I know that if Cat were to walk into our house, she would be able to immediately point out numerous high-larious goings on that would make for fabulous blog fodder.
Actually, if Cat were to walk in our house, Jank and Juno would immediately begin their monstrously cute baby-dog-on-fucked-up-looking-dog routine, giving Dash and Trixie's precocious 4-yr-old-on-6-yr-old routine a run for its money.
Our family's favorite pastime is "vying for attention".
And then I would be like, "Oh, Cat. Hi. Uh..." and it would be awkward because I would see my real life and my cyber life come crashing into each other, but then she would pull out her iTouch and I would be all dazzled and "ooooh, crossword app...." and then she would probably just sit on the couches with me and Coco and balance her laptop on her gut like an old pro.
My point here (and there's always a point, loyal reader) is that I know there's whacky shit in our house to write about. But it's not always as simple as looking around the room and exclaiming: "Ah ha! Coco is snarling silently at Bobby Habibi as he gesticulates wildly with a Happy Meal toy while lecturing at the dinner table on the topic of multicultural food staples - I'll write about that!"
It's sort of like not being able to smell your own farts. Or, rather, you smell them, but they don't seem so nasty when they're yours.
Ok, yeah, I'm going with the fart thing. That's exactly what our house is like.