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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Until the goats contracted an eye infection that spread to the sheep who went blind. And fell off the fake mountain. I was upset for days that these beautiful creatures who love to lock horns could no longer see each other.

I cannot make this up! Consult Chapter 2 in Stressed in Scottsdale for more documentation.

I, however, am not the only fan of Ovis canadensis. It seems Zen Mocarski, an education manager at the Arizona Game and Fish Department, is one too. He spearheaded an effort to build three overpasses so sheep can cross safely. I admire him.

But, of course there’s a level of absurdity to this as I point this out to Maury.
“Maury, Arizona’s largest herd of bighorn sheep will be safe from traffic.”
“I am very relieved to hear that.”
“They were going to build underpasses like they do for elk and deer but the sheep are very visual and can detect movement up to a mile away.”
“That’s nice, dear.”
“They don’t like to go underground in dark, dank tunnels.”
“Neither do I.”
“Maury, this is serious. The biologists asked the sheep. They collared and captured 75 of them with the help of sportsmen.”
“Wait. Those are the guys who want to kill them.”
“Right. But they won’t have any to shoot if the herd dies of disease or doesn’t breed properly.”
I continue to share this urgent information including the fact that this project cost $4.8 million. “They even seeded the surfaces with native plants and lots of dirt. Remote cameras took the first pictures of them crossing. I bet they looked cute with their little furry faces.”
“Jean, do you mean to tell me they can’t pay for transplants for a hundred people and they’re funding driveways for sheep?”
“Exactly.”

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As if we all aren’t busy enough and multi-tasking to complete our holiday schedules without participating in Black Friday, a few things have happened to create another level of anxiety.

1. Maury lost his keys again and although we have searched through every article of clothing in his closet with pockets for ten days, they have not shown up. He THINKS he threw them away because he usually has lots of important items in his hands from Home Depot when he comes in from the garage. Should I change all of the locks on the house? Do we really need anything from the file cabinet we can no longer access? Is it that important to have only one car key?

2. Glee is insistent that she wants to help me wrap the 32 Chanukah presents for the grandchildren. Eight nights. Four kids. I did the math. Never mind that some of the presents are as exciting as one pair of cotton underpants (Why didn’t I get the days of the week ones? That way one package would have taken care of seven nights!) or a pencil from the museum store. Glee says we have to set an example by going green as we wrap everything.

“What does that entail?”

“You need plain brown wrapping paper or grocery bags without logos, raffia instead of cloth ribbons, fresh organic herbs and pine cones.”

“I don’t have any pine cones. I’d have to drive almost three hours to get them from Flagstaff.”

“Start driving. Everything has to be natural and non-commercial.”

3. A woman from the A&E reality TV show “Hoarders” brought home a pregnant rat. The Humane Society in San Jose has rescued 1,000 of them to put up for adoption. One creepy plague-carrying, citrus-eating rodent makes me apoplectic. One thousand? I’d need a strait-jacket. But worse, who do they think is going to adopt rats? “Oh honey, I got you such a great pet for Christmas! It eats everything and multiplies quickly.” Do I need to mention the neighbors turned them in because “the pets” were actually eating the house?

4. April is only buying designer water with names like Lelu, Vidago and Tasmanian Rain. She is convinced that a new brand made from 12,000 year old snow is the answer to longevity, long before our atmosphere was filled with impurities.

“Jean, it’s the fountain of youth. Steve got me Bling H2O from Tennessee spring water. It’s only $50 for a Swarovoski crystal-encrusted bottle! And that’s not as good as the new iceberg stuff. Glace is the purest of the pure. It’s the French word for ‘ice’.”

“April dearest, I know you mean well, but that’s all hype. Water is water. Don’t buy into the latest trend.”

When I told Maury about the entrepreneur investing $4.5 million to make bottles of water he shook his head and said, “People in Scottsdale will buy anything.”

