There’s a new syndrome invading the posh clubs, spas and expansive living rooms in Scottsdale and its environs. It’s effecting many women who give their all to their families and communities. It’s Stress Fatigue Syndrome and I’ve had it for years even if I didn’t know it. I admit  I get exhausted from feeding the troops, taking my mother to her podiatrist appointments, working on Maury’s political campaigns (ever since the eco-twit incident I’m not taking any chances with my slightly paunchy, myopic, ADD man) and working at my consulting business. There are forces at work who want to catapult us back to the 1950s and aprons.

Trust me, I am not going there!  April is convinced I have adrenal fatigue syndrome, a quack diagnosis that Maury says was made up to tell women they’re doing too much. When she described the symptoms it sounded like every woman I know–tired and a bit overwhelmed with a dose of malaise and weight gain. Hey, we have to blame it on something besides The Cheesecake Factory!

Even though the disorder is not recognized by endocrinologists or Dr. Andrew Weil, the guru of natural health, April says it has merit. She reads everything in Reader’s Digest and Prevention magazines as well as watches TV reality shows, a great resource for inaccurate information.

“Jean, I know what’s wrong with you.” I love it when my friends make a diagnosis.

“Really? What is it and how do you know?”

“Because I researched it on Wikipedia after I read an article at my salon–did I mention I’m adding more highlights to increase depth to the color?– and it says that modern life is so stressful, especially yours, that your walnut-sized adrenal glands that are supposed to help you cope with stress, are all petered out.”

“April, not everything you read online is true. And I’m not the only thing that’s petered out around here.”

“Well, I know you and I think you’re overboard. Didn’t you tell me you’ve been getting lightheaded and you’re having trouble keeping up?”

“Well, yes, but no one can keep up with my schedule. I’m going for the Scottsdale Multitasker of the Year Award.   Besides,those symptoms are pretty vague. I have a lot to do with my aging mother, Maury’s political proclivities and my kids’ demands. Rivka wants a belly cast, Michael’s still unemployed and Lara has decided to take a vegan cooking course so she can start a restaurant that only serves beans. Don’t you ever feel overwhelmed sometimes?

“No, never. Unless of course I’m going to be late for my nail appointment and the dogs have to be walked. I try to only do one thing a day.” She gasps for a moment and I can tell she’s eating one of her energy bars. She also only eats one meal a day too. Promise me you’ll get your saliva and blood tested for Stress Fatigue Syndrome. I just know you have it.”

April loves to be right ever since she figured out who murdered The Mouth.

“Did I tell you the people I suspect of having a drop house in my neighborhood are putting up a wall around their property? I know they must be doing something illegal!”

I’m relieved she’s off diagnosing me. “How do you know?”

“Because  they drive Mercedes with tinted windows.”

“Everyone in your neighborhood drives Mercedes or another luxury vehicle with tinted windows.”

“Yes, that’s true, but the new neighbors are the only ones with gold wheel covers.”

The world is in serious shape and sometimes my frustration at not being able to do anything about it drives me crazy. It’s enough that there’s war, famine and natural disasters assaulting my senses daily, so I need a diversion. It only takes a little to put me over the edge–like the fact that half of  the legislators in our controversial state don’t believe in global warming–so sometimes I have to escape into Glee’s world.

Glee is back from her glamping trip–everything was first class–and she is focused on Fall fashion. Please let me remind you in case you haven’t left your house in weeks or you’re still hanging out in San Diego like April, it’s monsoon season here.

That means high temperatures embalmed in storms with excessive humidity. Just my kind of weather. I can barely lift my arms and legs because they’re stuck to the leather sofa. You can imagine my avid interest when Glee called to give me the latest fashion report.

“Jean, you have to come to a Fall preview with me. They’re showing fur, feathers and pantsuits! You’ll just love it! remember the matching quail feather boas we bought years ago? Well, we can wear them now!”

“Glee, I’m permanently stuck on my sofa and can’t imagine putting feathers around my chicken neck. That was for a costume not to wear in public. Besides, I don’t wear fur and if I’m understanding you, the newest trend will make me look like Hilary Clinton’s bad step-sister. Pantsuits? Are you sure that’s right?”

