One of the problems of having a mother who reads the newspaper is that she calls you to give you a distilled report of current events. Since she’s in her later years (she still will not allow me to tell anyone her age), most of her concerns focus on food and the elimination thereof.

“Jean, did you see the report about the pink slime? That’s a meat product that looks like worms. The manufacturing plants who make it are shutting down. It’s disgusting. If I had known they were putting ammonia in my meat, I never would have eaten all those baloney sandwiches.”

“Mom, they are not serving pink slime at Friendly Arms. I agree it’s gross, but stick to fish and chicken and you’ll be safe.” I am in a huge hurry because I have a client who’s worried the health plan coverage he has for his facility will require him to ask women what they’re using birth control for. It’s a crazy state.

“No, I don’t even want to go to the dining room anymore.. It can be disguised as anything. It’s worse than Spam.”

“Mom, you gave me Spam sandwiches as a kid. I lived.”

“Yes, and look how you turned out.”

“Mom, stop stressing about it and eat some chocolate. It’ll relax you. a new study was released that says a dark chocolate square that’s rich in antioxidants can fight inflammation, lower blood pressure and improve your artery flow.”

“I’ll get fat if I do that. Your father always loved my girlish figure.”

“Mom, eat a small amount. It’ll improve your attitude. You won’t even think about pink slime anymore. Plus, research says chocolate can help you lose weight.”

“That’s impressive. I always need to lose a few pounds. You’re right. When can you take me chocolate shopping?”

“As soon as I help Glee research how to get herself declared indigent in Brazil so she can get free plastic surgery.”

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Glee loads up on all her jewelery to accessorize which is low in caloric count– six rings, chokers with necklaces and lots of bangles. I, on the other hand, am dealing with my outrageous mother.

My news-hound mother loves anything strange that emanates from Florida, her original residence. Either it makes her longs for the other bubbes she could commiserate with or it reminds her she’s glad she left. In this case it’s both.

It seems a number of denizens in the Miami area have come forward as victims of a buttocks-enhancing scam that involved injecting toxic household items,cement and automotive products like “Fix-A-Flat” into tushies.  There’s an unmet demand to look like Kim Kardashian from the back. I cannot make this up. The perpetrator, Oneal Morris, sealed her work with Super Glue! Why didn’t I think of this?!

After my mother breathlessly shares this urgent information, she unloads, “And the fake 81-year-old breast doctor has been sentenced to 13 months in jail. He went door-to-door in my friend’s condo to do free exams!”

“Mom, who would disrobe for an octogenarian that appeared with a black bag?  Very few  doctors make house calls anymore let alone carry a bag! Especially since it was unsolicited. ”

“Jean, a lot of older people are vulnerable. They even let him do exams down there.” My mother stops to point to the lower half of her body. “Personally, I won’t remove my size 14 flesh-colored underwear for anyone. Even your father fought for permission. What if someone like him shows up here at Friendly Arms?”

“Mom, all the weird people are in Florida. We have desert perverts here who have better things to do like use false identities to get botox injections. No one’s looking for you to be naked except in your own shower.”

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“I saw on the news about an elderly woman getting mugged.  She was just out on her afternoon walk, minding her own business when some guy came and grabbed her purse. He dragged her before taking off, purse in hand! Why did you make me move to such a dangerous place?”

“Mom, Scottsdale is not dangerous!”

“She was 76 years old! And it was during the day! When I think about muggings I think Central Park when all the creeps come out. Does this mean I can’t go out without a bodyguard or a can of pepper spray?”

“Mom, I’ve got to go, don’t go out by yourself until I call you later!”

I think about this unfortunate incident while heading to lunch with April and Glee. I can’t help but be on my guard.

What kind of a person steals from old ladies anyway? I know times are tough, but that’s no excuse. If someone tried to take my mother’s bag, they would be in for a surprise. She doesn’t have anything in it except for her reading glasses from Walgreens, her moisturizer and her hemorrhoid cream!

