St. Dymphna

It is a truth universally to be acknowleged that all elderly women of this area are dedicated to sending money to any and all Catholic charities. Said donations are always responded to by sending the donor a holy card.
(For the uninitiated, a holy card is rather like a baseball card. On the front is a picture of the chosen player or saint, on the back are listed the statistics.Ladies are always happy to have the holy card as it signals they have not just sent money to the Haddessah or the Holy Rollers .) Some time ago a "friend" danced into the kitchen holding a card aloft. "I've found her," she announced. "I've found your patron saint in my mother's mail."
"My patron saint is Anne," I pointed out. It had been a hard day with the dogs and the relatives.
"No." She was in fine fettle. "Your patron is Saint Dymphna."
"I don't want her, she's one of those made up in a very old book of saints saints. At least Anne may have existed and I can spell her name."
Undeterred she put the card and attendant medal on the fridge.
Later I looked at it. The picture was the very pattern of the female saints. She is whey faced, crowned and simpering. The back informed me that she is the patron saint of "those afflicted with mental, emotional, and nervous disorders." In plainer terms, she is the saint for loonies.
I will get revenge for this-as soon as I can find my old missal. I have plenty of odd holy cards stashed and I plan to make their oddities very prominent in her life.I am trying to remember the lady who guarded her chastity to the death,(generally they had their heads lopped off. Some of the severed heads talked and some didn't)  there are so many of them... but one inspired a society for the chaste. I vividly remember signing up several young lads at university for the societies newsletter.
The gentlemen were not amused.
(But I was)

Family party

The younger woman will look at me with eyes that see all my lumpen proletarianism. Unimportant, unrich, unbeautiful. She will suffer the people with weary disdain hiding the desperation to be somewhere else. Perhaps she will see my beautiful children: she will find them wanting and bless the day my "brother" told her he didn't want children. She did of course, but that was then, not now. She's very important now. She lives in a world of challenges which she bests effortlessly. She's a positive person, an example to her exclusive community.

The elder she will note any wrongness and store it for use against me. She'll save it for a temper, a fit of screaming vile things about me, hoping I will cry. I won't. The elder  will tell me she can't do without me. I wish she could have a dog to beat but it would be too cruel to the animal.

I will smile and I will pay. I am the chosen child. The one beaten, killed and given to the old god.

Phoneys

I hate the pitch. "Nancy, this is Colleen. How are you today. I do hope that you're doing well." And then a carefully orchestrated set of comments and questions, the "check" with the supervisor and kiss goodbye to $20 dollars. They hope.

They only get so far if the day has been fraught, the dogs are swarming me looking for food and a friend's at the door.

Next time I'll say faintingly, "Well, I'm doing better you know but the medicine costs so much that I've had to give up eating more than once a day and what with the rise in rent and the doctor's bills....It's so nice of you to ask. Can you help me with a small donation?"

I do give to charity but I know damn well these guys are not on our researched list.