As I was enjoying my fantasy of dessert at The Cheesecake Factory, Glee called with some unpleasant news. It seems with all these health and diet crazes, The Cheesecake Factory is going to be listing the calorie amounts of certain dishes on its menu.On the menu? Where everyone can see it?  Honestly, that’s mean.

“Jean, every morsel of guilty pleasure of their Godiva Cheesecake  adds an inch to your thighs and makes your belly jelly,” says Glee in her dogmatic fashion.

“I don’t care. Sometimes I need comfort food. Didn’t you read what Gail Sheehy said about middle-aged women? The majority are under high stress and 40 to 70 percent are in a depression..   “This midlife turnaround inspires hope or the study itself.”)

“And a piece of cheesecake will solve that?”  

“Listen, they did a 3 year study and we’re over the edge with taking care of everyone–kids, aging parents, ADHD husbands, jobs, menopause. My lists have lists.” As I tell her this my mother is calling me on my cell phone even though I’ve asked her to use my land line and leave a message. It buzzes incessantly in my shorts pocket.

“The menu is going to be called “SkinnyLicious.”

Is that supposed to be cute? Apparently it will offer dishes that are half the portion size. You can order your (NAME HER FAV–has to have choc!) and save calories!

I don’t like this idea at all! When treat myself  I want to relax, not worry about how many calories I consume with every bite. I watch my weight, but a girl’s gotta have some fun once in a while! My mother calls again on my cell.

“Glee, middle-aged women are struggling with the recession, no time to exercise, chronic health problems and depression. They’re gaining weight and you’re telling me to eat cheesecake?!”

“And you think cheesecake will make them feel better?”

“Hold on. Have to listen to my mother’s message.”

“Hello Jean? This is your mother. I have a coupon for the Cheesecake Factory, When can you take me?”

I repeat her message to Glee. ”You’d better hurry. The menu’s only until Septenber.”

Linkshttp://specials.msn.com/A-List/Health/Cheesecake-Factory-to-roll-out-calorie-cutting-menu.aspx?cp-documentid=29774063

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After squeals of delight for “Poppy,” Maury announces, “Jean, look what I bought for you.” He pulls out something from behind his back.

“Oh no. Is this one of those iPads? What am I supposed to do with this? I’m still trying to figure out the iPhone you got me a few months ago.” I look at him with suspicion. “You wanted one of these, didn’t you?” I can tell when he says he’s bought a present for me but it’s really for him.

“You can do so much more with an iPad. Look.” He enters into an electronic trance, which is similar to the golf-History Channel-baseball scores one–as his fingers move quickly all over the screen. “Here, let me invite you to Google +.”

“What’s Google +?” I ask, humoring him like I’m somewhat interested.

“It’s like Facebook but for Google. It’s the big new thing but you can only be a part of it if you are invited. The little ones will love playing Angry Birds and Farmville and you will be great at Words with Friends since you like to write. We can even Face Time!”

So far Maury has dragged me into the 21st century with a collection of phones, blue tooths, GPS, a 50” HD television, digital cameras, etc. This list can go on. I don’t really need any more technology.

“Slow down, slow down. First of all, the grandkids aren’t allowed to touch any expensive electronic equipment. Why would I need Google +? I can barely figure out Facebook and Twitter. I don’t have time to be playing silly games. Face Time? Why would I want you to see me looking like you see me in the morning?”

Maury demonstrates it for me. My nostrils look humongous. Very unattractive. Little Jacob goes berserk. “I wanna do that. My friend has one. We can look funny.” He grabs it from Maury and in moments shows us a picture of himself stretched to the size of a 300 pound pumpkin.

“Okay, that’s enough. This is for Grandma. Face Time is good when we aren’t together. Like if you go out-of-town without me.” Is he reading my mind?

Maybe Maury and I can live in different cities and use Face Time to communicate. I saw  the new trend on ABC about Baby Boomer couples who can’t decide where to retire and visit each other, living in different cities. Like dating when I still lived at home only with two mortgages. Great idea for independent women and the perfect excuse to get a break from the family. I’m thinking this as the baby is chewing on one of Amber’s toys. Maybe then I wouldn’t be Stressed in Scottsdale anymore. I’ll be Relaxed in Paris, strolling the Left Bank, visiting the Louvre.