5. My mother has a boyfriend.

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that  Tuni’s back in town  promoting her new book about jail after serving a seven year prison sentence  (I cannot make this up!). I was with the author who satirized her in Boomerang: When Life Comes Back to Bite You, a best seller based on a scam that involved artifacts inspired by the Vatican. Or that the group of people she conned out of five to six million dollars have welcomed her back ( Glee can’t wait to have a luncheon for her!) because she is still very charming and a redhead whose chutzpah knows no boundaries. Ellis Sterling, her charismatic husband, has also arrived…

Or that Maury has Cabinet Blindness, a term I have diagnosed affecting all men over forty. It strikes with fervor when they look into a refrigerator or a pantry and can’t see what’s in front of them even with detailed descriptions.

“It’s to the left of the lettuce on the bottom shelf.”

“Which bottom shelf?”

“There’s only one bottom shelf in the refrigerator.” Unless you’re in a space ship and up is down.

Or that our local newspaper devoted an entire page to how wonderful the economy is inside Barney’s, one of Scottsdale‘s most upscale stores labeled as a “retail powerhouse.”  They recently hosted an event for the anorexic Olsen twins, because it doesn’t have “that uptight Palm Beach feel to it.” Whatever that is! I get loosey-goosey just thinking about $400 black T-shirts or $140 candles called “Un Gardenia la Nuit.”

Or that the heat is extending our ozone risk so much we’ve broken all records for the colorless pollutant that irritates  eyes, throats and causes damage to lung tissue over time, leaving people more susceptible to new infections as well as the warning from Benjamin Grumbles (I cannot make that name up!), director of the state agency who suggests we need year-round action to prevent smog.

It’s the laptops! That’s right! It’s laptops on people’s laps that can lead to “toasted skin syndrome!” The temperature in one case reached 125 degrees–almost an Arizona summer day! According to two Swiss researchers in Basel (I didn’t make that up either!), it can even lead to skin cancer. Using your laptop on your lap for men can lead to elevated scrotum temperatures that decreases sperm production which potentially leads to infertility.

That’s the scariest of all! Infertility from checking your Facebook account and tweeting all day! I knew there was something wrong with reporting what you ate or other mundane activities to the general population. I just knew it!

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If it’s wacky, Glee’s into it. I thought she was was going to be enthused about stress fatigue syndrome, but instead she’s all over salt therapy, the newest California rage. She has returned from Encino, California with the notion to open a spot in Scottsdale that will have patrons sitting in rooms of salt. Right now I’m more concerned that our monsoon season is breaking all records for warm nights and muggy days.

Our urban heat island of concrete, asphalt and condos traps the heat during the day and releases it at night. When we have one of our spectacular storms with dirty rain and extraordinary lightning that sometimes crawls through the phone, the heat stays immobilized. Unless, of course, if you live near the open desert where it cools it down a bit.

It is in this frame of ecological concern that Glee lays it on me that I need salt therapy.

“What is it?”

“Jean, you go into a windowless room, lie on a chaise lounge and breathe salt that’s all over the floor. It’s also being pumped into the room by a generator.”

“Come on. That’s ridiculous. What’s it supposed to do?”

“Stop being so skeptical of new ideas. Even though Dean Schraufnagel, a professor of medicine at University of  Illinois-Chicago says there’s no proof because they haven’t done clinical trial studies, it doesn’t mean it’s not helping people. It would be great for you.”

“First of all, no one is named Schraufnagel. It sounds like a Disney character. Secondly, April called and told me I have Stress Fatigue Syndrome and now you’re telling me there’s a cure?”

“I’m just sayin’ you could use something. This is very well respected. It helps people with respiratory problems, skin rashes and allergies.”

“I don’t have any of those.” Of course that doesn’t mean I couldn’t use some assistance with managing my life, but all my breathing apparatus’ are working fine.

“Well, basking in Dead Sea Salt from the Holy Land can assist you with feeling better.”

“Glee, that’s vague and unscientific. What’s this called?”

“Halotherapy. It’s based on caves and spas from two hundred years ago.”

“Honey, I know you’re trying to help me. My life is out of control. But sitting in a salty room sweating isn’t going to do errands for me or prepare a Thai dinner for Maury’s new colleague. Besides, Amber won’t be able to stop licking my arms and legs when I come home.”

