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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.