Jacob begins a five minute whine. “I want the new toy.”

“Maury, thank you for the gift. I’m sure I’ll be proficient with it in the next six months. In the meantime, would you mind consulting me before complicating my life and adding to my stress?” I don’t think he hears me.

“Jean, look at this. I can check my email and watch the Open at the same time.”

As Jacob falls on the floor banging his head and kicking his feet in a major melt down, I muster up my best commanding-officer-in-the-Army voice. It is time for my last resort BIT method of child rearing–Bribery, Intimidation and Threats. After all, it’s my survival.

“Okay, kiddos, everyone at attention. You, stop drooling. You, no sniveling. It’s almost pool time.”

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In case you’re wondering–Sweden came in #29. Those babes are totally relaxed, skoaling and chilling out with an IKEA catalog.

But not me. It’s been a long week on a dilapidated houseboat with my entire family. I’m not sure if it’s relief that it’s over or I’m just thrilled to clean off in a tiled shower instead of a plastic cubicle, but life in Scottsdale looks welcoming. I do appreciate the kids efforts for our anniversary; however, cooking on two burners, watching kids in the water and listening to my mother kvetch is not my idea of a wild celebration.

To summarize: We arrived at a dock where I expected a luxurious houseboat. Wrong!

“It may not be pretty on the outside but Gus and I got a really good deal,” says Lara, her face stricken with fear.

“It looks like a floating mobile home. If your grandfather were here, he would make sure we had the upgrade,” my mother says, wiping sunscreen on her face.

“Let’s just make the most of it,” I say, keeping the word ‘cozy’ in the back of my mind.

“Look Jean, there’s a patio rooftop. I should’ve brought my golf clubs,” says Maury giving me ‘the look.’

We go inside and I feel like we walked into a 1982 time machine. Avocado appliances and brown plaid in rough polyester are very attractive. Be positive, I tell myself. Who knows? This could actually be fun. Who am I kidding? I notice the two sets of bunk beds.

“The little ones can use their sleeping bags. We’ll take a bunk bed and Michael and Rivka can have the other.”

“What about your father, grandmother and me?” I ask.

“The couch folds out and looks like the kitchen table can be broken down into a bed. It’s all right here,” says Laura as she hands me a two page fold-out of the boat with driving instructions. I’m still puzzled as to how my Phi Beta Kappa daughter thought one floating raft boat with 11 people ever sounded like a good idea.

“What about Grandma?” I ask.

“We thought she might like sleeping in the cool evening breezes on the deck.”

Uh-oh. Looks like snoring grandma gets the kitchen table/bed and we’re sleeping upstairs. Now I know why I needed the sleeping bag.

Michael, Gus and Maury argue about who gets to drive the boat. It surprises me Maury is even interested. Maybe because it’s a boat and not a car. Three days into the trip and my mother is still asking when we find the floating casino. I don’t have the heart to tell her we’re not off the coast of Florida.

“Jean, I’m miserable. You should have left me at the casino and picked me up on your way back. I’m hot, sunburned and the boys still won’t let me drive.”

“Mom, I know it’s hot but there’s water all around to cool off. And you’re sunburned because you refuse to wear a hat and cover up your arms. We won’t let you drive a boat ‘cause you can’t even drive a car.”

“Well, the ladies in my building aren’t going to know my children took me on a paid vacation if I don’t have a tan.”

By the last night of the trip we are exhausted. Everyone is sound asleep so Maury and I climb up to the roof patio with a bottle of wine. “Where did this come from?” I ask.

“I smuggled it in as contraband. Thought you might need a respite from beer, sandwiches, kids’ screaming and your mother.” So we sip our wine looking at the stars, enjoying the strange rock formations and some quiet talk. Maybe this trip isn’t so stressful after all.

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Lara insists the whole family to be ready by 6:00 am sharp. She warns us that it’s going to be a long drive and she wants to beat the morning traffic.

Of course, Rivka and Michael are late. I don’t remember the last time either of them has ever been on time.

We’re all meeting at our house. After a few texts, many phone calls and an argument with Maury about bringing his golf clubs, Lara and Gus pull up in a large white van, the kind that takes those on probation to do their community service. It’s long enough to pull into our driveway and hang out into the street. Maury’s drawled, “You got me up at 5 AM to sit in the back of a van?”