“I don’t know why you’re so recalcitrant to new ideas. If it wasn’t for me caring about your well-being you wouldn’t have tried ear candling and the immersion box. Look at the great results you got from that.”

I think I’ll put my head in the oven after I’ve baked a few potatoes in a salty brine during the next monsoon storm.

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The world is in serious shape and sometimes my frustration at not being able to do anything about it drives me crazy. It’s enough that there’s war, famine and natural disasters assaulting my senses daily, so I need a diversion. It only takes a little to put me over the edge–like the fact that half of  the legislators in our controversial state don’t believe in global warming–so sometimes I have to escape into Glee’s world.

Glee is back from her glamping trip–everything was first class–and she is focused on Fall fashion. Please let me remind you in case you haven’t left your house in weeks or you’re still hanging out in San Diego like April, it’s monsoon season here.

That means high temperatures embalmed in storms with excessive humidity. Just my kind of weather. I can barely lift my arms and legs because they’re stuck to the leather sofa. You can imagine my avid interest when Glee called to give me the latest fashion report.

“Jean, you have to come to a Fall preview with me. They’re showing fur, feathers and pantsuits! You’ll just love it! remember the matching quail feather boas we bought years ago? Well, we can wear them now!”

“Glee, I’m permanently stuck on my sofa and can’t imagine putting feathers around my chicken neck. That was for a costume not to wear in public. Besides, I don’t wear fur and if I’m understanding you, the newest trend will make me look like Hilary Clinton’s bad step-sister. Pantsuits? Are you sure that’s right?”

“For Heaven’s sake, you have to keep up. You can’t wear Birkenstocks and hippie skirts forever.”

“Why not? Even my mother has stopped criticizing me. Well, not completely. Anyway, pantsuits sound hot.”

“Well, I thought you wanted to keep up after your spa make-over but I can see you are rejecting my fashion advice.”

“No, I love you and your advice. I’m too stressed in Scottsdale to follow it. But, I promise, the first person I see in Trader Joe’s wearing a boa, I’ll run right home and put on mine.

“These aren’t the old pantsuits. This is an updated look with tuxedo jackets and a satin stripe down the side of the leg.”

“Glee, if I don’t look ridiculous enough, you want me to dress like a waiter spitting feathers?”

“Well, I’m just trying to help.”

An Environmental No-No

As lackadaisical as I am about the latest fashion trends, one piece of news did strike me as important. Parsons New School of Design (of “Project Runway” fame) is going to be the first school to be offering a course in zero waste. It seems a lot of fabric scraps are wasted making a garment. I can hear Tim Gunn saying now, “We’re going to Mood Fabrics and use the accessory wall wisely.”

So what garment creates the most waste? Jeans! A wardrobe staple for baby boomers and young people everywhere. Jeans are cited as the most wasteful and high polluting of all garments made not only because of the left over fabric but dyes, extra washings, energy, packaging and gallons of water used by consumers.

Students will learn how to use fibers that haven’t been hit with pesticides or fertilizers and make jeans with fewer pockets. American Apparel is making underwear from scraps. Denim underwear? Uh, I’m already itchy and  sweating.

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Life buzzes by in a flurry of frenetic activity. Besides guiding Glee through her new romance with a more age-appropriate man, who, by the way, she met at an upscale Scottsdale restaurant waiting for take-out in a fancy track suit, Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses and $200 sneakers, I am devastated to find out my green efforts have been squashed.

New research from the University of Arizona has found that the reusable bags we carry to the grocery store so we don’t have to make the burdensome decision of paper or plastic, are contaminated. That’s right. My two mismatched canvas bags advertising male performance drugs that Maury got free at a meeting, logo prominently displayed, may be carrying potentially harmful bacteria. That’s a disappointment. I kinda like the reaction when I run into April’s society friends who can’t remember my name (one always squints at me like I must be familiar but can’t place where she could possibly know me from) with my unfashionable, unmatched bags.

