800K

A little background on the characters in today's story:

Carol - My mother's friendemy who coincidentally was also a school teacher in the Bronx.  Over the years she enjoyed telling my mother how she was having an affair with the school janitor.  Recently she shared her fear of being pregnant with the custodian's child.  She is 76.  She has also told my mother that she plans to give all her money to her daughter as she didn't really care for her son. Key take away is Sybil hates her for having a husband that made a living. Currently alive.

Carol's Husband - Orthodontist in Brooklyn. Known for cursing at Sybil anytime she called the house. Sybil claimed he cursed at anyone who called but I suspect he had caller i.d. Deceased.

Now for today's story:

On my way to work I called Sybil. After some unpleasantries, she told me that Carol found 800k in her dead husband's closet.  Carol gave the money to her daughter to buy a house on Long Beach Island. Out of shear boredom I decided to ask a few follow up questions:

Barry: So he had 800k in cash in the closet?
Sybil: Yeah, I guess he didn't pay taxes on some money or something.

How many orthodontists take cash? If they did, how many mouths would you have to wire up before you had 800k in cash?

Barry: And she just gave the cash to her daughter. What can you do with that much cash?
Sybil: She bought a house.
Barry: You said, but she paid in cash?
Sybil: No she used a check.
Barry: But how did the cash become a check?
Sybil: My leg hurts.  It keeps twisting.

Sybil saying her leg hurt is the equivalent of me saying "Alright" when I am ready to get off the phone with her. We both hung up without saying goodbye.

My take away from the conversation was that Carol probably found 4 crisp twenty dollar bills in her dead husband's pants pocket and Long Beach Island is no place I ever want to go.

She aint dead!

Recently I texted my friend that I was thinking of going to New Jersey in October to visit my mother. He responded with, "I thought she passed." I laughed and said "Ha, never." For a second I wondered where he got such a crazy idea, but then I remembered when I started this blog I made a joke on my other blog about Sybil being dead. Clearly he never made it to the bottom of the post where I put a disclaimer about Sybil being alive and kicking (an aide).

Now that I think about it, he might be the worst friend ever. That was more than a year ago. Least he could have done was sent a condolence card.

She will live forever!!

It's all about family

When I talk about Sybil it is also good to remember that she had some siblings that were equally wonderful. Her oldest sister Bernice, lived in the suburbs of Philadelphia and pretended she was a WASP. Her kids played tennis and skied. I was mildly jealous, but Sybil was not about to buy me equipment for a sport I was too Jewish to be coordinated to play in the first place.  We would visit Bernice from time to time and for the most part I had a good time. The WASP life provided a swimming pool, a pinball machine, and an ice cream maker.  So basically in my mind she was awesome.  My brother on the other hand has different memories than me. Bernice saw him biting his nails and told him he would never amount to anything because of it. She also told him he had Crohn's disease because he was weak.

As a teenager, my brother told Sybil he hoped Bernice would get cancer and die.  A few years later she did.

Coincidence, I think not.

You just can't find good help these days

I've been wondering about something lately.

I mentioned more than once that Sybil has an aide. Forty hours a week a woman comes to 25 Taylor Street and waits on Sybil as if it is 1943 in the rural south. Obviously in that illusion you need to pretend Sybil is white. This aide cooks, cleans, runs errands, and even organizes my GI Joes (someone did it and no one will tell me who). Hell this aide even sits with Sybil while she watches her stories. When I visited, Sybil commented on how she prefers the aide to my company because the aide caters to her. I can understand that. The aide put the pillow under her head not over.

Sybil mentioned the service gets roughly $48 an hour. Now I know my mother likes having for all intents and purposes a slave, but at the same time I know she rather have forty eight dollars. This is true even if it was forty eight dollar for the whole week. Given the choice she always picks the money. So can anyone guess the angle she has going with the owner of the service? I'm assuming she pays him, then he writes a much larger bill to her insurance and she gets a kick back, or maybe she pays in sexual favors. Okay I'm kidding but I do wonder. I need to make sure Sybil is getting the best care and or I'm worried about my inheritance.

