My Little Golden Book of Phobias

I watched a biopic of Beethoven and it was so heavenly because it was full of MUSIC, concertos and symphonies and choral works and string quartets and talking heads talking about his failed love affairs and his bad health and his hearing and Vienna and on and on. His scores were scribbled and crossed out and splotted with ink. The piece he wrote for Napoleon had a big hole in it where he crossed out Napoleon's name after Napoleon decided to be king of the universe. I had to go listen to the 5th again because it brings me to my knees.

Beethoven's hand span was super-human. His piano works are practically impossible for me. My wee hands. Good for midwifery, not so much at the piano.

Last night I dreamt I forgot to feed the chickens. I picked one up and she felt so scrawny. I felt terrible, and tormented. How could I be so forgetful and careless?

Then I woke up in a panic. Then I remembered we don't have chickens.

Oh.

But tonight we looked at chicken coop plans. By the way, if you want to bring your favorite chicken into the house because you can't bear leaving her outside, there are 'chicken panties' for her to, um, poop and pee it.

Really. As Deb said, "Why was I born on this planet, what did I do?"