I can imagine if someone tried to take one of April’s designer bags – those cost more than anything she has in them! She’d have such a tight grasp on it, her knuckles would turn white from the grip she has on the strap. That purse won’t be going anywhere unless April’s with it. The one’s she is carrying now is wait-listed. Recognize it?

I think the only reason April works out every day with Pilates is so she can protect her handbags!

Is there a handbag you would sacrifice your savings and/or life for? Share with me your most coveted handbag!

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Lately we have been experiencing more than the occasional monsoon. My mother is at my house for a couple of days while they fix the air conditioning at Friendly Arms which means my house is at a standstill of 65 degrees. She lectures me on my outfit.

“Jean, since when do you wear heels with shorts?”

“Mom, these aren’t shorts. They’re capris.”

“That’s your excuse?”

I’m searching for my purse to go out to dinner at Roka Akor with April. She’s taking me out because her husband is out of town on a golfing trip. She picked that restaurant because she eats small portions and bites slowly in order not to mess her lipstick.

I check the living room for my purse to find Maury napping in his chair, TV left on, and the remote clutched in his hand. To my surprise it wasn’t the Golf Channel but the 6:00 news. My favorite news anchors in matching outfits and deep tans announce,

“A giant dust storm, known as a haboob, is rollling into the East Valley. Residents are advised to stay indoors. The massive dust cloud recorded with 50 mph winds and as tall as 8,000 feet is heading for Scottsdale.”

“That’s right, folks. If you don’t want to be covered in dirt, wrap yourself in a plastic bag.”

What? “Maury, wake up! The haboob is coming!”

The doorbell rings and I rush to answer it. April doesn’t look like April. The gorgeous woman in designer clothes looks like she’s been in a dirt hurricane. Wild, tangled hair, a schmutzy face, dirty clothes and muddy feet are not recognizable.

“April! What happened?”

“Jean, I don’t know. I was shopping at the Borgata and out of nowhere the wind starts to pick up. Blew my dress up for everyone to see. I was mortified so I ran to my car then I broke my heel. These were my favorite pair of Manolo Blahniks!” She is sobbing.

Oh, dear. I give April a hug to comfort her. “Why are you all wet?”

“It gets worse. On my way over I ran out of gas. Steve always fills up my car for me. As I was filling up the tank it rained long enough for me to get drenched. It’s awful out there, Jean. It’s dusty, windy and muggy from the rain. I can’t let anyone see me like this!”

“It’s okay. Go clean up. I’ll get the wine.” I guess I now know what a haboob is.

I hear my mother shouting from the living room. “Jean, why are they telling people to stay indoors because of women’s breasts?” Maybe I should grab the big glasses for the wine.

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As I drive past Scottsdale Babes in BMWs on the 10, my phone rings.

“Mom, I’m worried about the kids,” says Lara.

“Why? What did they do?”

“They didn’t do anything. I think I have to pull the kids out of pre-school.” Uh-oh. This better not involve me babysitting. “Did you see the news about the rare fungal infection from the Joplin tornadoes? It eats flesh!”

“Lara. Darling. Dearest. Missouri tornadoes don’t affect us in Arizona. You’re letting your weather anxiety get the best of you.” How did I get a kid with neuroses that don’t even complement mine?
“Really? It’s not a threat. Send the kids to school tomorrow. Okay?”
Glee’s wearing a long, striped patio dress. She greets me with a bottle of champagne and leads me to her newly re-done patio. This must be big news.

“Well, spill it! What’s so exciting?” I ask, getting comfy in a plush canvas chair that eats me up.
“Jean, my boyfriend Sanford and I are going to be part of a billion dollar business!” Her arm with bangles tinkles with enthusiasm, too.
“I hope it’s not another investment scheme that involves treasures from the Vatican. Tuni and Ellis have left a legacy here.”

