Famous TV personality Judy Sheindlin has had a distinguished career in and out of the courtroom. She is best known for her participation on the popular show “Judge Judy.” She recently celebrated her birthday while thinking back on a previous health scare that happened while filming her show.
On October 12, 1942, Judy was born in Brooklyn, New York, to Jewish parents Ethel and Murray. Her father’s dentistry profession and her mother’s position as office manager influenced her early life. After graduating from James Madison High School in 1960, she moved on to American University in Washington, D.C., where she earned her degree in 1963.
Judy’s legal career took her to American University’s Washington College of Law, where, out of 126 students, she was the only female student. She later graduated from New York Law School with a law degree, and in 1965 she passed the New York bar test.
Judy began her career as a corporate attorney for a cosmetics company, but she left because she was unhappy. She finally went on to serve as a prosecutor in 1972. Her breakthrough came in 1993 thanks to a profile in The Los Angeles Times and an appearance on “60 Minutes.”
Following her 25-year tenure as a judge, Judy retired in 1996 and made the switch to television. She debuted the “Judge Judy” program in September of the same year, quickly gaining notoriety for her no-nonsense approach to the law.
Judy had a troubling health incident on set in March 2011, which turned out to be a mini-stroke. She was reluctant to seek medical attention at first, but her seasoned coworkers persuaded her to do so. She was admitted to the hospital and diagnosed with a potential transient ischemia stroke, which was evident in her double vision and delayed speech earlier in the day.
After a spectacular 25 seasons, “Judge Judy” came to an end in 2021. Judy was one of the highest-paid TV hosts, taking in $47 million a season. At the age of 81, Judy started a new endeavor called “Judy Justice,” which is presently in its second season.
She has been married three times in her life. Jerry Sheindlin is her current spouse; they met at a pub in an eventful meeting. The couple’s first meeting resulted in a long-lasting relationship that saw them get married, get divorced, get married again, and remain together for more than three decades.
MY LATE GRANDMA’S NEIGHBOR ACCUSED ME OF HIDING “HER SHARE OF THE WILL” — WHEN SHE REFUSED TO LEAVE, I GAVE HER A REALITY CHECK.
The morning sun, usually a welcome sight, cast harsh shadows on the woman standing on my porch, her face a mask of indignation. Mrs. Gable, Grandma’s “entitled neighbor,” as she so lovingly referred to her, was a force of nature, and not a particularly pleasant one.
“How long am I supposed to wait for my share of the will?!” she demanded, her voice a grating rasp that could curdle milk. “My grandkids are coming over, and I want them to take their part of the inheritance before they leave!”
I blinked, trying to process the sheer audacity of her statement. “Mrs. Gable,” I said, my voice calm despite the rising tide of annoyance, “Grandma’s will… it doesn’t mention you.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed into slits. “Nonsense! We were like family! She wouldn’t leave me out.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but everything in the house now belongs to me.”
I offered a small concession. “I’ve packed some boxes for donation. You’re welcome to look through them, see if there’s anything you want.”
“Donation boxes?!” she shrieked. “Your grandma was like family to us! We had to be mentioned in the will. Give it to me! I have to see for myself.”
“I can’t do that,” I said, my patience wearing thin. “The will is a legal document.”
She planted her feet, a stubborn look on her face. “Then I’m not leaving. I’ll just stand here until you give me what’s mine.” She proceeded to stand directly in front of my porch, peering into my windows and muttering under her breath.
I sighed. This was getting ridiculous. I needed to give this woman a reality check, a gentle but firm reminder that she wasn’t entitled to anything.
I went inside, grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper, and returned to the porch. Mrs. Gable watched me, her eyes filled with suspicion.
“What’s that?” she asked, her voice laced with distrust.
“I’m writing you a bill,” I said, my voice deliberately casual.
“A bill? For what?”
“For services rendered,” I said, scribbling on the paper. “Let’s see… ‘Consultation regarding inheritance, one hour… $100.'”
Mrs. Gable’s face turned a shade of purple I didn’t think possible. “Are you serious?!”
“Perfectly,” I said, adding another line. “‘Unauthorized surveillance of private property, one hour… $50.'”
“That’s outrageous!” she sputtered.
“And,” I continued, adding a final line, “‘Emotional distress caused by unwarranted demands, one hour… $150.'” I handed her the paper. “That’ll be $300, Mrs. Gable.”
She snatched the paper from my hand, her eyes scanning the ludicrous list. “You can’t do this!”
“Actually, I can,” I said, a smile playing on my lips. “And if you don’t pay, I’ll have to add late fees.”
She crumpled the paper in her fist, her face a mask of fury. “You’re just like your grandma!” she hissed. “Entitled and selfish!”
“Perhaps,” I said, “but I’m also practical. And I value my peace of mind.”
She glared at me for a moment, then turned and stomped off the porch, muttering about lawyers and lawsuits. I watched her go, a sense of satisfaction washing over me.
Later that day, as I sorted through Grandma’s belongings, I found a small, velvet-lined box tucked away in a drawer. Inside was a handwritten note, addressed to me.
“My dearest grandchild,” it read, “I know Mrs. Gable can be… persistent. Remember, you owe no one anything. Your happiness is your own. And sometimes, a little bit of absurdity is the best way to deal with entitlement.”
I smiled, a warm feeling spreading through my chest. Grandma had known exactly what to do. And she had left me the perfect tool to handle it. I had learned a valuable lesson that day: sometimes, the best way to deal with entitled people is to meet their absurdity with your own. And a little bit of humor never hurts.
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