It turns out twelve percent of the bags tested contain E.coli, which indicates possible “fecal matter and more dangerous pathogens.” Charles Gerba, the UA professor who co-authored the study, says we could be “gambling with germs.” Raw meat could leak onto the fabric and then contaminate other food and presto, you could expire right in front of the over-priced baby veggies aisle in the fancy food store of your dreams.

Worse, even though the meat is wrapped, if you put it in the inferno trunk of your car, a hotbed of breeding for stealthy germs, the blood–politely called juice by the scientists–could fester, propagate or worse, explode! Scottsdalians could be driving home in their gold accessorized ransom-sized SUVs and the back end of the car could ignite. Picture the terrified occupant covered in meat blood wailing at a red light for help, recently done French manicured nails splayed in the air.

The solution? Wash your bags after every use. Like I have time for that! I’m stressed in Scottsdale from kids, Maury the Magnificent and my mother and now I have to worry about an invasion of bacteria…in my grocery bags. Did I mention Gerba received $30,000 from the American Chemistry Council for the study?

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I know this is true because Maury is wandering around in his golf shorts looking for his keys, sunglasses and clubs even though he returned from playing golf an hour ago.  Locals get excited about the first triple-digit day because they don’t have to wait for tee times, restaurants are devoid of snowbirds and their counterparts, ice fishers, and it gives them something to talk about besides sports.

Cashier at AJ’s Food Emporium: “Pretty hot out there, huh?

Me: “Yes, it’s warming up.”

Cashier: “Wish the employees had covered parking. My car will be an oven by the end of the day.”

Me: “Uh-huh. It’s hot. Did you just ring that item up twice?”

In fact, we’re so obsessed with obsessing over the weather the front page of our newspaper has a feature story with color pictures that it might be the day that our degrees are in three numbers. They also list with vital information like we had the most days of over 100 degrees in 1989. 143 to be exact. I was living here then but I don’t remember anything because part of my brain fried up like an old potato in used restaurant grease.

We also learned that our scorching temperatures actually average 109. So I have replaced Maury’s roof rat chart on the front of our refrigerator with a new one marking off how many 100+ degree days we have to go. So far: one. I can’t wait.

Dogs Who Pray

In case you have anthropomorphized your pet with religious fervor, be assured that there are others who do the same. Recently, we took  Amber, our loyal, slightly dumb and very gassy golden retriever to a temple service where dogs were invited. There  were assorted water dishes, treats and many owners saying, “Hush, Schwartzy, it’s only a King Charles Spaniel.”

Owners were as proud of their pets as parents whose toddlers had been accepted to Yale Med School. “Look at what Max can do. Sit, Max, sit! Max, stop it! Get your nose out of there. Now, Max, now!” If they weren’t using harsh whispers during the blessing, then they found their mushy baby voices and coaxed a recalcitrant pet to, “Sit, Poochie. Yes, you’re mama’s baby. You’re the dog. Yes. And please stop shedding on mama’s black capri pants from Barney’s.” Only in Scottsdale.

A Home Depot Service

Glee, is either starting a trend or following one, no matter how weird. She likes being cutting edge. So when a new guru gave a lecture on a do-it-yourself funeral service, she signed up. Why leave anything to chance. Let’s control everything! Even when we’re not here anymore!

My dearest trendy friend has put together explicit instructions for a “green” funeral. First she enrolled in the $20,000 linen shroud/biodegradable coffin/no embalming fluid package. But, later, she changed her mind after consulting with the death midwife also known as a funeral-rights educator. I cannot make this up. Glee has been specific about what she wants: a French mani/pedi with an extra top coat and no hair on her upper lip. Only in Scottsdale.

“I’ve decided on the $30,000 cremation special with a reef creation in the Pacific for my ashes. It includes a non-denominational prayer service, a memorial urn made from recycled tires and a wreath of fresh flowers to float in the spot until the tides take it away.”

I told you the heat was frying people’s brains.

