"So what antidepressant are you on?"

That's what someone I had just met asked me out of the blue a couple of weeks ago. But I'll get to that later. I apologize in advance for this post's undue length and humorlessness. Just so you know, I'm disappointed too.

Katy woke up with a fever this morning. I just got back from taking her to the doctor. Of course, the fever was gone, and her sore throat wasn't as bad as she made it seem this morning. She's resting comfortably now, and watching a Cheetah Girls DVD. I had big plans for getting a lot of work done today. Oh well. As much as I would like to have an office away from the house, it's times like this that I'm grateful for the flexibility of working from home. I don't know how single moms can do it.

The house is a cluttered wreck, I have a Monday deadline for a big project, clients and prospective clients keep calling, but all I want to do is write. Normally, when I get overwhelmed by my inability to prioritize, I just want to curl up and take a nap. Not that I ever actually nap, mind you. I may rest my body, but my brain kicks into high gear. I start thinking about all the things I should be doing and about how I will have to make up for those 20 torturous minutes of lost time.

So here I am like Nero fiddling while my Rome burns. But this is my therapy. My way of clearing my head of all its detritus and jetsam and flotsam so I can, hypothetically and theoretically at least, get back to the business of the day -- or what's left of the day anyway.

Because I fancy myself a writer, I always have pen and paper handy to jot down all the beyond-profound, less-than-trivial, or borderline-insane thoughts that plague me. Or perhaps this jotting compulsion (that has been with me all my life) means that I really am a writer.

I'm tempted to post a picture of the 8.5 x 11 sheet I filled with scribbles today, but I'm afraid an analyst might get a hold of it and use it to have me committed for my own good, for the welfare of my family, and for the safety of the entire San Antonio metropolitan area.

I'm a list-maker. The list items are usually in no particular order, rarely written neatly or on any ruled lines provided for keeping words in some semblance of harmony. And most of my "lists" are comprised of several scraps of paper, none of which I am able to find when I need them. I have been known to tape or staple these scraps to one large sheet which I will then proceed to put in what I consider at the time (for reasons I cannot fathom later) to be a handy place. I seldom return to these handy places when I should or when called upon to do so. Not that having a list or a reasonable facsimile thereof means that I would actually do anything on said list when it needs to be done, or ever. I used to be so organized and anal. Now I operate with this by-the-seat-of-my-pants, catch-as-catch-can, minute-to-minute mentality. I think I have adult-onset ADD. I'm hoping to add some hyperactivity to the mix. Maybe then I might actually get something done.

My so-called list for today is mostly covered with ideas for blog topics such as words I like, foods I hate, foods I probably hate but haven't tried, funny or strange things that have happened to me recently, and a recap of my trip to Dallas last weekend for bonding with my three best friends. This sheet of scattered scribbles also includes work-related jargon I'm compiling for my Monday-deadline project, songs I want to download, and Katy's height and weight from today's doctor appointment (77 pounds, 4' 5"). I'm thinking Luke's numbers are probably about the same -- 77 pounds, but 5' 4".

Now to the story behind the post title. This law school in Detroit has started a traveling veterans' law clinic. Their first stop was San Antonio. Seeing as how I am pretty much the only veterans' lawyer in the state, I felt duty-bound to attend not only to lend my ostensible expertise, but to provide oversight and damage control. The first two days, the dank American Legion meeting hall was inundated by almost 300 disgruntled veterans. Those Detroit folks had no idea we would have such a large turnout. I was not surprised at all. So I spent two full days in this fluorescent-lighted, linoleum-floored, smoke-smelling dungeon listening to one horrific and heartbreaking story after another. After eight years of this practice, nothing shocks me anymore, but the listening drains and exhausts me every time. Normally, my consultations take place over the phone so I never see the faces behind the stories. But for those two days, virtually nonstop, I sat across a table face-to-face and looked into tearful eyes of grown men broken physically or mentally by combat or by the mere preparation for it. None of them feel sorry for themselves. Many of them earned Purple Hearts or various medals for valor or gallantry. They are proud men who would rather be in a financial position simply to forgo the VA disability compensation benefits they were promised. Most of them have spent more years fighting the VA than they spent fighting for our country. One day I may post some of their stories, because I think they need to be heard. But for now, I'll get off my soapbox and back to the matter at hand.