“Hi Mom! Hi Dad! Sorry we’re late. The kids are a little feverish but I think they’re okay.”

“Lara, tell your mom the truth.”

“What? We’re a little behind.” Gus leans out the window and whispers, “You’re daughter’s hot.” Lara socks Gus in the arm while he laughs. This could be a very long ride.

My mother spent the night with us so no one would have to stop at Friendly Arms. She asks, ”Why is she having flashes at this age? I started early too.” This is too much information. “Darling, I have to sit in the front. I get car sick. Do you have a stool I can step on to get in and out? Rose Birnbaum at my place said I’ll love camping…if I’m asleep. Are we staying at a Hilton?”

“Lara, can you please tell me where we’re going?” I ask.

“Well, since your anniversary is only a month away I thought it would be a great idea for you and Dad to enjoy a relaxing week on a houseboat on Lake Powell! No phones, no computers, no iPads. Just the Rubin family and nature.”

“All of us on a boat?” I am incredulous she’s come up with such a crazy idea. Maury and I load the cooler, sleeping bags and our tote bags into the crowded back end of the van. I turn to him. “See? No room for clubs.” He shrugs his shoulders.

“Okay, let’s load up!” says Lara. We scramble in with a slight altercation between my mother and Rivka about who is sitting up front. My mother wins. The adults load up and the four children squeeze in between us. Amber lies down in the last row of seats on my feet. I know as soon as we rev the engines she’ll want to hang her tongue out the window. Michael checks everyone’s seatbelts. Buzz starts to cry.

“I have to goooooo.” He pokes his sister who’s sitting next to him.

She screams, “He touched me.”

Rivka leans in to get him out of his seat belt. I take him inside remembering to turn off the alarm so the police don’t show up.

We’re off!

After several hours on the road and four stops we finally arrive in Flagstaff for brunch. Thank goodness. The kids are g antsy and have discovered the ‘are we there yet?’ game.

“Can we stop at the Cliff Castle Casino?” asks my mother. “I’m schvitzing up here. A little gambling will put me in a better mood. I need to get my meds out of the back.”

“Ma, we don’t have time. We’re behind schedule. We’ve already made too many stops for you to lose money at a casino.”

“Jean, I want to go to a casino. It’s my money. I heard other assisted living places take their residents to casinos and Friendly Arms doesn’t. It’s not fair.”

After a few minutes of bickering we finally convince my mother that we will consider it on the way back. Let’s hope she forgets about it. The kids start a chorus of “I’m hungry. I want ice cream. I have to pee. The dog is making smelly my-mom-won’t-let-me-say-that-word.”

By late afternoon, we arrive at the dock and a line-up of houseboats at Lake Powell. I was hoping that we’d be on a big luxurious houseboat like I’ve seen on the travel channel. I was wrong. A dilapidated, listing raft with a square structure and peeling paint greets us.

“Lara, where are we all going to sleep?” I ask.

“I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

My mother, standing on the dock, looking out at the lake and the rock structures surrounding it says, “I don’t see a casino.”

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As I’m running around Fashion Square looking for a jacket, I realize no one else is shopping for an outer layer. Scottsdalians rarely need more than a T-shirt and jeans even in the winter. Why am I doing this? Why am I allowing my kid to manipulate me? Where am I going? My phone. I fumble in my feedbag. Michael. He rarely calls. It’s usually Rivka asking me how to get crayons off the wall.

“Hi Michael. Excited about this weekend?”

“Mom. Did you see the story about Don Lapre?”

“No. Why?”

“This vitamin guy was arrested on 41 counts of mail and wire fraud. He said he had ”The Greatest Vitamin in the World.”

“Why do I need to know this?”

“Because Grandma bought into it.”

“What?” I knew I should have looked for a way to block infomercials on her TV.

“This is the guy grandma gave money to!”

“What? I thought she just ordered some supplements. She told me they would improve her libido. When I pointed out she didn’t have a partner to test them out on, she got angry with me.”  It wouldn’t surprise me if she had already turned her “great vitamins” into jewelry.

“People have lost millions. You’d better check her credit card purchases.”

