortable situations, like being in the middle seat with my coat on or some similar clothing issue, my reaction is to start coughing. That’s not the cough I was being treated for, it’s simply a reaction, a fight or flight type of thing. That cough goes away as soon as I can move out of that situation.

I really thought I was over that until the other day.

I had signed up to donate platelets, something I’d never done before.  I thought it would be much like donating blood except that they return everything else once they get the platelets. I was wrong.

I was led to a “bed” if you will, that is somewhat U-shaped, with a horizontal section for your legs. It was tilted back, so the patient is semi-reclined, not a position I’m comfortable in to begin with. It was slightly worse than being in the middle seat on a plane.

I discovered that I would not have just one arm hooked up to needles and tubes, but both arms. For two hours.

I knew I only had one arm with reliable veins. The ones in the other arm tend to roll. I told them that. They were sure they could make everything work. While they were working on the first arm, I was my usual twitchy self. I had to ask one of the phlebotomists to fix the leg of my jeans because it had inched up and the hem was digging into my leg. She was happy to do so.  For a while I had a hand free to scratch various itches, but I was desperately uncomfortable the way I was positioned. They got pillows and wedges to get me in a generally comfortable position, although I wasn’t sure it would remain that way for a full two hours, even with a movie to watch.

I’m not generally all that picky about things, and I don’t often complain in situations like this. The people there were quite kind, very professional and very willing to do whatever I needed to feel comfortable.

But when it came time to stick the second arm, things quickly fell apart. They found a fantastic vein. They stuck. For about a minute, things looked good. Then there was a lot of blood and they had to remove the needle. The vein had rolled. There was a nearby vein that was just as good, but because the first vein had bled into the space between the two, they couldn’t use it. So they went lower down my arm, and finally settled on one in my hand.

This time everything seemed fine. Then it wasn’t. While the other arm was all hooked up and ready to go, the phlebotomist suddenly asked if my hand felt all right. It did. Then it didn’t, and there was a lot of pain and the area around the needle started to swell up as the vein decided to roll and they once again had to remove the needle.

At this point they realized the procedure wasn’t going to happen. They kept apologizing because my veins kept rolling, which wasn’t their fault.

In a way I was relieved. I wasn’t sure I could manage two hours of not being able to scratch any itchiness or move, really. I’m just too twitchy an individual.

Will I go back? To donate blood, sure. To do the platelets? No. Much as I like to help people, I have limits. I simply don’t think I’m the right person for that kind of donation.

It was a learning experience, but not one I’m ready to repeat.

 

 

British Courtesy

 

 

I hope this won’t come across as a rant. It isn’t meant to be. It’s just some wonderings and musings about things I’ve read as well as things I’ve observed.

Recently I’ve seen a number of people online who say they’re from the UK complaining about Americans. It took me aback because I always thought we liked each other. And these are not political statements, simply the expressions of people who have observed Americans either on TV or in person. Also, my experience in traveling has shown me that people in the UK are very nice to me, an American.

Granted, the current political climate has made the US anathema to many of our former allies. I’m ashamed of that and horribly embarrassed by what has caused that, even though I had nothing whatever to do with it. I’m not terribly keen on America myself these days. But enough of politics.

Admittedly, I’m an Anglophile. It’s not the, “Ooh, I love your accent.” It’s “I love your country. I love that it’s not all asphalt. I love that, in some places, there are cows or sheep on the roads. We don’t have that where I’m from, and we didn’t even when I was growing up among geese, chickens and nearby orchards. I love that it’s not mini-America. (For one, your television shows are better.)

Yes, people employed at B&Bs and hotels are supposed to be polite. That’s not always the case. I’ve seen people being less than polite to others at restaurants and hotels – and I’m talking about the employees, not just some guy on the street.

But there are people who don’t have to be that have been kind. For example I’ve had several people offer me their seat on the underground when it was crowded, especially if I had a suitcase.

Yes, I know that there are signs on the underground telling the riders to give up their seats to pregnant women, the elderly and those with disabilities. Okay, I’m old enough to be considered “elderly,” I suppose. I am retired. But I don’t think I look so old that I need a seat.

