A considerate person wouldn’t tell this tale, wouldn’t air something like this in public. A considerate person wouldn’t subject their boys to the shame.

But I’m not that person.

Since my boys cannot read, and since it’s a safe bet none of their friends can read either, I feel no need to hold back. I’ll come right out and say it. In our house, the alpha dog is a cat.

I’m not sure how it happened. I always assumed there was some type of natural order, a hierarchy of beasts. Apparently, both our dogs–my boys–snoozed through that class.

Since Murry was the first animal to set paw in our house, it seemed logical to expect he would reign, but when we brought home a tiny kitten several months later, Murry immediately rolled onto his back, baring his belly. The quintessential dog sign of submission.

“Squirt’s not even as big as your paw,” I reasoned, befuddled by my dog’s rapid acquiescence. But there was no reasoning with Murry. He’d determined the kitten was king.

A year later, we added a second cat, Gypsy. Murry immediately deferred to her, too, even though for the first few months, Gypsy trembled at the sight of him in a way that would’ve made other dogs strut. Not Murry, though. Her reaction concerned him, and he apparently wanted to make her feel better–the only way he knew how. He began submitting to her with such frequency that her terror evolved into confusion, then bemusement, then scorn and disgust.

Sully (Cat No. 3) weaseled his way into our home in such a long and roundabout manner that I paid little attention to whether Murry was behaving the same way with him as the others. I do know, however, that when my humble pooch was tied in front of our house one afternoon, the big cat took sentry duty. When a roaming dog attempted to get to Murry, Sully stood on hind legs, groundhog fashion, and with much hissing and spitting, chased off the dog. So not only had Murry sublimated himself to three cats, one had become his protector.

And then came the pup, just four months old and maybe six pounds. I had no doubt our 40-pound, four-year-old Murry would flop onto his back and expose that much-viewed belly of his all over again.

He did not disappoint. Except this time, his audience missed his act of contrition. Because the pup was also on the floor on his back, baring his belly.

“You be the alpha dog.”

“No. You.”

It’s like living with the two most polite creatures ever born. If both arrive at the water bowl at the same time, each defers to the other. Neither one drinks. Set a dish of food on the floor–very same thing.

Taking the boys for a walk can be a humiliating experience, as both usually spend as much time on their backs as their feet.

I’m anticipating the day they hear a dog bark on TV and both go belly-up.

Squirt, in the meantime, seems convinced he’s done something to deserve their capitulation. He patrols his domain in a swaggering manner, stomach swaying, head held high. On whim, he butts them away from the food dish, checks their breath for contraband, nudges them from the best sunny spots on the carpet.

And the boys just take it. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Celeste was crushed. She actually cried when Katharine didn’t win, which surprised me since she hasn’t seemed that into any of the contestants since Paris was voted off a few weeks back. I tried to convince her that coming in second doesn’t mean Kat’s career is over by any means. I bet she’ll end up doing better than Taylor in the long run.

When she heard about the American Idol tour coming to our area, she went WILD, so this morning promptly at 10, I got online and ordered two insanely expensive tickets, which I’m going to save for her birthday. If I can keep quiet about it. I’m terrible about keeping something I’m excited about to myself.

So much going on I haven’t had a chance to write lately. The next few weeks are still going to be unusually full, but after the second weekend in June, I don’t have a single thing on my calendar. If I can just make it until then…

Celeste’s dance recital was this past Saturday night. (She took hip-hop from January’s.) As recitals go, I was pretty impressed. There were, of course, quite a few numbers with little ones looking like they were squishing bugs while wigging their butts, but you can never have too many of those. The dances with the older girls were amazing. There’s some serious talent, especially Morgan Vargo (daughter of Charleston dentists John Vargo and Dianna Lenick). That girl is amazing. She was in so many dances, had so many complicated moves, yet performed them all flawlessly.

My own girl was really good, too. She has no trouble at all being on stage in front of a crowd. In the rehearsals, she was a little reserved, but come show time, she gave it her all.

My name is Karin and I’m a television-aholic.

I’ve gone 22 minutes without touching the remote.

I’m trembling as I type. Concentration is difficult, but … I … must … concentrate. There are decisions to make. Serious decisions. All these season finales and leading-up-to the season finales. Do I watch Boston Legal or House? ER or Without a Trace? Criminal Minds or Lost?

I’m ashamed of myself. How did I allow this addiction to spiral so completely out of control? Not so long ago, I only had basic cable and seldom bothered to watch any shows. For years I went to bed about the same time as my daughter, so I didn’t realize what I was missing until a year and a half ago, when I married Geoff.