Great. Just what I need. My mother may have been ripped off by a supplement huckster, my kid’s taking me on a mystery vacation I don’t need and I’ve just missed a dental appointment. I’m anxious. “Listen, Michael, do you know where Lara is taking us? I’m not crazy about surprises. Plus, she has me shopping for a jacket.”

“Honest, Mom, I don’t know. They’ve rented a van so we can all drive up together. Her idea of a good time is a car full of kids. But, I’m telling you right now: Rivka has to sit in the front because she gets car sick. Oh, and I think the kids have a virus.”

I adore being in small spaces with people who might vomit and contagious kids. “Michael, maybe we should call this off.”

“No, we can’t. Lara’s gone to a lot of trouble to surprise you for your anniversary.”

“What? Our anniversary isn’t until next month. I don’t want anyone to do anything.” Oh dear. It’s enough dealing with Glee and April and their celebration mania. One year they dragged us to Shangri La, a nudist camp, to find our inner peace. With Lara in charge this might involve camping (I’m allergic to sleeping on the ground), cooking outside (if Michael’s in charge of this part we’ll starve) and no bathroom facilities. Uh oh.

“Michael, I insist. I must know where I’m going. I’m your mother so you have to tell me.”

“Ma, if I tell you, Lara will kill me. Remember the scene in ‘Doctor Zhivago‘ when he comes home and 15 families are living in his house? We’re all going to get to know each other very well.”

“What?”

“Ma, just get a good sleeping bag for you and Dad.”

Sleeping bags? I stop tearing through sales rack. I need REI. Sounds like I’m going to need mosquito repellant too. I am very stressed!

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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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I don’t think it’s necessary to get fapitzed every day. Yes, I confess to being a bit vain–I am guilty of making skin tag removal appointments–but no one seems to be addressing the issue of feminists and fashion. Until I read Sonia Isard’s article in “Lilith“ called “Getting Dressed.” It inspired me to be proud of my self-maintenance appointments that include:

facialdentaleyegynecologistmammogramhairmanipedihairremovallaser treatments.

It’s finally acceptable for intelligent women to be serious about fashion. We’ve gotten the okay on the crazy shoes, high-end purses and clothes that are not designed to look like paper bags. I’m not sure how I look is the focus of my day but if we look great, it’s okay to flaunt it. We are now permitted to enjoy “the process of feminine self-presentation.” Which doesn’t mean I’m walking around on stilts anytime soon.

It may be time to change the way I approach my fashion choices. I have never really cared what those around me said about my style, except when Glee and April convinced me honeysuckle was my color.  This won’t involve me looking through magazines and over-analyzing my attire in the mirror, but instead I will continue to wear what I feel comfortable in with a touch of flair. Like my Guatemalan vest or my Indian shoes with tinkling bells. I don’t need anything else to make me Stressed in Scottsdale. Except when I visit my mother.

It’s been busy week with events for Martha Beck and Gloria Feldt, but it started with Mother’s Day brunch at Friendly Arms. Michael, Rivka plus kids had the stomach flu and cancelled at the last minute, which did not pass the “good excuse list” for my mother. At any rate, she insisted if we were coming we had to dress up.

Her favorite phrase is, “Jean, what’s the point of going somewhere unless they know you’ve been there?”

I convinced Maury to put on a pressed golf shirt while I wore a linen dress with a scarf and Birkenstocks. I did comb my hair.

“Jean, you look very nice today. Except for the shoes. Couldn’t you wear the scarf in your hair or a hat? It’s so unruly. That’s from your father’s side of the family. His mother had hair like a Brillo pad.”

That’s the best compliment I’ve received from my mother in years. She never comments on Maury’s outfits because he’s a doctor and watches baseball with her, even though she has no interest in it whatsoever.

I do get glammed up when Glee and April tell me we’re going someplace “Scottsdale,” but I’m not about to do it for the Friendly Arms dining room where most of the inhabitants do not have 20/20 vision and wear plastic polyester from the 70s.

Usually my mother puts herself together very well, but every once in a while something appears from the bowels of her closet that horrifies me. Her response is: “What? Throw this out? The fabric’s still good.”

“But, Mom, it’s very outdated.”

“Who cares? I’m not trying to find another man.”

I should hope not. He’d have to be deaf and blind.

At any rate, I like women who think for themselves and misbehave. And, it’s okay to look cute too.

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