By day three of this event (an attorney training session), the teachers, students, and staff from Detroit were, pardon the expression, shell-shocked. The school's photographer, a middle-aged woman I had met only two days before and with whom I had until then only exchanged pleasantries, approached me as I sat alone during a rare quiet moment. In a serious voice, she whispered in my ear, "What kind of antidepressant are you on?" Taken aback, I probably gasped before letting out a laugh not unlike those I offer in response to my own jokes. I replied, "Does it show? Can you really tell?" She said she was only half joking. She said, "Honey, anyone who does this kind of work has got to be on something." Then I told her what I take, and as I am wont to do, proceeded --in my "TMI" way-- to share the litany of chemical crutches and (dare I say, maybe even life-saving at times) "happy pills" I have tried with varying success over the years. Maybe if I found another line of work I wouldn't need medication to keep the depression and anxiety away. Maybe if I found another line of work I would be more efficient and more organized and a better housekeeper. And maybe if I found another line of work my life would be full of butterflies and rainbows. Naaaah.

One more thing before I go. My dreary experience at the American Legion hall was brightened by a baby-faced, enthusiastic, second-year law student named Alex. He took a liking to me probably because he saw me as the veritable font of veterans' law information that I appeared to be. Or maybe it was just because I reminded him of his mother. Of course, in my narcissistic and somewhat cougarish mind, I was hoping he took a liking to me because of my irresistible hotness. (Isn't that sad?) Anyway, we took a break and went on a fruitless search for a Starbucks. Yes, you read that right. Fruitless. The Barrio of San Antonio--now known to me as The One Remaining Place on Earth Where you Cannot see the Familiar Green Circular Sign. I realized later I could have pressed my Onstar button in such an emergency. I would have then no doubt discovered that a Starbucks did indeed exist nearby but was obscured by a pawn shop/check cashing store. As I drove us up and down one of the uglier thoroughfares of west-central S.A., apologizing for it all the way, Alex asked me a question. He had been out on the Riverwalk the night before. He said, in all seriousness, "Tell me something. Where do all the good-looking girls hang out? I think it was Chubby Latin Girl Nightwhere I was." I said, "Welcome to San Antonio, my friend."

"He'd Still Be Alive If He Hadn't Died"

That's what my mom said today about her father. It's true. (Think about it. It's really not true about every dead person.) Today's his birthday. He'd be 95 if he hadn't gone and died 10 years ago. His name was Wilbur but he was known to everyone as "Speedy." He was a tall, wiry, sturdy, smiling man. Danish blue eyes, a bald head, hands impossibly rough and gentle, calloused and tender all at once. The kindest, strongest, most devoted man I ever knew.

He was a medic in the Philippines during the war. Never talked about it. Wrote so many beautiful letters home, most of them with the salutation, "My Darling Wife,…" They are all yellowed and cracked and faded now, with that fancy fountain pen ink. Such a treasure. His younger, softer hand wrote only of the positive, with a hopeful tone, and with his sweet sense of humor. His concerns were only about his wife and daughter back home. We'll never know what ached in his heart or what images his mind held.

He was an electrician when I was his little granddaughter. He would take me to work with him sometimes. I think it was a white van. Full of those wooden spools of cable and oil-stained cardboard boxes of colored wire and worn crates of sockets and switches and plates and fuses and more tools and hardware than any girl my age would ever care to see. I learned about temporary poles and breaker boxes and the importance of hard work. I remember the smell of his sweat. A mix of coffee and cumin and oil and toil. He never stopped working. Always busy with a project, always rigging modifications to everyday items to make them more convenient or efficient. He always whistled softly under his breath or sang Danish songs. We would ask him what the songs meant, but he'd say he couldn't tell us because they had some dirty words.

