The Roommate exclaimed to me this evening rather excitedly about something having to do with goats yelling. I had been spending my precious and highly sought-after free time in watching a youtube video featuring a miniature frog squeak, but the goats sounded intriguing. So I looked them up.
My mother has implied, and will probably deny ever saying, that I have so shrunk my attention span that my deep love of youtube is only fitting because I can’t attend for much longer than three minutes, anyway. I believe this to be a false statement, and I have proof to defend myself as well: my attention span for scrolling through Facebook is unending, and I can while away quite a time on Pinterest, when given the opportunity. So you see.
So I watched this video. And sure enough, these goats yell like humans, which was highly entertaining, but this youtube clip is more than three minutes long and goats aren’t Facebook, I lasted 47 seconds before moving on with my life.
But we’re learning about short-term memory and long-term memory and how events pass from one to the other, and I must have encoded goats properly because I got into bed to write this post and thoughts of Paris lead to pictures of Paris and look what I remembered! The closest I have ever come to kissing a goat. And I really was thinking about it, too.
In other news which has nothing to do with goats, Paris, or The Roommate, which I suppose fits neatly under the category of Evidence for The Mother’s Argument Against My Attention Span and For My Literary ADD, our dear friends of many, many years are in China at this moment, finalizing the adoption of their baby girl. I have subjected too many people to my exclamations of excitement over this whole event, because:
1) I like babies.
2) I like adoption.
3) This particular child is remarkably cute, and I’ve pored over every picture the family has posted on any social media I can get my hands on. Truly. I’ve never checked Instagram so frequently in my life. But heaven forbid a new picture of Madeleine or her sister Miranda appear on Instagram and I not become immediately aware of it.
Also, such social media stalking fits well into my schedule because I only ever do anything in increments of 2.7 minutes. So I’ve got time.
But adoption. Oh man, I tell ya. I found myself mildly in trouble for my bold statement last week that I was going to marry a Spanish-speaking man. Indeed I was rather assertive in that claim, especially since the ins and outs of my (utterly nonexistent) romantic life hardly ever appear here. But I figured at the very least, when I marry a completely non-Spanish man, you can return to that post and laugh and shake your head at my folly, and then my boldness will have served at least to entertain you. So that’s a plus.
I wrote about this hypothetical man once, and I’m writing about him again, right here, right now, to say that the man I marry must by necessity have an open mind and heart towards adoption because Hello! There are children out there without families! Children without what they need to survive! Adoption is a huge deal people- just ask my sisters.
It would appear that we’ve moved from goats to adoption to future husbands, and I’ve really no good way to end this post, other than presenting you with this, our very own Awkward Family Photo, taken during the same Not-Goat-Kissing trip to Paris in 2011.