Читать книгу A Little Bit of Ivey - Lorelei JD Branam - Страница 3

I am middle-aged. I am staying married. I don’t want any sort of implant, and there isn’t a cougar bone in my body.

There is one thing I have been certain of from a very young age and that is boys. Mother tells a tale of me, age five, coming out of sedation from a tonsillectomy and commenting that our family pediatrician was cute.

At one point, shortly after I turned thirteen, Mother looked at Dad and asked in complete exasperation, “What is wrong with her?”

To which he calmly replied, “Aw nothin’, Slim. She just likes those boys. She has been interested in boys ever since she found out they weren’t girls.”

Today I have six children, including a set of twins, thirty pets and—no, we don’t live on a farm or even in a rural area. We live smack dab in suburbia, but my husband thinks pets are family and should not be separated from each other. Rodents and rabbits don’t understand about incest. It took nine rabbits and thirteen guinea pigs before I declared, ”Family, my ass” and separated the boys from the girls.

My mother lives right next door and doesn’t like animals. I know, hilarious.

Mother is an elderly widow-woman, still a lady to her fingertips and a very involved neighbor. Her favorite pastimes include arguing, ordering from QVC, exchanging packages with QVC, returning things to department stores, calling the police and keeping tabs on notorious criminals like Casey Anthony and Scott Peterson.

Don’t for one minute think that being related to her will protect you when it comes to calling the police or returning a gift. In fact, we relations tend to get bumped to the front of the line. Well, I’m always at the front of the line. I have a reserved parking place. But it doesn’t take much to get the second spot on the ‘mad as a wet hen list,’ behind me. You can always get a head start by simply agreeing with me about anything. When mother and I are going at it, you should just stay quiet, or you will be in hot water too.

Mother is also enjoying riding in the “I am old and can do whatever I want” boat. Eating Sunday supper at her house now gives me cause for concern because she refuses to acknowledge food expiration dates and is known to nap for hours in between food shopping and putting cold food away. She also chooses to ignore all painted lane lines and stops her vehicle whenever and wherever she wants. She will fight you, if you are foolish enough to tell her otherwise.

You can’t make this stuff up, although she’d probably tell you that I am. Our lives would make for a lucrative and real entertaining reality show, except my hot flashes could in no way take the intense heat from stage lighting, and I have enough trouble staying on my feet without all the wires and cumbersome equipment. Besides, our commotion would run off the TV crew.