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

“Mom, Scottsdale is not dangerous!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s your excuse?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“April! What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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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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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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“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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