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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Oh, not again. My mother has been having a hard time dealing with the fact that she’s getting old and shrinking. She doesn’t understand how it’s possible.  

“Okay Mom, whatever you say.”

“Jean, we can get taller together. I saw it on that morning show. This very nice looking young man took a class and did a bunch of those weird stretch exercises. What are those called?”

“Yoga.”

“No, that’s not it! Hmm…Anyways, he grew over an inch after 1 hour! Can you believe it?”

“Not really.”

“Well, I’m going to exercise like that and get taller.”

My mother proudly marches into the TV room where Maury’s watching the best of both worlds – a History Channel documentary on the history of golf.

My mother, exercising? I don’t see it. The only form of physical movement she gets is walking from one side of the room to the next. I overhear her chattering away to Maury about how this guy endured Anti-Gravity Yoga where he was hung upside down from the ceiling and did several poses.

Soon I begin to hear the narrator of the golf documentary more than my mother’s voice as Maury slowly turns the volume up higher and higher.

Yoga that makes you taller? You’re kidding. Well, I wouldn’t have to wear high heels anymore. And aren’t tall people skinnier than short people? That just might be worth the pain from doing the one-legged king pigeon pose for an hour.

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These are the first words out of my mouth when I walk into what was once my clean kitchen. Newspapers are scattered all over the counter and chairs and pieces of cut up papers are on the floor.

I hear a rustle and turn to see my daughter, Lara, sifting through a pile with a pair of scissors. She’s examining an advertisement for that organic grocery store she insists on shopping at.

“Lara what are you doing?”

Before she answers, Lara attacks the ad with her sharp scissors, cutting precisely along the black dotted line so all information is kept in tact.

“Lara, I have more!”

I turn to see a giant stack of newspapers hurry into the kitchen. I look down to see my mother’s walking shoes. I’d recognize those orthopedic sneakers anywhere!

She plops the pile on the counter. Papers fly everywhere!

“Will someone please explain to me what is going on?”

“We’re clipping coupons, Mother. You should do it. It’s a great way to save money. I went shopping last week and saved more than half of what my order would have been. You can even get them online”

“Jean, everyone’s doing it! Oh look, buy one get one half off ! Cut this one out Lara.”

I’ve heard about those women who carry binders filled with coupons on every product imagined. I know they help save money, but I’m not convinced enough to buy in bulk just to save a few cents. Last week I got stuck behind a woman who had coupons for almost every item in her cart. Or should I say carts – she had 3 of them.

There have even been reports of women digging through people’s trash and stealing newspapers for coupons. Can you believe that? Come to think of it…

“Mom, where did you get all these papers?”

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“Jean, I’m a hoarder!”

That’s what my mother hit me with when she came for her typical visit.

“I can’t get rid of anything! And did you know 1 in 50; maybe even 1 in 20 people are hoarders? People in senior centers are hoarding like crazy!”

“Mom just because you’re living in an assisted living center doesn’t mean you’re a hoarder.”

“Hoarding is all we have to do at Friendly Arms!”

Hoarding seems to be the newest reality show obsession. There are real people who become so attached to their stuff that they can’t throw anything away, even if it’s garbage. These people often suffer from psychological problems. Come to think of it, my mother fits the description.

“Jean, Maury is a hoarder!”

“Mom what are you talking about?”

“All those gadget things he has. He has so many! Oh and what about your friends! The ones with all those fancy purses and shoes and clothes?”

My mom read in the paper that there have been several cases of hoarding in Scottsdale. There’s even a task force being put in place to help these people with their problem.

I roll my eyes as my mother wanders around the house mumbling to her self about how having cluttered living areas, non-discarded items, and a lot of stuff are the characteristics of hoarders. She’s counting my things, probably trying to figure out whether or not I’m a hoarder.

“Can you live with out this?” My mom calls from the other room.

No, probably not.

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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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“Jean! I’m going to be on TV!” Glee’s enthusiastic voice bursts into my car. I am on my way to the Apple store because Maury decided I couldn’t live without an iPad. Which is what he wanted. All husbands must do that–get you something you don’t want because they like it.

“Huh? Aren’t you already on TV?”

“Stop kidding around. This is a new reality show that’s looking for people who ‘reign supreme in the social scene.’ That’s me! I’m part of the Scottsdale elite!”

“Glee, don’t those mushroom brains reveal everything about their personal and professional lives on those shows? You can’t be serious.” My daughter-in-law, Rivka, is texting me: Kids vomiting. Can u come over?

“I am very serious. One good reality show and you can be famous! Look at that slut on “Jersey Shore”. I’d bring some class to the venue.” I stop at a red light and text back: Call Maury.

“Wait a minute. I read about this. They want people between the ages of 21 and 30. Uh, Glee–you haven’t seen those numbers in decades.”

“No one knows that. I look much younger since I started on the hormone injections, B-12 shots and Latisse. Besides, Scottsdale is the next South Beach. The guy running it, Doron Ofir, used to work with Ben Quayle.”

Doron Ofir is responsible for this?! And it may be coming to Scottsdale?!

“Glee! That newly elected congressman who’s the son of a former VP who can’t spell has a scandal following him around. Doron Ofir started a dirty blog in Scottsdale that degrades women. You can’t do this!” I feel my sense of justice and fairness being riled up.

“Oh Jean, no one pays attention to that. It was a silly blog that college kids use to torture each other. The starring couple is supposed to be Nick Richie and his wife, Shayne Lamas. Maybe I’ll get to meet Lorenzo!”

Now that would be some drama–how many boyfriends Glee can go through in a season. Watching the hoi polloi of Scottsdale might actually relieve some of my stress!

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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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