While it’s kindly meant, it’s embarrassing, especially if I’m only traveling one stop. Otherwise, yes, because it’s expected, I’ll take the seat.

I’ve been in underground stations that had neither escalators nor elevators (few and far between, but I assume they’re very old stations that can’t be retro-fitted). No matter how lightly I pack, I’m usually there for at least two weeks, and my suitcase, although a carry-on, is heavy. 

Anyway, looking up the long stairway with suitcase beside me, I take a deep breath and brace myself to get up the stairs. Invariably, someone comes along before I’ve put foot on the first step, and takes my suitcase to the top and waits for me to catch up. These people have my undying gratitude because there have been other situations in which I had to struggle up a few flights of stairs with said suitcase.

People in the UK are helpful when I ask for directions or other help. But I approach quietly and ask politely. I don’t act like an entitled person.  I don’t push my Americanness as if it were a rite of passage card. I say please and thank you, excuse me, and could you help me. I thank people even if they’re unable to direct me to where I need to go. And of course, my first line of seeking information is a policeman or an information center – or the front desk of the hotel I’m staying in. I suppose I’m desperately afraid of making a mistake and being considered rude.

Yes, I know there are loud, obnoxious people from the US, with lots of money and not much in the way of manners. I shudder when I’m in the queue behind them because I don’t want to be tarred with their brush. Sometimes I find myself apologizing for my fellow countryman’s behavior because I want those who come into contact with Americans to know that we’re not all like that. Some of us were not raised in a barn.

It’s true we Americans have some confounding ideas. We’re used to free refills of salads and soft drinks in many places, we expect ice in our drinks even in the winter, and sometimes we fail to recognize a serving size because ours are so huge. But I tend to do as the natives do. I’ve surprised more than a few waitresses when they asked if I wanted ice in a drink, and I said, “No, thank you.” I’ve learned what a biscuit is and that tea is actually a meal. But I’m sorry, I will never be able to eat baked beans at any meal. I’ll take the toast, thanks, but give the beans to someone else, please.

I’ve never had an issue with the people in any part of the UK when I’m traveling, and I don’t understand the people online who are from there and have such negative things to say about Americans.  Yes, they may have run into some of the rude ones – there are rude people in just about every country, but I let it go because the nice ones outweigh the rude ones – and maybe they’re playing up their own vitriol, but every time I see something like that online, I wonder if the next visit is going to be the one where I get treated like a blight on the world for where I come from. I certainly hope not. But I will continue to employ good manners wherever I go.

I was raised with the notion that when you travel, whether it’s to a relative’s house a half hour away or to another country, you are a guest. You don’t own the place. You are in no way entitled to anything. If it isn’t yours, you don’t touch it without invitation. You are, as a guest, there by the kindness of your host.

I may sound old-fashioned, but, well, I am old enough to be one of those people you give up a seat on the tube for. I’ve never found courtesy hurt anyone. A please, a thank-you, even – or especially – if the other person is being rude, often goes a long way toward good-will. But if all else fails, it’s fine to just walk away. No expletives or derogatory remarks needed.

I look forward to the next time I get to visit the UK. There are so many places I haven’t seen yet, and I love discovering new places. I have several trips worth of places. It’s also nice to know that there are two people there who enjoy spending time with me. There may be more.  I never assume.

I have distant relatives in the UK and Ireland whom I’ve met, and they’ve all been amazing, even though one, who I will assume was teasing, said, once we’d met, “Well,  you can check off that you’ve met me now,” as if I were only meeting people to say I had. I want them all to know I’m extremely jealous that they get to live where I wish I could, that they live in the culture while I only get to look in the window.

The next time I go in summer, I want to see the Orkneys and the Shetlands, and if time permits, possibly the Outer Hebrides.

I also still haven’t seen the Channel Islands or the Isles of Scilly. And I’d like to spend some time in Yorkshire. I’ve been to York but not the outlying area. I suppose I’ll need a car. (Yes, I’ve driven in the UK before, so I can deal with driving on the left, and I spent most of my adult life driving a standard shift car, so that’s not a problem) I particularly want to go to a town called Langhorne, since the next town over from the one I grew up in was called Langhorne, and was the “big town” in the area at the time.