“For Heaven’s sake, you have to keep up. You can’t wear Birkenstocks and hippie skirts forever.”

“Why not? Even my mother has stopped criticizing me. Well, not completely. Anyway, pantsuits sound hot.”

“Well, I thought you wanted to keep up after your spa make-over but I can see you are rejecting my fashion advice.”

“No, I love you and your advice. I’m too stressed in Scottsdale to follow it. But, I promise, the first person I see in Trader Joe’s wearing a boa, I’ll run right home and put on mine.

“These aren’t the old pantsuits. This is an updated look with tuxedo jackets and a satin stripe down the side of the leg.”

“Glee, if I don’t look ridiculous enough, you want me to dress like a waiter spitting feathers?”

“Well, I’m just trying to help.”

An Environmental No-No

As lackadaisical as I am about the latest fashion trends, one piece of news did strike me as important. Parsons New School of Design (of “Project Runway” fame) is going to be the first school to be offering a course in zero waste. It seems a lot of fabric scraps are wasted making a garment. I can hear Tim Gunn saying now, “We’re going to Mood Fabrics and use the accessory wall wisely.”

So what garment creates the most waste? Jeans! A wardrobe staple for baby boomers and young people everywhere. Jeans are cited as the most wasteful and high polluting of all garments made not only because of the left over fabric but dyes, extra washings, energy, packaging and gallons of water used by consumers.

Students will learn how to use fibers that haven’t been hit with pesticides or fertilizers and make jeans with fewer pockets. American Apparel is making underwear from scraps. Denim underwear? Uh, I’m already itchy and  sweating.

If I don’t laugh I’ll cry. We’ve all heard that expression. Ha! If I don’t laugh I’ll maim Maury. I didn’t say kill because that could land me in prison with an angry Bubbie with pencil-thin eyebrows and her girlfriends. I just want him to remember to close doors, turn off lights and put the kosher pickles back in the refrigerator. He totally stressed me out this week when he left early for work and left the front door wide open after he brought in the newspaper. Now I admit that our headlines are more distracting than other places because more than half the people running for public office in this election cycle don’t believe in global warming. However, it’s no excuse to leave me sleeping and inviting anyone who walks by to come in and visit. Yes, we always have cold beers available but I’m not wont to share them with strangers.

When I confronted him with his gross security negligence,  Maury said I shouldn’t take things so seriously because nothing happened since our neighbors or anyone else driving by knows there’s a harridan living at our address and that I needed to read the latest Norwegian study that tracked 70,000 people and found the ones who scored highest on the sense-of humor scale, live longer.

“Oh yeah? How do they test sense of humor? By having you tell them a doctor joke?” was my smart retort.

“No. Laughing relaxes the endothelium, the fragile lining of your arteries, to boost blood flow by 15 percent. It also melts stress and reduces cortisol, which I can see you sorely need.”

“And now you’re going to tell me that leaving the door open, searching for eyeglasses and keys and forgetting appointments is a good thing?”

“Jean, I’m just saying that you need to see the humor in your life.”

Right. While he creates hurricanes in my life.

High End Camping for the Scottsdale Crowd

Even Glee is feeling the effects of this economy. But I have to say she’s creative. Now April, who never has to worry because her husband Steve is a personal injury attorney and there are a plethora of people with low IQs here–I know this because we had to pass a “Stupid Motorist” law so people who drive through raging rivers and have to be rescued will be responsible–would rather stay home than go camping.

But not Glee. She went glamping recently with her new boyfriend who is also a life coach. In case you’re not familiar with the newest craze it’s camping, Scottsdale style. But for sports figures who cannot figure out what they’re going to do with huge amounts of money when their careers end prematurely or the affluent who realize they have to follow a budget, here’s a vacation idea! Glee and her honey drove to the High Country for a camping trip that included special air mattresses, champagne, gourmet food baskets, a trendy teepee instead of a leaky tent, portable toilets and mobile phone chargers. I didn’t mention the 500 count linens and place mats yet, did I?