I’m not blaming my husband, though. No, I’m solidly putting the blame where it most deserves to be — on NBC. They’re the ones who made Law & Order. They’re who led me astray. Who got me hooked. All it took was a little Law & Order one night a week to give me the taste, to make me want more. That soulless network had already recognized the addictive nature of its product and upped the production, knowing the addicts would consume every bit. First came SVU, then Criminal Intent. Before I realized what was happening, I was no longer trying to cure my insomnia problem. I was happy to have it. Happy.

Happy because now, along with my new husband, I’d gotten cable. Real cable. Cable that could provide me with more Law & Order, which seemed to be running 24 hours a day.

Predictably, though, one addiction led to another. It began to take more shows — newer and flashier shows — to feed my craving. First came CSI, then 24, then Lost. Before I knew it, I was buying entire past seasons on DVD.

I was beginning to show the typical signs of addiction. The bloodshot eyes. The callused thumb. The broadening backside. The inability to use a light switch, determined to use a flashlight instead. The Pavlovian palpitations upon hearing the phrase, “In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups.”

For years before I succumbed, I believed all the talk about the dumbing-down of
America, claiming the boob tube was turning us into a nation of drooling bobbleheads. I suppose that’s why I was caught so completely off guard when I began sampling primetime and saw evidence of well-thought-out, well-written and well-acted shows. I was expecting Mad Dog 20/20 and found Dom Perignon instead.

And it made me want more.

Not only were the dramas better than most I’d seen in the past, but the sitcoms were far more intelligent, too. My Name Is Earl and The Office are in a whole different league than Happy Days and Laverne & Shirley. Even many of the shows I don’t care for, like Fear Factor or The Bachelor, are still better quality and more entertaining than, say, The Newlywed Game or The $10,000 Pyramid. I’m grateful there are still plenty of shows that don’t interest me in the least, and grateful, too, that the networks seem to save their best shows for after 9 p.m., so my addiction hasn’t made me a negligent mother.

It wasn’t until recently, with all the dramatic season finales, that I begun to recognize the extent of my madness. I stopped answering the phones. Refused to make after-work plans unless guaranteed they’d be over by 9.

If the rest of my family wasn’t as addicted as me, I suspect they’d have planned an intervention, but it was up to me alone to overcome.

If I attempt to wean myself during television’s summer hiatus, it just might work. I’m optimistic about this treatment plan I’ve developed. After all, what’s better for a television addict than a new “program”?

I started not to post anything about Grey’s Anatomy last night since the big two-hour season finale is tonight, but I can’t help it. It was too over-the-top and tonight’s episode promises to be even more so.

The whole Izzy deal, with her rigging Denny so he’d go into cardiac arrest (so soon after he signed a DNR form) was too much. Her shrieking and hysterics bordered on comical. I kept expecting Denny (who has been so charmingly sane up to this point) to discreetly press the “CALL NURSE” button and have her carted away. And George just stands there and goes along with everything?

Then there was Addison’s meltdown in front of everyone. I’m predicting it’s the result of the hormones kicking in since I’m guessing she’s pregnant. Of course, she won’t find out until Meredith and Derek are together, but that’ll just give them reason to bring McSteamy (Mark?) back, and that is NOT a bad thing.

Burke getting shot was the only surprise, although as soon as he decided to drive all the way back to the hospital (instead of just calling someone there) to check on what was going on with Izzy and Denny himself, I began to wonder if he might not be doomed.

The biggest question of all, though, is why do I keep watching this show when it drives me absolutely nuts?

I only heard from her once. She emailed two years ago after reading a column I’d written. In it, I mentioned I had friends I’d been avoiding because they had children the same age mine would have been had she lived.

This woman said she could relate. Said she’d been doing the same thing. Every time she’d found herself around a child of a certain age, she’d feel the stabbing pain that accompanied the thought, “That’s how big she’d be now.”

Except her daughter hadn’t died. She’d been given up for adoption.

The woman witnessed no teething or crawling or first steps. Never had her little one sneak into her shower or crawl into her bed in the middle of the night. She had as many nevers as me.

I saved her email and read it several times. It’s strange how you can know about something-like adoption, for instance–but not really see it for what it is: Not just a choice, but a loss. I’m embarrassed I didn’t see it that way until it she showed it to me.

