You may kill me now. Frankly, it’s a mystery how I have survived this long.

Mothers of teenage girls know that teenage girls frequently suffer from dissociative identity disorder, otherwise known as multiple personalities. Sometimes they are one person. Sometimes they are another.

This makes a mother’s job particularly difficult, especially when one never knows WHICH personality is going to greet you at any given minute.

Observe.

Here is something I am allowed to do:

Talk about her boobs.

Here is something I am NOT allowed to do:

Talk about her boobs.

On any other given day, I am allowed to sing along with the radio in the car.

Except for the days I’m NOT allowed to sing along with the radio in the car.

I am allowed to take her picture.

(Oooh, Mom!! Take my picture in this outfit!)

I am NOT allowed to take her picture.

(Oh, Mom, you are so ANNOYING!)

“Sit with me … Noooooo, don’t leave yet!”

“Get out, get out, get out!!!” *DOOR SLAM*

Seriously, I think teenage girls must be some kind of punishment for something we moms did in a former life.

Like, uh, when we were teenage girls.

That being said, I thought I would solve some of the mysteries of the deep, er, I mean the interior mysteries of intestinal fortitude. I mean, uh, why we Jews are grateful for something like this:

Now, people, THAT’S funny, right there. I don’t care who you are.

Anyway, as I was saying, since the eight days of eating the bread of affliction have passed, I thought I’d share something that only a warped person such as myself would appreciate.

Most of my friends found me quite perverse when I told them I was excited about the arrival of the Super Colon at my workplace.

They were even more disturbed when I showed them photos.

And so I present:

A LOOK AT COLON-IAL TIMES

A number 2 best-seller

Yeah, I defy you to find anything normal about this experience

If you’re squeamish, get out now. Just warning you …

You were warned. Just sayin'

Janet pets a polyp.

Janet and friend have an attack of colitis

And thus our tale is done. Leaving only one left to say:

Uninspiring, dull, uninteresting brown.

I have NO idea what possessed me to look DEEEEP into the mirror one day in a brightly lit bathroom. Perhaps it was to keep from poking myself in the eyeball while applying makeup. Or just because I couldn’t see unless I was closeclosecloseup.

What I saw there was a revelation.

My eyes weren’t brown. THEY WERE GREEN!

Maybe you could call them something else, but not really. If you looked at them – I mean really LOOKED at them – they were green.

Unfortunately, the little muscle around the pupil – you know, the one that expands and contracts to let in more or less light – is mud brown.

This means that if you look at me from further away than IN MY FACE, you will think my eyes are brown.

Uninspiring, dull, uninteresting brown.

Accordingly, I have made every effort to make my eyes appear greener than they are.

Hunter green clothes.

Green contacts. (That worked until I started wearing soft lenses – my prescription isn’t available in the colorful variety. Sigh.)

And eye makeup.

Oh my good Lord … eye makeup.

I am a sucker for every. single. trick.

Several cosmetic companies make eye shadow, eyeliner and mascara that are coordinated and coded for your eye color. And I can’t resist them.

But frankly, I have never been able to see a difference if I used the for-your-green-eyes stuff or just the run-of-the-mill junk from the bottom of my makeup case.

Seriously, now? That’s just freakin’ frustrating.

I want my peepers to POP, ya know?

So recently, when I was at my local grocery store, I decided to try something new.

Yes, I found yet another brand of color-coded makeup.

But this time, there were options for blue … brown … and hazel.

No green.

Oh noooooooooooo!!!!

But not willing to give up, I decided to get adventuresome.

I went with hazel.

Here was my rationale: If I actually had all this brown in my green eyes, then maybe I was barking up the wrong iris by going with the green option.

So I gave it a shot, even though it pained me to give up the green.

And found that, no matter which way I tried it, without having to look DEEEEP into my my mirror, my eyes still looked … uninspiring, dull, uninteresting brown.

I give up.

So don’t it make my brown eyes … uh … blue?

(And I SWEAR they really are green.)

It’s Passover — truly a lovely holiday that is all about the celebration of freedom from slavery. This year, it starts at sundown on March 29 — and continues for eight fun-filled days.

