My parents’ sex life and a video. I know what you’re thinking.

I’m wondering whether my mom was a floozy in her youth.

A little promiscuous, maybe? A little trampy?

She used to work as an x-ray technician. Who knows what shenanigans occurred when the lights dimmed and radiation flowed freely?

Maybe my dad was a gigolo in his younger days. Was he a player? He did take an awful lot of business trips when I was young. I remember he went to Australia for six weeks one time. He came home with a kangaroo purse for me and a boomerang for Tino and within ten minutes, the boomerang flew through the air and bonked me on the top of my head and I cried.

Maybe he had a double life? Maybe he was bi-coastal in his spare time? Bi-continental?

Because there are a handful of bloggers all over the world who seem to share my DNA. They think the way I think. They do the things I do. They like the things I like. So much so that at one point, I seriously considered stapling my eyes, ears, nose and mouth shut before I went to sleep so that in the morning, after reading their blogs, I would not feel compelled to shriek GET OUT OF MY HEAD at the top of my lungs and thereby scare the bejesus out of my kids. If my kids go to school without their bejesus one more time, they’re going to catch strep. Or lice.

But I realize now that not a single one of these bloggers was graced with the Psyhos nose or the Stavri feet, and they should fall to their knees right this instant and thank God. If their noses entered a room three seconds before the rest of their bodies did on freakishly high arches, I’d be suspicious. But they dont, so I know without a doubt that my father was faithful and that my mother did not secretly have litters of children whom she then scattered all about the earth when my father wasn’t looking.

So apparently, my fellow blogger Beth and I were not, in fact, separated at birth.

I like Beth. She’s funny, she’s kind and she breeds dust bunnies like I do. She’s a good egg, as my mom likes to say.

My mom also likes to say “dungarees” instead of jeans and “suitor” instead of date and “booze” instead of liquor. I just let her. I learned early on that dragging my mother into the 21st century is not unlike getting my kids to clean their bathroom. It’s going to take hours upon hours of nagging and lots of anti-depressants and for what? So the second my back is turned, they can drop trow and fling their dirty skivvies on the curtain rod?

No, thanks. You go right head and tell us you’re “retiring” as you go to bed, Mom. It’s just not worth it.

And yes, I’m perfectly well aware that I have used “skivvies” and “shenanigans” and “floozy” and “gigolo” in this post. You try being raised by my mother and not channeling her every once in awhile. I dare you.

Yesterday, Beth posted this video on her blog and I fell in love with it. It’s probably been all over the web and maybe even TV by now which would not surprise me one bit because I am always the last to know anything. See that loop you’re standing in? I can’t, because I’m way the hell over here.

I told Beth I was going to blog this video because yet again, I have nothing to blog about because I live the most boring life on earth, short of algae.

Excuse me for a second, everyone …

Pssssssssssssst. MOM! THIS IS A VIDEO.  Click the arrow in the middle of the screen to play it, OK? I could also tell you that if you click the bottom right arrow and choose “HQ” you could watch a higher quality version, but I know that will only confuse you, so just click the arrow in the middle of the screen and you’ll be fine. Don’t be scared. And no, I don’t know why Tino isn’t married or why he hasn’t called you. No, I don’t know what’s wrong with your cell phone. Love you.

There’s something about watching people dance that just plain makes me happy. Except when it involves an 82 year old actress flashing her boobs on Dancing with the Stars. Then it makes me throw up in my mouth a little. I won’t name names and I hope Cloris Leachman appreciates my discretion.

Dancing is infectious and how awesome is it to have something infectious that does not involve pus and penicillin and frequent urination?

I’d like to think that if I had been in Liverpool Street Station that day, that I would have left my inhibitions in my luxury hotel room and joined in.

I’d also like to think that I’d have been 40 pounds lighter while doing so. Shhhhhhhhh. It’s my fantasy, OK? Stop interrupting.

And because I’m all about the Who, What, When, Where, Why and How, even when it has nothing to do with the XY chromosomes calling my teenage daughter on the phone, here’s a video about the video:

I swear, I could just listen to the Brits all day.

Beth, what say we take a holiday and cross the pond and talk like Madonna?

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