“No, no, no. It’s medical marijuana!” I sputter into my champagne. “Sandy bought a building for $400,000 to open a dispensary. They’re only allowing 125 in Arizona. Maybe Maury can become a certified doctor to give out medical marijuana cards.”
Besides the fact that Maury won’t want to be in business with Glee and her latest boyfriend, he has serious concerns about his medical license. “Glee, honey, haven’t you been watching the news? Our governor is trying to put a stop to the dispensaries. Do you really want to get involved?”
The image of stoned Scottsdale housewives, little old ladies with glaucoma and a few pained cowboys floats across my mind. Just what we need: stoned and “semi-blind” Scottsdale Babes lined up with their guns to buy pot.
“Don’t worry, Jean. I just went to the new hydroponics store, WeGrow. They call it the ‘Walmart of Weed.’ I learned a lot. The government can tax it like everything else.”
I did my best to convince her that it’s in a snafu of lawsuits. I just have to do is make sure my mother doesn’t find out. I take her to enough “doctor’s appointments” as it is.
On the way home my mother calls. “Jean, I’ve made up my mind. I want try medical marijuana.”
“What?”
“I want to smoke pot.”
“Why?” I ask almost swerving to avoid a slow moving Mercedes tank.
“I just do.”
Now I have to pay attention. “Mom, that’s for people with a medical condition. Are you in pain?”
“No…but it sounds like fun. The old people around here are boring.”

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I find most of this embarrassing because friends and relatives call from other states questioning the veracity of the reports. Simply said, I want to stay out of it. I am way too busy–that means stressed–to get involved in politics, especially after Maury hoodwinked me into participating in a scandal-ridden campaign last year fraught with a charisma-lacking politician, a nutty legislator who attacked me and a Rock Burglar scandal.

I am very interested in staying non-political despite the fact that Maury, my husband of all good causes, insists on spreading his passionate opinions.

The fact is Sarah Palin has bought an 8,000-square-foot home in North Scottsdale on four acres with five bathrooms and a six-car garage. It’s all over the news. Pundits predict she will be attending local political events and will seek higher office after establishing residency.

Personally, I don’t care. That’s right. I refuse to get sucked into politics when I’m dealing with my mother, kids, babysitting, a consulting job and Maury, my left-wing husband who can go over the edge. He’s not at the Rush end of the spectrum but he’s not exactly in the center either. At any rate, he’s a bit excited because Sarah’s coming to town. He’s convinced the Tea Party is going to make Scottsdale their headquarters. Really? Sun-tanned blondes with enhanced boobies and perfect nails marching? I don’t think so. Frankly, as long as they don’t bother my mother and exacerbate her psoriasis it’s not my business. I’m dealing with other issues.

“Jean, did you hear they want to take away my Medicare?”

“Mom, please. No one’s taking away your Medicare. They might take away mine but that’s another story.”

“What will happen to me?”

“Maury and I will always take care of you. You know that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mom, you’ll never be out on the street.”

“How do you know? What if something happens?”

“Mom, nothing will happen. We’ll make sure of that.”

“Does that mean I can move in with you?”

“Uh–not exactly.”

Yes, having a former vice-presidential candidate with a high profile moving to our neighborhood is going to make things interesting around here. But I refuse to let it distract me. If I see her at the grocery store I’ll just say hi. And, no matter what, Maury is not involving me in one of his crazy schemes!

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Two years ago April was one of the victims of the “Rock Burglar:”

The phone rings again. I check caller ID. April.

“Hey kid, what’s up?” I ask, clearing the table.

“We were robbed!” April’s voice shrieks.

“What?” I stop in my tracks. April never screams, rushes or panics. She is the epitome of sophisticated relaxation. Kinda like an airbrushed magazine ad but alive.

“All my jewelry is gone. I can’t believe it! They took my eleven carat yellow diamond Steve bought me for my birthday, my three tennis bracelets and the heirloom ruby—“ She starts to sob.

“Wait a minute. Calm down. Have you called the police?”

“Yes, they’re here now. It happened earlier. I left a message at Steve’s office , but he’s in the middle of a big trial.”

“Can’t they interrupt him? It’s a family emergency.”

“They said they’d try, but it’s the Napoli case that’s been in the headlines.”