I love this holiday. I love the traditions. I love the two nights of seder dinners with their traditional foods. I love the way the foods are meant to represent parts of the story — the charoset (the mortar of the bricks the Jews made for the pharaohs of ancient Egypt), the bitter herb (representing the bitterness of slavery), the matzah (the unleavened bread that the Jews took on their flight from Egypt because they couldn’t wait for the bread to rise).

Yes, I love it all.

Well, almost all.

I hope it’s OK if I tell you a little secret:

Shhhhhh.

Matzah really IS the bread of our affliction.

Or, to put it another way: Holy Moses! I am so freakin’ constipated!!!!!

Ah, matzah, I love you, but you do not love me.

There is nothing that binds us Jews together like the traditional solidifying of our intestinal tract into a concrete block.

And please, let’s not talk about the after-effects of my favorite take-to-work-during-Passover lunch: melted cheese on a matzah.

That sound you heard was my colon grinding to a halt.

Now, when I was a small child and going to seders at the home of the family matriarch (my paternal grandmother — and you BETTER not cross this woman … and I’m serious, young lady!), there was always something that puzzled me about the meal.

She always served this nauseating fruit compote thing for dessert.

All us kids would stare at it in horror and try to pass it off to the person to our right. Uh, no thanks, Grandma. Really! I couldn’t eat another bite!

Right nasty it was, all pale and slimy-looking in a bowl.

But it wasn’t until years later that I had an epiphanous moment.

It was stewed fruit, people. Apricots, peaches and PRUNES!

My grandma knew even way back then the importance of this traditional phrase:

“Let my people GO!!!!!!!!!!”

Janet, who generally writes at From the Planet of Janet, thinks that prunes can TOTALLY be your friend and works hard to make sure that the only blockage she suffers is of the WRITER’S variety. Because otherwise? Ecccchhhhhh.

Mostly, though, the aging process sucks rocks. Big giant boulders, in fact.

Including the parts where, although menopause has brought me the cessation of that monthly visit from Aunt Flo, that benefit comes with a certain — ahem — shall we say desert-like aspect.

Accordingly, the Wonderhubby and I have learned to adapt in many ways, including the use of the euphemistically termed “personal lubricant.”

We are always looking for a thrill — cheap or otherwise — so it seemed logical that we would be attracted to this his-and-hers thing, called (cleverly) Yours and Mine.

It comes in two separate bottles, one for him to use on her and one for her to use on him.

They’re color-coded, see? One is blue, one is purple. One for him and one for her. Used in tandem, the combination is supposed to be (and I quote) “thrilling” for both of you.

But here’s the problem:

Have you ever tried to figure out the difference between blue and purple IN THE DARK?

Plus, the writing on these suckers are teeny. And it doesn’t say HIS and HERS. It’s says YOURS and MINE.

Well, hell. Who is who here? You? Me? Her? Him? WTF???

I really wanted to give you a detailed review of what “thrilling” really means in the Casa de Janet’s Planet, but … uh … the bedroom scene really went more like this:

Wonderhubby: You want to use some … uh …?

Evil Wife: We have that two-fer stuff, if you want to use that.

Wonderhubby: *reaching into the nightstand drawer for the two tubes of thrill* Which one is which again?

Evil Wife: *squinting in the dark* I can never remember which one is which. What does it say on the bottles?

Wonderhubby: Wait, what is Yours? Is that mine? Or is that really yours? Is that yours for me or yours for you?

Evil Wife: WHAT???????

Wonderhubby: Wait. Is blue for you? Or is blue for me? Is this the blue one? Or is that really purple? I can’t see the color, and I cant see what it says. Can you see what it says?

Evil Wife: Wait wait wait. If it says Mine, is that for me or is that for you? Does this say Mine?

Wonderhubby: Wait. Is purple for you or for me?

Evil Wife: *totally ruining the mood* Oh, turn on the freakin’ light, for crap’s sake.

Instead, Wonderhubby reached for his cell phone.

What? You gonna make a call?

But no. He flipped it open and used the light from the phone to illuminate a blue tube labeled “Yours (for him)” and a purple tube labeled “Mine (for her).”

And I gotta tell ya, at this point? I had given in to hysterical, maniacally uncontrollable laughter.