“That’s not camping. That’s a luxury event at the Princess Hotel only outside,” I told her when she explained what glamping was.

“Jean, you have no idea how bonding with nature de-stresses the soul. Efraim and I felt so rejuvenated after a weekend of cutting our carbon footprint.”

“How much trash did you leave behind?”

“The glamping organizers dispose of all garbage by hauling it back to the Valley.”

“There are organizers?”

“Of course. You don’t think I could pack up all that stuff myself, do you?”

Maury took me for a little getaway. Nothing fancy. Just cooler weather and a hotel room with clean floral  bedspreads.Vacations are supposed to assist you with breaking your routine, forgetting about technology and lowering your stress…except if your electronics come with you, your husband still watches the invasion of Normandy on the History Channel and talks about the golf game he’s playing tomorrow, the one he played today and the ones he hopes to play in the future.

My cell phone still rang, I checked email frequently and read texts from my kids, who let me know I was missed by  harassing me. So I decided to tame my information appetite by following advice from a Swiss neuroscientist with the unlikely name of Torkel Klingberg. Someone with that name has to evolve into someone scholarly because no one would take him seriously otherwise. The title of his book sounded like it was written for me: The Overflowing Brain: Information Overload and the Limits of Working Memory.

Torkel’s solutions are activities that demand concentration like watching sequential episodes of “The Bachlorette” and trying to figure out if Ali slept with Chris after her hot night with Roberto or playing chess, which is not in the realm of possibilities for me in this lifetime. My favorite, though, was a suggestion of “controlled multitasking,” which does not mean explaining to your mother why she is not coming with you on vacation while you’re packing your suitcase and putting an extra coat of polish on your toe nails.

It means they want you to draw a triangle with one hand while you make a square with the other and trace a circle with your foot. Are they kidding? These guys have way too much grant money and too few ideas. If they want multi-tasking, they need to come to my house.

Local Talent

My extravagant friend, Glee, who reinvents herself frequently and is now marketing herself as a Life Coach specializing in stress reduction for those with “information-fatigue syndrome,” invited me to a networking event for environmental fashionistas.

I had no clue what that meant but I wore cotton instead of synthetics and “dressed Scottsdale” per Glee’s instructions. That means cute shoes (no Birkenstocks), fashionable looking accessories and make up, that’s been applied with more aplomb than when Tangie, my four-year-old granddaughter, paints me up. Unfortunately, it melted onto my neck in this heat.

Local Talent, a fashion emporium for local designers and artists, was hosting the event for author, Marcia Fine. Glee said, “That woman is writing about me in her Scottsdale satirical series.” With thoughtfulness she added, “I know she’s making fun of me, but any publicity is better than none, especially if its from some half-baked author who hasn’t attended any of my seminars for “Stress and the Modern Woman: Find Your Inner Core by Eating a Gala Apple a Day.”

Because it’s 112 degrees today. And you can’t sleep without it. And your clothes stick to your body.

Now I understand it’s hot in other places around the country. I have friends in the Deep South who swear it’s raining inside their house, a few desperate souls from Iowa who claim they’ve lost the ability to lift their arms because the air is too heavy and another group of New Yorkers who are baking like pizzas in their oven apartments. But I’ll match an Arizona heat wave against any of theirs. We have triple digits (with two of the numbers being eleven) and the monsoon season has started. That means high humidity with the threat of rain which doesn’t actually happen. We get dust storms.

Dirt flies everywhere, trees fall down, coyotes howl and Maury complains the storm has ruined a perfectly good golf day. I, on the other hand, recognize in the sweat puddle at my feet that our air conditioning is ineffectual. So, under duress, Maury calls Jiffy, “We Fix Your AC as Well as Your Car Mechanic Would” to give us an estimate. Fric and Frac, two good looking kids with short blond crew-cuts wearing Jiffy polo shirts that don’t cover all the tattoos on their arms, show up and give us an estimate.

