"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."