My brain begins to scramble. Is Napoli the woman dubbed the “Botox Bandit” who scammed all the spas by booking expensive treatments and paying with stolen credit cards or the socialite who left her sleeping baby with the Neiman Marcus valet and took her rat-dog inside to buy eye cream? Why are they suing? Never mind.

“Please. Could you come over to help me? I need you. I’m so upset.” She sniffs, blowing her nose.

“Okay, stay calm, sweetheart. I’ll be right there.”

-Chapter 6, Stressed in Scottsdale

Like déjà vu the phone rang and it was April.

“Jean!! They caught him!”

“Who? Arnold? He never went anyplace. He’s a lazy, cheap adulterer picking someone in his own home so he didn’t have to rent a hotel room.”

“No,” says April with a touch of hysteria in her voice. “The Rock Burglar!”

Now I remember I saw the news story last night accompanied by a prep picture of a guy who looks like Nick Nolte’s cousin.

“Calm down. He still gets a trial,” I tell my most glamorous friend.

“Maybe I’ll get my jewelry back. That yellow diamond was a very sentimental piece to me. Steve gave it to me when I made him–”

“April, I don’t want to hear it. Whatever you did to him, do it again and he’ll probably buy you another one.”

“Not in this economy,” I hear her grumble.

At any rate, the man who engineered ten million dollars in valuables from society’s participants is no longer living it up on the Lefkowitz’s dollar!

If you would like to read more about the Rock Burglar, you can purchase Stressed in Scottsdale on MarciaFine.com

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Recently theTennessee Senate passed a bill that bars teachers from discussing homosexuality or alternative lifestyles with elementary and middle school students. I had no idea he would be so passionate about it.

“Jean, you can’t say ‘gay’ in Tennessee,” Maury tells me as he grips the steering wheel while we drive to Wildflower, a neighborhood haunt that serves multiple pieces of bread with everything you order. My mother enjoys this because she takes it all home, puts it in her freezer and forgets about it.

“Well, I wasn’t planning to. Why?” I text Lara to remind her that she’s picking up her grandmother for our family dinner.

“Because it’s not fair to restrict someone’s freedom of speech. They can’t ban a word. We have to do something about this.”

“Like what? Go to Tennessee and protest?” I respond to Rivka to see if she’ll pick up my mother.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking! We can stand outside the schools and say ‘gay, gay, gay.’ Prove a point.” He slaps the dashboard with enthusiasm.

“Maury, there is no way we’re taking a trip to Tennessee. I have more important issues to deal with.” Rivka, upon hearing she might have to go out of her way, texts me that she’s exhausted from shopping and can’t pick up my mother because she has catarrh, an inflammation that involves mucus. I delete her.

“What’s more important than basic human rights? Besides, they’re not teaching about it. They just can’t say the word. I’m going to Google the ACLU when I get home to see what they’re doing.”

“Maury, we don’t have time to get involved in other states’ problems. We have plenty right here.” My mother is calling my cell phone. I will call her back. I have to make sure my darling husband doesn’t get involved in some crazy scheme that involves the Deep South, the word “gay,” and his latest obsession, Civil War re-enactors because he’s reading Confederates in the Attic by Tony Horwitz.

“Honey,” I say in my best soothing voice, “Let’s not get excited. We have plenty to do right here in Arizona with Sarah moving to North Scottsdale, an invasion of stink bugs and the capture of the Rock Burglar.” I have to make sure he doesn’t get me involved in one of his annoying political campaigns too.

“Stink bugs? The ones that leave fruit bruised and discolored and give off a horrendous odor? Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? We have to help our local farmers fight those creeps.”

“Sweetheart, stay on Scottsdale Road. We’re picking up my mom.”

“Huh? Thought the kids were doing that. What happened?”

“You don’t want to know.”

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“Jean, did you hear?” asked Glee.

“Let me guess, you tried a miracle cream that shrinks nipples?!” I said grumpily. My friend has had surgery to tighten everything including her private parts and I was tired since Maury kept me up all night with his snoring. Sometimes it’s a lost cause trying to sleep.