He and my grandmother loved to go to dances at the senior citizen center. There were always more women than men, so Grandma made sure he would dance with all the "old widow ladies" at least once. Grandpa obliged because he was thoughtful and loved to dance, but I know he would rather have shared every song with his darling wife.

He liked crossword puzzles and loved to argue about politics. This morning my mom told me about my sweet grandpa insulting his baby brother. They were probably in their 70's at the time. My mother found her uncle Vernon milling about in my grandparents' garage. He was pouting. She asked him what was wrong. He said, "Wilbur just called me a 'damn Republican!'"

Grandpa used to cook for his dog. He'd be making cream gravy, and ask us if we thought Henry would like a little pepper in it. Henry's name started out as Calvin (he was my brother's dog first, during Kenny's Calvinist period). But Grandpa had to change his name after taking the dog in because Grandpa's next-door neighbor was named Calvin. Every time the dog ran away and Grandpa went out calling for him, the neighbor would come out of his house yelling, "Whaddaya want?" So Mom has Henry now. That damn dog has got to be at least 120 dog years old. He's blind, deaf, and incontinent, but still runs around and wags his tail like a puppy. Mom's ready to let him take a real long nap, but he's still so happy and oblivious to how a 120-year-old dog should act, she can't bring herself to put him out of her misery. I think Grandpa taught him too well how to keep living and loving life.

I could go on about how devoted my grandfather was to my grandmother, but I'll just say that he spent his life living every minute for her. Especially after she had a stroke. Throughout his last four years, he exhausted every breath, every muscle fiber, every thought and smile and laugh supporting, encouraging, and nurturing her. She was his universe. We were blessed and graced with his bright-eyed, smiling, joyful, comforting presence for more years than we probably deserved, and we never had to see his health decline. He was physically vital and mentally vibrant to the end. While his heart may have ached, we never had to see him suffer in pain.

In early October 1997, he simply went to sleep on Earth and woke up singing a Danish song, dancing on streets of gold. He was reunited with his darling wife in 2002, and he'll be there to greet Henry, too, if that damn dog ever dies.

HVD

That's Happy Valentine's Day. I have always rejected card-generating holidays because Hallmark reminds me that I need to tell someone I love them, and that makes me resent Hallmark. Especially when I waste a good hour and a half card-shopping hoping to find one that's funny enough and not too tasteless-- unless the tastelessness is funny enough, or hoping to find one that can be serious without being sappy, and without the extended, calligraphied, boring, and sophomoric poetry that no one ever reads. Card-shopping gives me a nervous stomach every time. That feeling of I-know-I-have-more-important-things-to-do-yet-I-can't-seem-to-tear-myself-away. I hear John Wayne's voice telling me I'm burnin' daylight. So I grab a handful of marginally adequate sentiments, run to the store's bathroom, then go to the register with the mindset that I can't seem to shake that cards cost about a dollar each. (Only at the Dollar Store, and who wants to give a card from a dollar store? That's like saying, I love you, but not enough to spend $4.50 on a card.) So $32.78 later, I take the 4 cards and hope to personalize them with my own handwritten heartfelt thoughts. Well, here it is Valentine's Day, and all the cards I got for my mom, my in-laws, my nieces & nephews, are sitting here under a pile of papers on my desk. Unsigned, and certainly nowhere near an address or a stamp. It's not that I'm just lazy. I'm lazy AND busy. A rare and destructive combination. They say it's the thought that counts. But it only counts if the object of your thought is aware that you had such thought. Hence, the necessity of the expense, time, and effort of sending out a card on time. But with love, I say there is no deadline and no special day. (As for birthday cards, I have no excuse—those do sort of have a deadline day). Those I love know I love them. They also know that I'm lazy and busy and thoughtless. My cards will go out late then end up in a wastebasket after a proper amount of time. But they will go out, maybe before month's end. Card or not, and whoever you are, (unless you are one of the handful of people I can't stand) let me just say here and now, I Love You (in whichever appropriate way applies to you).