It took a loooooooong time to get back to business.

~

The apparently-not-so-brutally-shy Janet blabs about everything at From the Planet of Janet, where even lube is not off-limits.

Put my mom in the second category.

She actually celebrated her 80th birthday a couple weeks ago, breaking all records for longevity in her family.

She has four children and 10 grandchildren, volunteers at a local breast center, is a breast cancer survivor herself and has been married to my dad for 60 years.

Aaaaaaand …

She pole-dances.

Yes.

She and her other septua- and octogenarian cronies take a workout class that involves a pole, CFM shoes and a G-string.

Yes, a G-string.

One night, when she was showing off her shoes (and yes, those ARE her real feet in her real shoes), the G-string fell out of the shoe bag.

She assured her horrified children and grandchildren that she actually wears the G-string OVER her tights and UNDER her workout pants/shorts/whatever-they-are-I-don’t-want-to-know.

With the strings peeking out.

“It’s just a little tease,” she giggled.

*La la la la la I can’t hear you*

She has admitted that she would LOVE to put a pole in their house.

An idea that makes my father grin a nasty grin.

But the truth of the matter is …

“He’s never seen it, and HE NEVER WILL,” and you can take THAT to the bank.

Meanwhile, when she speaks of such things, the looks on the faces of her progeny can be described as pricelessly appalled.

“I can spin around the pole two to three times,” she likes to tell us. “Not bad for an old broad. But I don’t go upside down …”

(wait for it)

” … anymore.”

*La la la la la I can’t hear you*

Janet writes at From the Planet of Janet, which she totally hides from everyone in her real life.  In that real life, she juggles five kids (ages 15 to 28), a calm and level-headed husband, and birthday dinners that can make a grown woman weep.

A little mascara so you can actually see my eyelashes and some coverup on the under-eye circles, and I’m pretty much good to go.

But when it came to taking a closer look at Yes to Carrots‘ line of lip glosses, I knew I had the perfect test case.

Meet my daughter, the Roo-girl, aged 15, and as girlie a girlie-girl as you’ll ever see. She does not leave the house unless she is perfectly coiffed and equally perfectly made-up. Mostly her eyes, which are green or blue, depending on what she’s wearing, and, if I may say so myself, drop-dead gorgeous.

But I digress. She is also a lip gloss hound — as well as a great believer in all things natural.

The Roo-girl and Yes to Carrots? A match made in heaven. This is a company that produces a line of beauty products for the skin, hair and lips made with the essences of fresh fruits and vegetables, strictly organic and not tested on animals.

The tricky part, however, is that Roo has no idea that I blog, and getting her to test something for me was a challenge to my creativity.

So I appealed to her organic nature. “Come along,” I told her. “I want to buy you a lip gloss at that fabulous French boutique, Tar-jhay.” (The words “buy you …” will get her every time.)

We looked at the Yes to Carrots display, where I hinted heavily at the two-pack featuring “Rose Bliss” and “Playful Nude” lip glosses. She nodded but fondled the three-pack of lip butters — featuring Carrot, Berry and Mint. The idea of a carrot lip balm made her wild with curiosity.

I’m a sucker. I bought her both.

She broke out the lip butters in the car, ripping the carrot version out of the package first and slathering it on her lips.

“Smells like leaves,” she pronounced. “Like nature.”

(I burst out laughing. This post was going to write itself!)

The berry flavor was next. “This smells like a pop tart,” she giggled. “But I think I like the carrot better, though — it’s more interesting.”

And?

“My lips feel so smooth and soft!”

Well, THAT was successful, obviously. She saved the mint for another time because I was pressing her to try the lip glosses.

Rose Bliss: “Nice. It feels like it’s going to be sticky later … Hmmm, but it’s NOT! Cool.”

Playful Nude: “Huh. I have pink lips. I usually don’t like anything that looks beigey. But it feels really good.”

P.S. I stole the Playful Nude out of her room when she was sleeping.

I like it.
Janet writes at From the Planet of Janet, which she totally hides from everyone in her real life.  In that real life, she juggles five kids (ages 15 to 28), a calm and level-headed husband, a pole-dancing mother and birthday dinners that can make a grown woman weep.