The ideal thing for me would be to spend a few months traveling around the UK, but I’m not sure my husband could deal with my not cooking dinner that long, and my dog would miss me. But who knows? Maybe the dog and Jeff would finally bond!

Friends

 

 

I think it’s safe to say I’m very self-reliant. I’ve always had to be. 

The extroverts among you can most likely say you have lots of friends. You can probably say you have a core of friends you can rely on. You can even, I suppose, say that there are people who encourage you in your endeavors.

I cannot.

I’ve met with a lot of you can’ts in my life. Once I was responsible for myself without parental interference in my decisions, there were a lot of “hold my beer” moments from me, some successful, some not.

This runs through every aspect of my life, most importantly, my professional life. I’ve had bosses who had a certain image of me – usually wrong – and tried to stick me in the corner as a gopher to do their bidding, without any interest in what my professional interests were. As the youngest in my family, I will take the liberty of saying, “Nobody puts Baby in the corner!”

And I left each of those jobs because I won’t work where I’m not respected.

When I was studying for my career, I had teachers who simply weren’t available. They were either too busy cozying up to the higher-ups who might advance their careers, or trying to be cool by ingratiating themselves with students they wanted to socialize with. And some were just not interested.

I remember going to see one instructor during her stated office hours to discuss an issue with a project for her class. It would have taken less than 5 minutes of her time, but she simply breezed on past with, “Make an appointment for another time,” and left with another instructor.

One wasn’t supposed to need an appointment during office hours. And when something in my project was wrong as a result, she wanted to know why I hadn’t bothered to ask.

Well, I tried. She blew me off. I was putting the finishing touches on the project when I went to her to ask the question. I had already waited a few days until she actually had office hours, and the project was due the next day, so “making an appointment at another time,” wasn’t feasible.

I had other instructors who, after complaining about how needy my classmates were, couldn’t understand why I hadn’t asked for help.

Well, past experience had taught me, for one, and their attitude for another. They wanted us to stand on our own two feet and be independent, then complained when we did just that.

I didn’t have friends from class to get feedback from, either. My classmates were too busy, didn’t know or couldn’t be bothered.

And I’ve always loved the, “If you didn’t understand the assignment, why didn’t you come to me to ask?”

Really? See above for the answer. I recall telling one instructor that I wasn’t aware that I didn’t understand the assignment or I would have tried coming to her.

One teacher told me my mind always seemed to be elsewhere. Yeah, it’s trying to figure out a solution because I couldn’t get hold of an instructor who would take two minutes to answer a question. I also spent two solid years of being a commuter student who was utterly exhausted all of the time.

The job I truly loved, writing, hasn’t met with much success. Oh, I have books out there. On Amazon, because I can’t seem to entice an agent, a publisher or anyone else. Good story, but not what we’re looking for just now. (Form letter, and they probably didn’t bother to read the story.)

No, they’re looking for mystery stories or romance novels. I never read mystery stories because they make no sense to me, whether in book form or on TV. Romance novels make me ill. I can’t write what I can’t fathom.

Or they’re looking for non-fiction. I’m clearly in the fiction world. Real life is too hard and angry and – Kardashian. Fiction is far more interesting. Besides, if I tried to write non-fiction, my sarcasm gene would kick in too strongly.

I’ve participated in Author’s Day at Princeton Library several times. Sounds like something that should be really cool, right? I’ve seen people there who have great success. Once or twice some of my friends even attended – and I tell everyone I know every time I’m going to be part of it.

Once or twice I even sold a couple of books there. But most of the time people look, but don’t buy at my table. They don’t stay long enough for me to attempt a conversation with them, while they cluster at the next asking the other author all sorts of questions, and buying those books.

I’ve listened to fellow writers in my friend set, who have far more success than I have, talk about email lists and all sorts of things that are mysteries to me. How do they find these people? Where do these lists come from?