The generosity of what she and others like her have suffered in order to ensure their child has a good life is humbling. That a mother could be selfless enough to make that big a sacrifice . . . I believe it says something about what mothers should be. Mothers are supposed to look out first for the best interest of their child, regardless of the personal pain such a decision might bring.

I know that not every woman who gives a child up for adoption does so for selfless reasons. But I also know that not every woman who keeps her child does so because she wants to be a mother. They’re often shamed into keeping a child whose life would’ve been better had they not.

I doubt giving up a child is a one-time-only pain. It wouldn’t be something you’d do, then forget. It wouldn’t be like yanking a tooth–an instant of hurt, then not another thought after the wound has closed.

Mothers who have had a child die continue to receive sympathy, even many years later, from those who respectfully acknowledge the loss. I wonder if moms who “lost” a child to adoption are afforded that same sort of regard, if people who are aware of what they sacrificed ever mention or recognize that loss.

I wonder how Mother’s Day feels to them.

In the email from the woman who wrote to me once, she admitted to constantly scanning faces in crowds, hoping to spot a child who bore some resemblance to her. When shopping, she sometimes couldn’t resist going to the children’s section, looking at outfits that might fit her daughter. She knew she couldn’t properly care for her baby, so she took great care in choosing parents who could. She didn’t regret the decision. She knew it was right. But knowing didn’t make that loss disappear.

I read recently that the Saturday before Mother’s Day is now recognized as Birthmother’s Day. While the nod of recognition is nice, my initial impulse was that a separate day isn’t needed. Maybe they weren’t the ones who stayed up nights when the child was sick and traded their cool car for a mini van. Maybe they weren’t the ones who drank after a toddler or changed diapers or cleaned vomit or did any of the many disgusting things a parent will do. But for every single rough time they missed, they missed out on dozens of sweet ones. The ones that make it worthwhile.

These women are still mothers, regardless of whether they raised the child or made the sacrifice that allowed someone else to be blessed.

And as a mother myself, I consider it an honor to share this day with them.

We were watching TV last night when the Nissan commercial came on. In a dreamy sounding voice, the announcer said, “What would it be like to go on a road trip where you only made left turns?”

My husband said, “Short.”

It only took me a second to realize he was right. Taking nothing but left turns would have us back in our own driveway in less than two minutes. The joys of living in a subdivision laid out in a circle.

I had the best long weekend. I took off Friday so Mom and I could do our annual mother-daughter event–the neighborhood yard sales in Winfield. The very first house we stopped at was fantastic. The woman had tons of clothes Celeste’s size, much of it Limited Too, and everything was just a quarter each. I left with three bags. Then it was on to Shawnee Estates, where we spent as much time talking as shopping.

My favorite buy? Two incredibly ugly pro wrestler dolls. More on that in a minute.

Geoff was teaching one of his writing classes on Saturday, so he encouraged me to take advantage of the opportunity to go to Morgantown by myself and write. Most of the time when I’m home, I find it impossible to write. There’s too much stuff needing done. Even if I have a deadline looming, I’ll flit from dishwasher to computer to laundry room to computer to yard work to computer. I needed a place where there were no distractions, so I dropped Celeste off with her grandparents in Fairmont and went on to Morgantown–alone. I didn’t even pack a spare dog.

Geoff’s folks have this incredible house close to Morgantown high. They were out of town for the weekend, so I stayed in their carriage house that Geoff used to rent. After writing a bit Friday night, I went to bed early, then got up early Saturday morning to drive around town. Morgantown has always confused me. I generally have a great sense of direction, but not up there. I wanted to try it without Geoff in the car. I still don’t know the street names, but I think I finally have the feel of the place.

While out driving around, I hit a few yard sales. My favorite buy of the day was this lovely piece of coconut art.

More on that in a minute.

I went back to the carriage house and wrote my heart out. And it stunk. It was forced and dry. Pretty much the flattest writing I’ve ever produced. So I called my friend, Pam, a talented writer who teaches at WVU, and we went to Black Bear for dinner. While talking to Pam, out came the beginning to the piece I was wanting to write. She even said, “That’s it! That’s your beginning.” Once I had that, the rest came easy.

So I mentioned my in-laws have this incredible house, right? It really couldn’t be more perfect. I love the place. Every inch is perfectly decorated. It’s like something out of a magazine. The only thing missing was some coconut art. And a professional wrestler doll (or two).

I think the coconut art adds just the right touch to Winston’s office decor.

And the wrestler guys add charm to the dining room, don’t you think?

