Everybody Needs an Aunt Ray

Aunt Ray is not really anybody’s aunt that I know. She’s just one of those people who comes to visit and gets all the laundry done while frying pork chops for supper before you can stop her. She also loves prescription pain medications which render her the most fabulously impaired person I’ve ever met.

When our keyless entry system went flooey, I gave her a regular key to get in the house. On her next visit, I found her sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette because the keypad didn’t work. I showed her the key that SHE had strung on her own key ring on her last visit. I tried not to laugh too hard, because she seemed embarrassed. But that’s one of the reasons we love her so much. She’s crazier than a pet possum.

Of course, she gave me no end of shit when SHE ran the washer with no clothes in it. I had filled the washing machine with water and soap but did not get around to putting in the clothes. That’s how things work in a house with little medical emergencies several times a day. Anyway, Aunt Ray saw the tub filled with water and closed the lid. Oh, that was the funniest thiiiinnngggg—that Fred had run the washer without clothes in it! Hey, whatever dusts your Hummels.

I began to love her even more when she started promising God things, like no more gambling with other people’s money. You have to make them give you the money before you gamble, not after you lose it. No more drinking, too, either. Except when she needs to, of course. Even God wouldn’t want you to forgo a drink if you really need it.

When she saw Sean’s new drum set, she said, “Oh! I can play In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida!” What’s that? I said. She said, “You’ve never heard of ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’?” I truly thought she was trying to pronounce something in Spanish and not succeeding. But, no. It’s a song. In English. A gnarled piece of musical driftwood from the seventies. She sat down at the kit and, as best I could tell, she played it perfectly.

Hey, I haven’t won any Nobel prizes, either. That’s why I try not to mind her bat-shit crazy ways. I didn’t mind the weekend when she seemed to eat nothing but beef tongue sandwiches with Miracle Whip spoodging from the edges. I just made sure the two-quart container with the tongue didn’t touch any of my beer in the fridge. I don’t even mind when she cuts dingle berries off the dog’s ass with the kitchen scissors. Well, yes I do. Very much. But, on the bright side, I don’t have to channel-surf for entertainment.