I will say I liked her aide. She crossed herself and told me she has really good patience when I asked how it was to work for Sybil. She also told me in August she was moving to Orlando. Clearly both are lies.

Vegas buffet of medicine

Being a kid is awesome. You are amazed by the simplest shit. For example, take a child out for his first steak dinner and his mind will be blown. It doesn't matter that it was Chili's and the meat tasted like leather. They don't know any better. With this in mind you will understand why when I was little  I thought my mother provided us with amazing health coverage. I based this solely on the fact we had no co-pay. Sure the medical group eventually went bankrupt, but before they did, I was able to go to the doctor every single day and there was never a bill. To a neurotic hypochondriac Jew this was like winning the lottery. 

I went to the doctor for anything and everything. Sore throat, yup. ingrown toe nail, yup. Fart that hurt coming out, yup. By sixteen I had a medical chart that was a few inches thick. My mother not only condoned it but she encouraged me to go as often as I wanted to. When I moved to California, I finally stopped the absurdity (co-pay was $40.) Now when my throat hurts I have my friend that is a hand surgeon call in the Z pack. Only did that four times this year so clearly I am no longer a hypochondriac. As for Sybil she still goes once a week to the doctor whether she needs it or not.  Today it was because her jaw hurt. Last week it was because she had the runs (her words, not mine). 

Sure I'll help, but it will cost ya!

Based on most of my posts, this might come as a shock, but I can honestly say that if I was ever in trouble, I think Sybil would help me. For example I once called her when I was 23 to tell her I lost my job. Before I could say anything else, she said, "Well I don't have any money." Since I wasn't asking for any, I screamed back, "I wasn't asking, you bitch." and hung up. See, in the end she helped by diverting my sadness to anger. Thanks mom.

A few months later she gave me some money and told me not to tell my brother.

Later in life my dad needed some money so he asked Sybil. Here response was, "Go ask Barry." Obviously she was paying it forward.

A more recent story of her generosity involves a cousin of mine. My cousin probably doesn't want this story told, but since I'm not using any names and she is probably out buying Arlo Guthrie a birthday cake I doubt she will be reading this anyway.  Now for the story.

My cousin lost both her parents at a very young age so she has had to lean on my mother pretty hard to get the criticism she deserves:

"Your major is shit."

"Your job is shit."

"I don't like where you live."

"I'm not visiting unless you lock up that dog."

A few months ago my cousin had the perfect storm of bad things happen. Her car broke down, the furnace shit the bed, she ran out of Fruity Pebbles, etc, etc. With nowhere to turn, she called Sybil.

Cousin: Sybil, it is just too much all at once. Do you think it would be possible to help me out so I can at least get another box of fruity pebbles*?

Sybil: Do you still have the ring my mother gave you?

Cousin: The one she gave me as a child? Yes, why?

Sybil: It's probably worth $500. I will give you $200 for it.

Cousin: You're an animal.

When my cousin told me the story I was actually pumped. Not for her misfortune but the fact my mother wanted to buy her stuff for pennies on the dollar.

 Sometimes I feel like Jed Clampett.

*She might have chosen the furnace as the first thing to fix.

Where's my taste?

I called Sybil yesterday and the conversation went like this:

Barry: How are you?

Sybil: I'm going to be making some money.

Barry: How?

Sybil: The Indian on the corner is selling their house and I gave them Mary (her agent friend). They were very happy.

Barry: How does that make you money?

Sybil: Well I'm going to get a commission.

Barry: For what?

Sybil: For giving them my agent. I just need to find a customer. Do you know the Indian's last name?

Barry: No.

At that point I hung up. I would love to have listened to her conversation with both the "Indian" and the agent. I'm not even sure which one she hit up for a commission. I do suggest if she really wants to help them sell the house, she stays inside during showings.

The shake down continues.