OK - not that any 24 fans are reading this, but I’ve got to vent. So Jack Bauer retrieves the recording that implicates the president. He has it in his hands while they’re on board a plane that’s going to be shot down in 8 minutes. Don’t you think it might occur to him at some point to hold the little recorder up to the phone and hit PLAY? Sheesh. I love this show, but I’m starting to hate it, too. And being forced to look at that jagged Audrey in lingerie was painful. Someone needs to feed that girl.

Now about Grey’s Anatomy. It’s another show I both love and hate. It’s like Friends and ER mashed together. This past Sunday night’s episode was totally offensive. As soon as I heard the people being wheeled in on stretchers talking with exaggerated Southern accents, I knew it was going to be bad. I can’t do the Mamma/Daddy/Sugah thing. I hoped they’d step away from the noble-but-stupid-but-noble stereotype, but that was apparently too much of a stretch for the writers. And the voice-over thing Meredith does at the beginning and end of each show–does someone really get paid to write that?

To some, it might seem a stretch to say there are similarities between giving birth and having a yard sale. I doubt there are many women who haven’t–while in the absolute midst of doing one or the other–loudly declared, “There’s no way in hell I’m ever doing THIS again.”

But after it’s over and time passes, the woman’s memories will begin to soften. Slowly, she’ll forget just enough. Gradually, she might even begin to reminisce fondly about (a) breaking three fingers of her husband’s hand when he was too slow with the ice chips, or (b) unloading a used pinata for $5 and a mismatched pair of crutches for $10.

Forgetfulness is nature’s way of ensuring that, in time, a woman will be willing to do it again. Before long, she’ll begin dreaming of having another. And so it goes with the most natural of all instincts: The urge to procreate and the equally powerful urge to get rid of all the crap in the basement.

And depending on the condition of the basement, both can take up to ten months to accomplish.

Not long ago, I was struck with just such an urge. I can still recall the precise moment of conception. I was listening to the radio early one morning when I heard my cats fighting. I hurried to the basement to break up their spat and in doing so, toppled over a stack of books, upended a chair piled high with clothes, then had to climb Mount Old-Linens to get at the two cats. When I returned to my desk, I heard Steve Bishop talking about the upcoming semi-annual yard sale on V100.

And miracle of miracles, the seed was implanted.

In no time at all, I was busily nesting–assembling garment racks, emptying cabinets, writing prices on stickers. My husband and daughter soon joined me. Together we shared our dreams about the big event as we prepared wistfully for our new arrival-an empty room.

Although the basement room was still mostly full at the time, I wrapped my arm around Geoff’s waist and began to imagine how the room might look after the sale. “I bet it’ll end up looking like you,” I said, knowing it’s genetically unlikely that such a dominant characteristic (compulsive book hoarding) would not somehow emerge.

“I bet it’ll look like Celeste,” he said, likely imagining the games and game parts that trail behind her in a cloud much like Pigpen’s dust.

Our cat hacked up a hairball, apparently voicing her opinion that the room would, before long, look just like before, decorated with hairballs, shed fur, and junk.

And so, last Saturday morning, it was time. With my parent’s van and our hatchback filled to the top, we headed for the Kanawha Mall parking lot. We thought we were well prepared for what lay ahead. We’d read tips, listened to advice from friends and relatives who had been there before. We had dozens and dozens of bags, plenty of change. We even had ice chips, although they melted long before we had a chance to get near them.

Although I’d attended that sale as a buyer before, I’d never considered what life might be like on the other side of the table. It was insane.

Before we had even emptied our vehicles, cash was being thrust at us from all sides. This is not something I have a problem with. (Readers in doubt should feel free to thrust cash my direction and watch how well I handle myself.) But in the midst of attempting to set up our space, it was discombobulating. No sooner had we lifted a loaded garment rack out of the van than we were dealing with negotiators wanting even more of a bargain. We’d priced our stuff low, the goal being to free up our basement more than to raise cash, but I soon learned there are right ways and wrong ways to bargain with me.

If an item is marked $4 even though it still has the original $32 price tag attached and is still mostly IN this seller’s van, saying, “I’ll give you a buck for that” is not likely to work. But asking, “Could you possibly do any better on this?” works every time.

By the end of the day, when the Goodwill truck came by to pick up the leftover wares, we didn’t have much left to give. It was over. We were done. The experience, rewarding as it was, the labor was exhausting and even painful at times. And now, it’s behind us. And there’s no way in hell I’ll ever do that again.