“No, the Terminator and Maria Shriver split. They’re ending their marriage after 25 years!”

“Really? What happened? They seemed like a solid couple except for the fact that he’s a steroid-dwelling Republican and she’s from one the wealthiest Democratic families in America.” Ironies abound. This was one celebrity marriage I respected simply for the fact they kept their private lives private. What a world we live in where every detail of your personal life is blasted on Facebook.

“He’s admitted he had an affair with their housekeeper and they had a love child together!”

“What a scumbag!” I exclaimed forgetting that we were sitting in a quiet restaurant. I put my head down to nibble the fried edamame. Glee ordered to combat our unhealthy nutritional choices. “Poor Maria. She’s such a bright, classy woman who doesn’t deserve to be lied to and publically humiliated.”

“I don’t know what to think, Jean. I feel badly for her but at the same time I think women need to realize who they’re choosing. They marry these high profile actors, athletes and politicians thinking they can reform them. Men in power often have inflated egos that allow them to justify their infidelities.”

“Are you sure that you aren’t interested in the fact that Arnold is a free man now? I can already see the wheels spinning through your brain,” I joked.

“Very funny, Jean. However, he did treat the maid well ‘financially.’ But you’d never catch me living in Bakersfield. I’m taking Austrian body-builders off my list.”

As Glee bites into a whole-grain-bread eggplant organic green pepper sandwich, sprouts spring from her mouth. She says with her mouth full, ”Now the head of the World Bank accused of raping a maid in the Sofitel Hotel in Manhattan, that guy is a scumbag.”

To Purchase any of the Jean Rubin Satire, please visit Marcia Fine’s website.

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That means there’s a brown haze hanging over us. I see it happen every winter. The “brown cloud” embraces our Valley from all the cars over populating our roads. The high pollution warnings tell seniors, children and those with respiratory problems to stay indoors. The minute my mother hears that she has a task she needs to complete with urgency.

“Jean, why is the air a hazy color and shimmering? I can’t see the mountains and I cleaned my glasses. I must go out today to check out the new rinse for grey hair at Walgreens.”

I called Lara—she’s the family environmentalist—to get her opinion to see if Scottsdale deserves this dirty ranking.

“Hi Honey! You’re up on these things? Your Bubbe wants to go out today. Is the air really that bad?”

“Mom! It’s disgusting! Make her heed the warnings. At the very least tell her she has to wear a mask.”

“Lara, if I tell your grandmother that she’ll want to hold up a store. Or she’ll tell me it doesn’t match her outfit. Worse, she’ll make me wear one!”

“Well, you can’t let her out. Today’s the driest, dirtiest day of the year.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sakes! Who conducts these surveys anyway? I read in last month’s issue of Newsweek’s The Daily Beast a list of America’s 30 Funniest Cities. To my surprise Scottsdale/Phoenix weren’t on the list! Results reflected cities with the highest percentages of residents who describe themselves as funny or watch sitcoms and visit comedy clubs. I think it’s very funny here. I could write a satire about Scottsdale…not that there’s anything to make fun of.”

“Mom, you’re very funny. Michael and I laugh about your crazy antics with your friends all the time. Whoops. Dad has a droll sense of humor.”

“It still baffles me that Scottsdale isn’t on this list. I understand how Austin, Texas and New Orleans take the top two spots, but how does Milwaukee rank number seven? Now all we’re left with are headless bodies according to the Gus and big snakes that creep into our backyards from the desert. They even caught a bear cub near the library the other day. The residents here may be taking our pollution problems more seriously.”

“Mom, since when are you the Scottsdale Ambassador?”

“Since we moved here from Tempe and I schlepped your grandparents here from Florida. She reminds me every day about the cool, ocean breezes. The last thing Scottsdale needs is for everyone to think we are a miserable, dirty, and humorless city. I’d rather stick to the stereotype that we’re a bunch of boozing, spray-tanned, BMW driving blondes like on that housewives reality show. Now that I think about it, not sure which stereotype I would prefer. I think I will just stick with Stressed in Scottsdale.

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