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Listen, I don't have a lot of time to write this, but I'll do the best I can. See, I signed up to bring dessert for the teacher's luncheon at my children's school, Our Lady of Perpetual Fundraising, and the cupcakes aren't frosted yet. Of course, I could just stop at the store to pick some up -- I need to get the coffee for the auxiliary fundraiser tomorrow anyway -- but that would take me out of my way since I really need to drop off the canned goods we collected for the food pantry at the Scout meeting last week. Speaking of Scouts, I have to think up a craft for the next meeting. It can't cost anything, of course -- anyone know of something cute 11 squirmy kids can make out of empty coffee cans and toilet paper rolls?

Or, maybe I could just sit still and face facts. My name is Anne, and I have a volunteering problem. Did I say "problem"? Let's call it what it really is -- a disease. OCV, or Obsessive-Compulsive Volunteerism.

I'm only one of a legion of women who haven't seen the tops of their dining room tables in years, and we need help. From coast to coast, we're fundraising, baking, driving, teaching, Scout-leading, coaching, all because we suffer from a mental disorder characterized by the firm, albeit delusional, belief that "If I don't do it, nobody else will, and I could never live with myself if little children actually died of disappointment as a result."

Of course, OCV hasn't been recognized by the medical community yet, and God knows the HMOs will squawk, but I believe we may be dealing with an epidemic. While we're all waiting for treatment, I suppose we could form support groups.

Tired women could gather in church basements on folding chairs, drinking in both bad coffee and lectures with titles such as "Lying Like a Rug -- When Just Saying No Doesn't Cut It," or "Know Your Enemy -- The Advantages of Caller ID." Over in another corner, an exercise class could feature a sort of yoga for OCV -- "Sitting on Your Hands While Biting Your Tongue."

The problem is, starting a support group for OCV sufferers would be like serving vodka gimlets at an AA meeting. Gather these women in a room, and before you could say "sign-up sheet" they'd divide up into committees for refreshments, decorations and a raffle. "Self"-help is outside our frame of reference.

Men do not run themselves ragged doing this kind of stuff. They make lofty pronouncements about their time being far too valuable. But there doesn't seem to be any limit to what women will do to raise a few bucks for anything they think benefits their kids or communities, even if some measure of humiliation is involved.

A few years back, we lived in a town in New England where the major fundraiser for the schools involved "deeding" square foot plats of land at a nearby park for something called a "cow maneuver." Cows were led out on to the field to do what cows do in fields, and the owner of the first "target" hit won a cash prize. While this sort of thing was perfectly acceptable in New Hampshire, in our previous hometown in the Silicon Valley, the more stylish women of those parts still ran themselves ragged, but would sooner open a vein than be involved in such a pursuit.

But for those with more advanced OCV, opening a vein may be an idea whose time has come. During yet another fundraising brainstorm session I attended not long back, one beleaguered mother jokingly suggested that we sell plasma. There was a moment of silence, during which raised eyebrows and thoughtful expressions indicated that, for a lot of those present, this idea actually had some appeal.

Some of us have tried a geographic cure -- moving to another area and pretending that we're above giving even 30 seconds of our time to a cause of any kind. But it's no use. We might as well have a big "V" tattooed in the middle of our foreheads. No shark detects chum in the water as fast as someone sniffing out a potential volunteer. I was once overheard absent-mindedly humming "I'm just a girl who can't say no" and the next thing I knew I was co-chairing an auction at my daughter's high school.

It doesn't do any good to look to our families for sympathy. Our husbands have given up; we're gone so much our own children don't always recognize us, and our own mothers often think we're just plain nuts.

A teacher at my children's school once asked me in jest when I was going to get a "real" job as he watched me staggering into the school with an armload of folders for yet another meeting.

"I have one," I growled. "I work for you." Suddenly realizing that he was dealing with a woman on the edge, he very sincerely thanked me.

For an OCV sufferer, gratitude is mother's milk. I guess he'll get a cupcake.

Anne Thomasmeyer is an O'Hara Township freelance writer for the Tribune-Review.

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