Oh, ask your friends. I have 10. Maybe. Now what?

Get your colleagues to fill out questionnaires. I’m retired. 

Even when I wasn’t retired, I knew no one in my life who would bother with a questionnaire. I did try.

Not long ago I asked someone I didn’t know well to read a piece. It was far from finished. In fact, I was just getting my feet wet on the story, and didn’t have a good direction for it yet. After some initial questions, I didn’t hear back. Since I didn’t know the person well, I simply concluded after several months that I wasn’t likely to.

I was surprised to get feedback long after I’d despaired of it. It was actually quite harsh. It was kind of a relief from the, “That’s really good!” that I often get with no other comment. That’s not what I’m looking for. I want to know what works and what doesn’t. What’s interesting and what’s boring?

This person told me what was boring, what didn’t work and what they didn’t like. It actually sounded angry. Kind of like handing in an assignment late that the teacher didn’t like, harsh. I let the comments sit for a bit – a couple of weeks, actually. Then I read them again, along with the story.

The person was quite right. I was telling, not showing, etc. But it was only more of a concept of the story I wanted to write than the actual story. And the critique actually spurred me on to rewrite the whole thing (I’m glad I wasn’t farther than chapter 5, and the chapters were all short). I have, so far, written far more than is going to be in the book because I need to know the background, history, geography, civics and characters of the world I’m creating. But at least now I know what I’m not putting into the story because it doesn’t work as part of the story.

Not long ago, my husband finished writing the novel he’s been working on since before I ever met him – we’ve been married for 31 years. About the same time, I finished my most recent novel, one of which I’m particularly proud. It took far longer than any of my others to write.

I read his novel. I think it’s well thought out, and a fantastic story, even if that seems like a biased statement. Ever since then, he’s been doing re-reads and revisions of his book, getting his friends to read it and give critiques. He has some friends who are really brutally frank about giving critiques, and have great suggestions.

Oh, has he read my novel? He has not. He never reads any of my novels, ever. And it isn’t because I haven’t asked. The only writing of mine he’s ever read/edited/critiqued are my blogs, and he gave me excellent advice on those.

But I seldom ask anymore. I got tired of begging. Have you read the blog yet? No, I was too tired. No, I didn’t get to it yet. Three weeks later: did you read the blog yet? Oh, I forgot all about it. Then, perhaps spurred on by guilt, it gets read and critiqued.

Meanwhile, I’ve also been re-reading, editing and so forth with my novel.

I tried taking a page from his book, and asked if any of my friends would be interested in reading and critiquing  any of my novels. Three people raised their hands, so they were sent manuscripts.

One of the three came through for me with some helpful critiques. That’s a first for me.

The others? I assume life got hectic, but I had no response. I got back to them. They apologized and said they would read it. They didn’t. When several months later I got back to them again, they had not read it, and now had reasons why they could not do this for me.

I suppose I’m unreasonable expecting people to do something if they said they would. But that’s probably just my internal ethic, not theirs. Am I the only person on the planet who, when I give my word to do something actually does it?

So, I am self-reliant out of necessity.

I told my husband I wished I had friends like his. He claims he had to hound his friend to get their responses. Yet when they’re together, they’ll spend hours discussing plot and structure.

What has happened for me in the past is this: The first time, the response would be (if there even is one), “Oh, I didn’t get a chance to finish reading it because of X,Y, & Z. My life is busy. But I’ll get to it.” The second time, perhaps weeks or months later, the response would be, “You know, I just don’t have the time to do this. Sorry.” I’m simply bothering them by even asking if they’ve done what they promised to do. How dare I?

This makes me want to scream. Why did you volunteer if you couldn’t do it?

I mean, really I should know. Even my blogs don’t get a response. Maybe five blogs out of the over one hundred I’ve written since 2017 have had a comment, and some of those have been sarcastic comments that are an attempt to be funny.

I was told to start a writing Facebook page. I did. No one responds to anything on it. I’ve invited people to follow, and apparently they missed or deleted the invitation, and because they didn’t respond to it, I can’t re-invite them. I don’t know how. There doesn’t seem to be a way.

