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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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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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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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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At breakfast Maury reads me the article, puts down his bagel and announces, “Jean, we have to move.”
“What? Why?” You have to know Glee took me to a new nail salon that uses shellac polish that lasts two weeks. Except if you want to get it off. I am busily trying to peel it away. “Just because a survey says we’re unhappy?”
“I can’t tolerate the political climate anymore.”
“But, Maury, we have our whole family here. I can’t leave my grandchildren and my mother.”
“The latter is reason to leave right now.”
“But who will get her multiple prescriptions for hemorrhoids and take her shoe shopping?”
“Jean, there are some things I can’t abide. Between the gun crazies who are passing legislation to carry concealed weapons on campus and being listed as the 20th most corrupt state BEFORE the public learned about the Fiesta Bowl scandal, I’ve had it.”
“But where would we go?”
“Hawaii.”

“My mother won’t like it there. She only wears muu-muus at home. She says anyone who wears them in public, especially without firm undergarments, should turn themselves in to the Fashion Police.
“I’ve had enough! We’re #22 among fattest places and we don’t even rank high for a good slice of pizza! Except for Bianco and no one can get in there unless they wait three hours.”
“Maury, none of those are good reasons to move. We have to stay here and fix whatever is making “misery” a popular word. Besides, you’re not exactly slim yourself.”
“Me?” He says this as he strokes his corpulent belly. “Okay. I could lose a few pounds.”

I clear away the remains of his bagel and the nail polish peelings.

Waiting Line at Pizzeria Bianco

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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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Now I understand we all have our scandals, but the latest news rocking New Rochelle, NY caught my attention. Catholic Sister Marie Thornton embezzled $850,000 from a suburban New York City college as Vice-president of finance. It was all for her personal use. Sounds like a Scottsdale story for sure!

Okay, maybe my mental picture of a woman with a no-nonsense haircut devoid of make-up in plain clothes and nurses’ shoes lacks imagination, but what could she have spent that amount of money on? Designer lingerie? Jimmie Choos to roam her stark apartment? Wigs? Jewelry?

Nope! Gambling in Atlantic City! Blackjack specifically. And she must not have been very good at it. The 62-year-old sister of a religious order worked all week and used Iona College‘s money to play on the weekend. The tony school charges $28,000 a year for tuition.

When the college caught her after a ten year run they said she left for medical reasons. Most of the money was recovered and no one would have been the wiser except…for the fact that Iona College filed the losses on their income tax. Hello? You have an employee who steals almost a million dollars and you not only don’t press charges but you create a cover-up and then you put in down as a loss on your taxes? Given that gambling is an addiction like alcohol is there any moral outrage?

By the way, a recent picture of her fit my description perfectly except I missed the eyeglasses.

Garbage and Flowers

I make an effort to go through all our mail everyday, sorting Maury’s golf and political magazines, solicitations from charities, who, once you make a small donation because they got you with a limpid-eyed-child, dog or horse, will never stop, announcements from new chiropractors, cleaners and dentists in your neighborhood and invitations to charitable events that cost $10,000 a table, you realize that a lot of paper is being wasted.

There’s not a solution for junk mail. It’s a free country and people can send what they want. But, it freaks me out. I can fill up a large garbage bag with discarded mail, paper from packaging and plastic that won’t be bio-degradable for 1000 years. If I add, the flowers that have bloomed and passed leaving purple petals on my kitchen counters, their pistons and stamens naked in smelly water, I could probably win a garbage contest. There’s only two of us and an old dog. Wouldn’t it be great if we could opt out of the mail? And then email? And then faxes? I think I’m stressed again!

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