Only ten thousand dollars to replace both units today. A bargain. Oh, you could wait or fix them piecemeal but in reality when they find your body in the morning, you’ll just be a fading puddle in the middle of the bed. Want to try to get other estimates or negotiate? Probably not because unless you’re prepared to climb on the roof utilizing a crane and multiple ladders, it’s hopeless. They’ve got you.

So just know that if it’s warm at your place we have two new air conditioners with ten year warranties (I should live so long as my mother would say) in case you want to stop by and have a cold beer.

Some Things Never Change

Maury is my hero. I adore him. He is the most interesting, hoarder of obscure facts of any man I know.

But that doesn’t mitigate the fact the man still has ADD. We have returned from vacation to look for car keys (doesn’t everyone leave them in the garage for the car thieves), credit cards (somewhere in his brain he though it logical to leave the pertinent ones at home underneath his sweat socks in the back of a drawer), and pass codes to all our accounts (which are not really necessary unless you want to withdraw money for food and air conditioning).

Yesterday, to make sure that I was completely aware that we were indeed home in sunny Arizona and not on the island of my dreams, he went out to bring in the newspaper ( so I could get excited about the wonderful cast of characters on our state) and left the front door wide open. Then he left for the office while I was upstairs unaware that our front door was inviting in the outside world and leaking out what little AC might be oozing out our vents.

Don’t worry. It was only open for two hours. Just long enough for me to disappear into a puddle.

Even though I’m officially on vacation I wanted to share with you that some people are always working. Like my friend, April, who doesn’t have a job. Her business is everyone else. Ever since she thinks she solved a murder in her neighborhood of a mouthy gossip columnist years ago, she’s looking for crime.

“Jean, guess what? I think there’s a drop house in my neighborhood!”

April lives in Paradise Valley which is adjacent to Scottsdale and has the highest per capita income of any zip code, so the idea that someone’s mansion is harboring people who have come into Arizona through non-traditional channels fascinates me.

“How do you know?”

“Because I never see anyone and there’s a van with tinted windows in the driveway.”

“So?”

“No one in Paradise Valley drives an unmarked van. Unless their a drug dealer. or a human smuggler.”

“Do you mean to tell me there’s no vans? Don’t some parents drive their kids to school in a van?”

“Of course not. We have vans here with” Home Delivery Dry Cleaning” painted on the side or “Catering by Monique.” Parents drive their kids in SUVs and Mercedes station wagons.”

“April, that’s ridiculous. There are drop houses packed with people brought across the border by mules in the Phoenix area. Why would they pick your neighborhood?”

“Because the homes are bigger and they can fit more people inside! And they found Russian spies in nice neighborhoods.”

Okay, she’s got a point, but we have such a highly charged border issue here, I don’t think April should get involved. I tell her so.

Her response? “I’m going to find out who’s living there and when I do . . .”

“Have you ever thought about minding your own business?”

As if I don’t have enough anxiety swirling around me, my glamorous friend, April, calls to inform me that she read a study that says people who are stressed gain weight.

“I’m worried about you, Jean. You under too much pressure and you worry all the time. You could gain ten pounds like that!” I hear the crisp snap of her manicured fingers.

“Honey, I appreciate your concern, but I’m just dealing with life. Your husband’s gone all day. Mine hangs around looking in the refrigerator. Your mother lives in Topeka. Mine’s a few miles away and complains a lot. Your kids are employed. Mine are . . .well, you know that situation.”

“Don’t think because I appear relaxed and well-groomed all the time, I don’t have problems. Sometimes I’m very stressed in Paradise Valley.”

“About what?”

“I worry about you. This Harvard study said people eat more because it calms them. I’ve watched what happens to you around chocolate. They suggest talking to a friend and I wanted you to know I’m always here for you.”

“April, I’m fine. A call from you about my stress makes me more stressed.”

‘Honey, I just don’t want you to gain weight. It’s so hard to lose. I know how you rush around and take on so many commitments.”

“Well, I appreciate your concern, but I think you have to find something else to worry about. I’m going to finish Indian curry left-overs and garlic mashed potatoes for lunch.”