I was told to go onto Twitter, or whatever it’s called now. I did that. What do you do there? No one was home. Where are the people on Twitter?

Oh, you have to follow people. Where are they? And even if I followed them, then what? That’s their interests. Even if I respond to them, I would either get nothing more than a thumbs-up or get blasted because they didn’t agree with what I said. I did make a post there once. Apparently to the void. No one responded.

And if I bring up my writing, maybe someone will say, “Oh, you write? That’s cool.” And then silence. I don’t have to go on twitter to know that.  I’ve lived it on Facebook, in AOL chatrooms, on Myspace. Why would yet another forum be any different?

I recently tried Reddit. It took forever to find anything. It looks more like a space for the tall-thin- gorgeous- raccoon-eyed blondes of my youth who now have followers and are called “influencers.”

I’m not looking for people to influence me. I’m not a sycophant who distributes cutesy hearts on people’s fan pages. Nor am I looking for people to do that to me.

My husband provided me with links in Reddit that specifically are supposed to be for writers. I read some posts, even replied to a few, and made my own post.

Silence. Well, not silence, exactly. I did get a thumbs-up. One.

All I want is to be able to engage in serious conversation about writing, exchange information and not be called names by someone trying to inject politics into absolutely everything. I would like someone who knows answers to the questions I have to provide me with information the way I provide information to people who ask questions that I know answers to.

I thought about going back to college to get a master’s in writing, just so I could get some critique of my work. My husband doesn’t think I need a master’s degree. According to him, I already know the necessary things to be a writer.

But I’ve been told the most horrible thing: Somehow, I’m supposed to find strangers somewhere, and talk to them. Be able to think of questions to ask them that would further my chances of getting my books out there. Actually talk to them, send emails and follow-up emails if they don’t answer (how many times are you supposed to do that before you finally realize that they will never reply?)

Are you kidding me? Talk to strangers? Actually be able to say something, follow them, don’t take no for an answer until you get a door slammed in your face (which believe me, happens faster than you’d find a second question)?

Put me on the stage at Carnegie Hall and let me sing for thousands by myself – or, hey, I’d gladly sing a duet with Josh Groban. Or Johnny Mathis. Or Paul McCartney. Piece of cake. I’d love it. I’d have the time of my life!

Let me act in a play, as long as I don’t have to do some dance routine. Equal love there. I don’t need to win an award, just have the chance to do it.

Don’t get me wrong; I love writing as much as I love singing or acting. It’s like breathing for me. I couldn’t not do it. It’s all the other stuff that goes with promoting my work, the begging with zero results because I don’t know how to do it, the finding things when I don’t know where to look that’s so maddening. There's no card catalogue! I need someone who knows how to do those things. Yet, those are the same people with the form letters: sorry, we’re focused on a different type of writing just now.

But talk to strangers? Are you kidding? I don’t know how to do that.

Yeah, yeah, the people who know me will swear I talk non-stop. They’re not strangers, and we have common talking points. And yes, I’ll ask a stranger – usually a policeman – in New York for directions.

But talk to a stranger? Do you have any idea how hard that is? Have you ever tried it, especially when you’re asking them for a favor? I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ve been through this before.

In college, I went through 11 roommates in 13 terms. I know people are thinking (although they don’t say it), “What’s wrong with you?” Well, beyond asking their name, their major and where they’re from, it’s desperately hard to think of something to say to them. Sometimes, “What kind of music do you listen to?” works, and you are lucky enough to find common ground. Often, we don’t like the same music, and maybe after several weeks I’ve thought of some other things, but by then, usually, they’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t like them, or we’re not compatible or whatever their excuse is, and they move out. Sequence rewind.

Yes, alone, I could probably formulate questions, and maybe even anticipate replies. But then, try whipping out a piece of paper when you want to talk to someone. They’re gone before the paper is unfolded. And if they stay, they never stay on-script. How can you ask the follow-up when they go off-script?

Maybe I should just try to figure out a way to get a singing gig at Carnegie Hall and hope Josh Groban hears it and is interested in joining in.