I clearly have issues, but I usually am able to keep them under control. No, I am not talking about my OCD but about the devil within me named Bad Patty. I have a nice life, a kind husband, two great kids, a daughter-in-law that appears to like me and friends who will be seen in public with me. Because of that, I am mostly a pretty positive person. I get lots of random emails from people who want me to write about something in this column, friends’ kids looking for jobs and friends who want to brainstorm ideas for projects. My days can be filled with random meetings with random people talking about random stuff, and it makes me happy. I rarely turn down an invitation. Well,
until Bad Patty pushes her way forward.

Patty is the part of my personality I use when things are not going my way, something was not fixed like it was supposed to be, someone acted inappropriately, or someone is trying to take advantage of someone else. I would like to think of myself as a superhero, but I am not because I get lots of satisfaction out of being mean and hateful, and I am pretty sure superheroes’ powers are all good. My power brings me joy. I am not a yeller, but I have a way of speaking very low and very slowly, emphasizing certain words and making a face that seems to encourage people to do the right thing. My RBF (resting bitch face) has scared more people into doing the right thing than Sr. Catherine Patricia’s ruler ever did.

So, why the confession? I had been on a bit of a roll lately and using my superpower perhaps a little too aggressively. You know, power can go to your head, and I found myself honking the horn, flipping off drivers and doing things I don’t normally do. Bad Patty had been unleashed, and she was having a good time. Then something weird happened. My mom called.

What’s the big deal, you ask? Well, my mom died over a year ago. But as I was driving down Hanley Road, my cell phone rings. My fancy new car shows who is calling, and it said ‘Mom.’ I have never deleted either of my parents from my contacts. I mean, I know there is no reason to keep them in there, but it just seemed so odd to delete their name and address.

So I answered the phone and said, “Mom?” All I heard was static. I got chills up and down my spine and nearly drove off the road. No words. Just static. As I pulled into the Dierbergs parking lot, I thought, maybe she was just trying to tell me that a few people I knew who had passed away recently were OK. I liked that idea. It seemed sweet and loving. But then I realized, as the youngest of six, that my mom was calling to tell me to stop being so mean. Yes, even from heaven or the other world—whatever you call it—my mom was reaching out to tell me to stop misbehaving. So, Bad Patty has been leashed and shoved into the back of my brain, and it is now safe to go about your business without fear of running into her. And truthfully, I am not the one with superpowers. My mom is.

Contact Patty at phannum@townandstyle.com.