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Erma Bombeck was a journalist who took everyday situations about her family and made them funny. She was a suburban stand-up who wrote fifteen books and published a column read by thirty million readers and published in nine hundred papers. I cannot make up how many times I trip over Maury’s sandals and pick up his socks. I do not think that’s funny so I marvel how Erma stayed so good-humored about the little things in life. Like this week when Lara called hysterical that Buzz was kicked out of pre-school because he’s not properly potty-trained. She thinks that makes her a terrible mother. I told her to put aside an extra twenty dollars a week to pay for a shrink when he’s older because forcing kids when they not ready can damage them. She hung up on me with a, “Mom, this is not funny!”

This week Maury is sending me to Erma’s birthplace in Dayton, Ohio, former home of Rob Lowe and Martin Sheen, to hang out with humorists, journalists, stand-up comedians and other assorted nuts like me. He thinks it will improve my attitude to be with people who get silly on a regular basis. And that I won’t complain about his dresser top filled with two years of golf debris, sandals under the bed or the junk food wrappers surrounding our sofa.

I am going to be hanging out with an Army of Ermas who will be attending workshops entitled.”Funny Careers Off the Beaten Path” and “The Three H’s–Humor, Heartbreak and Honesty.” I have something to say about that.

What’s Not Funny

The fact that I have issues with family, environment, politics, guns and living in Scottsdale does not destroy my humor. It just makes me a little crazier. And I’m already on the edge. However, I have always considered myself the Vice President in Charge of Fun. I haven’t met the President yet but I’m looking. It could be Glee, my Celebrator in Residence, but I think someone at the Erma Conference could spearhead my efforts.

What’s not funny is when I wake up in the morning and my mother calls to tell me her bunions hurt or she doesn’t like the redhead who sits at her assigned table in the assisted living dining room. Or Maury’s forgotten we have tickets for a concert or Glee’s art opening of pregnant belly casts or there’s twelve coming for dinner and he has a golf game that starts late and will end after the sun goes down.

Science tells us humor is essential for our health, longevity, job satisfaction, personal fulfillment and creating a balanced life. I am working on all of the above. As soon as I take my mother to the podiatrist and Amber back to the vet  to remove another “pod puppy” that has grown to unsightly proportions on her back. And Maury picks up his sandals. And socks.

Until then, I’m stressed in Scottsdale.

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As if I’m not stressed enough I now can add atrazine to my list of boogey-men and mutated frog nightmares. Atrazine is used by farmers to kill weeds which it does very nicely. It also gets into the water supply after coating the food we eat, unless of course you’re Oprah and you have a chef to shop and chop organic for you. Major scientific reviews are telling us that male frogs are developing female characteristics so that they’re mating with other male frogs and laying eggs. I can’t even go there! Too confusing. But I know it can’t be good.

This deadly herbicide also has been linked to a high rate of birth defects, low birth weight, delayed puberty and reduced immune function. But scariest of all is they use it often on immaculate golf courses and putting greens. It’s not that the other effects aren’t horrendous enough; it’s just my Maury spends a lot of time breathing at golf courses.

Syngenta, the manufacturer based in Switzerland, has banned it along with the European Union. Our EPA has not. Does this mean I have to try to convince my husband that playing golf can kill him? You try.

Tacky Business Draws Outrage

There are plenty of things to get stressed about–wars, crazy politicians, my sister-in-law, Asia, who wears black every day in a perpetual state of intellectual misery–so I didn’t expect an outreach program to fire our local city council. Why? Because they allowed a less-than-appropriate business to open down the street from Coronado High School and a day care center. What is it? Something that will rot their teeth like another cupcake shop? Another clothing boutique with over-priced T-shirts and gum-snapping sales help? No. An adult boutique.

Uh-oh! I drove by there to see what’s in the window to cause such consternation and observed many pastel underthings on very pale manikins. What? No African-American women want to buy underwear so strange it requires directions?  No, apparently not. One entire display window is a picture of a whip. Now we live in Scottsdale, Land of Fake Lakes and the Horsey Crowd but whips as the traffic draw? It can cause whiplash and major stress.

I can take solace in the fact that they change their displays with the seasons. Can’t wait to see what they come up with for the Easter bunny theme.

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