A Little Bit of Ivey
Nonfiction, Entertainment, Humour & Comedy, General Humour, Family & Relationships
| Author: | Lorelei Branam | ISBN: | 9781456612634 |
| Publisher: | ebookit | Publication: | March 5, 2013 |
| Imprint: | eBookIt.com | Language: | English |
| Author: | Lorelei Branam |
| ISBN: | 9781456612634 |
| Publisher: | ebookit |
| Publication: | March 5, 2013 |
| Imprint: | eBookIt.com |
| Language: | English |
Call me Ivey Mae.
I have been interested in boys since I realized they weren't girls. Literally. After a tonsillectomy at age five, my first comment was, "The doctor is cute." When I was eighteen my dad started calling me Will Rogers after the actor who infamously stated that he'd never met a man he didn't like. My mother has always wondered what is wrong with me, but the answer is right in her mirror.
As a blossoming novelist, I let my southern roots color the world around me. My books grapple with my alter ego and the romantic dalliances with her dashingly handsome muse.
But in reality, I am staying married—this time—living with my husband, our 6 children, and 30 pets—and no, we don't live on a farm, but smack dab in suburbia. My husband thinks rabbits and guinea pigs are family and shouldn't be separated. But after 22 baby, inbred rodents, I said, "Family, my rear end!" and separated the boys and girls.
My dear mother is now a widow and lives next door. And although she is lonely, she is thoroughly enjoying her seat in the I-am-old-and-can-do-what-I-want boat. She's the one using a shower cap instead of an umbrella and bright-colored laundry baskets instead of a suitcase. Oh, and as it turns out, she doesn't really like me or animals. I know, hilarious.
You can't make this stuff up, although Mother would probably tell you that I do. Our lives would make for a train-wreck type entertaining genuine reality show. But our commotion would just run off the TV crew, so—for now—my stories will have to do.
I have been interested in boys since I realized they weren't girls. Literally. After a tonsillectomy at age five, my first comment was, "The doctor is cute." When I was eighteen my dad started calling me Will Rogers after the actor who infamously stated that he'd never met a man he didn't like. My mother has always wondered what is wrong with me, but the answer is right in her mirror.
As a blossoming novelist, I let my southern roots color the world around me. My books grapple with my alter ego and the romantic dalliances with her dashingly handsome muse.
But in reality, I am staying married—this time—living with my husband, our 6 children, and 30 pets—and no, we don't live on a farm, but smack dab in suburbia. My husband thinks rabbits and guinea pigs are family and shouldn't be separated. But after 22 baby, inbred rodents, I said, "Family, my rear end!" and separated the boys and girls.
My dear mother is now a widow and lives next door. And although she is lonely, she is thoroughly enjoying her seat in the I-am-old-and-can-do-what-I-want boat. She's the one using a shower cap instead of an umbrella and bright-colored laundry baskets instead of a suitcase. Oh, and as it turns out, she doesn't really like me or animals. I know, hilarious.
You can't make this stuff up, although Mother would probably tell you that I do. Our lives would make for a train-wreck type entertaining genuine reality show. But our commotion would just run off the TV crew, so—for now—my stories will have to do.
Call me Ivey Mae.
I have been interested in boys since I realized they weren't girls. Literally. After a tonsillectomy at age five, my first comment was, "The doctor is cute." When I was eighteen my dad started calling me Will Rogers after the actor who infamously stated that he'd never met a man he didn't like. My mother has always wondered what is wrong with me, but the answer is right in her mirror.
As a blossoming novelist, I let my southern roots color the world around me. My books grapple with my alter ego and the romantic dalliances with her dashingly handsome muse.
But in reality, I am staying married—this time—living with my husband, our 6 children, and 30 pets—and no, we don't live on a farm, but smack dab in suburbia. My husband thinks rabbits and guinea pigs are family and shouldn't be separated. But after 22 baby, inbred rodents, I said, "Family, my rear end!" and separated the boys and girls.
My dear mother is now a widow and lives next door. And although she is lonely, she is thoroughly enjoying her seat in the I-am-old-and-can-do-what-I-want boat. She's the one using a shower cap instead of an umbrella and bright-colored laundry baskets instead of a suitcase. Oh, and as it turns out, she doesn't really like me or animals. I know, hilarious.
You can't make this stuff up, although Mother would probably tell you that I do. Our lives would make for a train-wreck type entertaining genuine reality show. But our commotion would just run off the TV crew, so—for now—my stories will have to do.
I have been interested in boys since I realized they weren't girls. Literally. After a tonsillectomy at age five, my first comment was, "The doctor is cute." When I was eighteen my dad started calling me Will Rogers after the actor who infamously stated that he'd never met a man he didn't like. My mother has always wondered what is wrong with me, but the answer is right in her mirror.
As a blossoming novelist, I let my southern roots color the world around me. My books grapple with my alter ego and the romantic dalliances with her dashingly handsome muse.
But in reality, I am staying married—this time—living with my husband, our 6 children, and 30 pets—and no, we don't live on a farm, but smack dab in suburbia. My husband thinks rabbits and guinea pigs are family and shouldn't be separated. But after 22 baby, inbred rodents, I said, "Family, my rear end!" and separated the boys and girls.
My dear mother is now a widow and lives next door. And although she is lonely, she is thoroughly enjoying her seat in the I-am-old-and-can-do-what-I-want boat. She's the one using a shower cap instead of an umbrella and bright-colored laundry baskets instead of a suitcase. Oh, and as it turns out, she doesn't really like me or animals. I know, hilarious.
You can't make this stuff up, although Mother would probably tell you that I do. Our lives would make for a train-wreck type entertaining genuine reality show. But our commotion would just run off the TV crew, so—for now—my stories will have to do.
