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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“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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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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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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“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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