Airline Food Curbs the Appetite

My friend is worried I’ll gain weight from over-eating while I’m stressed out. I have a solution! Anyone who’s worried about weight gain has to fly somewhere. That way they can view the food served and lose their appetite.

The Food and Drug Administration inspectors have cited airline food for sanitation violations. Now airline food is usually unappealing, but now that I know the kitchens they were prepared in have roaches, flies and mice, I will avoid the peanuts in the sealed packages.

In fact, the visual of mystery meat with vermin dancing on the top just  might be the image to conjure up when I see a great dessert. Who knew airline food was a diet technique?

Two very famous mediums–that’s code for I-can-make-things-up-and scare-the-s***-out-of-you–are coming to Scottsdale to do a program about communicating with the spiritual world. Of course my friend, Glee,who knows about all things other worldly, is going.

“Jean, James Van Praagh and Tony Stockwell are coming and I’ve bought a whole row of tickets! You and Maury must come with me.”

Now I’ve heard of the Van Pooba guy because he makes regular appearances on TV talk shows often scaring the hairspray off a teased head with his proclamations of “Your deceased father says you should go back to practicing the piano,” but who’s the other guy?

“Uh, Glee, I’m always up for your weird stuff–I actually liked the immersion tank evening because I couldn’t hear anyone talking– but I think Maury has a date with the History Channel.”

“Jean! This is not funny stuff. These guys communicate with the dead! They have messages for you. Tony Stockwell shares information from the soul level. Don’t you have a grandmother who has passed on?”

“Everyone our age has a dead grandmother unless their longevity genes have them living until 140.”

“Well, she might want to talk to you!”

“If  Bubbe Rose with her rolled up suntan knee-highs wants to speak to me from the other side, I’d rather have her blintz recipe.”

“Jean! Stop it! It said in today’s paper that Tony was able to tell a woman that her father loved Cristal champagne.”

“Because he had a friend open a bottle of it for him the week before. I read the same article you did. I’m not impressed.”

“Well, April and I are going and I think you’d benefit from some guided meditation. It’ll relieve your stress.”

“Glee, it gives me stress that these guys are collecting $50 a head plus selling books, tapes and T-shirts from the back of the room.”

Click.

Life buzzes by in a flurry of frenetic activity. Besides guiding Glee through her new romance with a more age-appropriate man, who, by the way, she met at an upscale Scottsdale restaurant waiting for take-out in a fancy track suit, Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses and $200 sneakers, I am devastated to find out my green efforts have been squashed.

New research from the University of Arizona has found that the reusable bags we carry to the grocery store so we don’t have to make the burdensome decision of paper or plastic, are contaminated. That’s right. My two mismatched canvas bags advertising male performance drugs that Maury got free at a meeting, logo prominently displayed, may be carrying potentially harmful bacteria. That’s a disappointment. I kinda like the reaction when I run into April’s society friends who can’t remember my name (one always squints at me like I must be familiar but can’t place where she could possibly know me from) with my unfashionable, unmatched bags.

It turns out twelve percent of the bags tested contain E.coli, which indicates possible “fecal matter and more dangerous pathogens.” Charles Gerba, the UA professor who co-authored the study, says we could be “gambling with germs.” Raw meat could leak onto the fabric and then contaminate other food and presto, you could expire right in front of the over-priced baby veggies aisle in the fancy food store of your dreams.

Worse, even though the meat is wrapped, if you put it in the inferno trunk of your car, a hotbed of breeding for stealthy germs, the blood–politely called juice by the scientists–could fester, propagate or worse, explode! Scottsdalians could be driving home in their gold accessorized ransom-sized SUVs and the back end of the car could ignite. Picture the terrified occupant covered in meat blood wailing at a red light for help, recently done French manicured nails splayed in the air.

The solution? Wash your bags after every use. Like I have time for that! I’m stressed in Scottsdale from kids, Maury the Magnificent and my mother and now I have to worry about an invasion of bacteria…in my grocery bags. Did I mention Gerba received $30,000 from the American Chemistry Council for the study?