Stream Of Almost Consciousness

I tidied up two kitchen areas last night. Two out of many.
I have too many vases. Come and take some vases, honey. Come and take them away. 
I did not eat spanakopita. I cooked and ate an egg with vegetables in it and then some peanut butter. Nursery food and I was so tired I sat on the couch thinking, "Get up, go finish the laundry, do the dishes, get up, go let the dogs out, make tomorrow's coffee. Get up, go brush your teeth."
Finally, finally, I did all of those things and then I got in that bed and she and I partnered together to create luscious sleep, dreamy-good-dreams sleep. I had some sweet dreams with kisses and robes made of antique velvet and hen eggs, blue and green and brown.

When I got up it was so much warmer and the sky was clear blue and then I blinked and it was gray again, old mattress-stuffing gray. The color of a formerly-white pillowcase that a four-year old child has loved since birth. It is so much harder to fight through that sort of gray than it is to drift through the blue. I'm telling you. Trust me.

I'm going back to see Dr. V. today. "Have you done your exercises?" he will ask.
"Ummmm," I will say.
I don't feel like I was doing them right. They hurt. Then I started the bruising. Oh boy. I suck. He is so formal, this Dr. V. He told me last time to please wear shorts the next time. I guess to preserve my modesty. He is a PhD of body mechanics. Why is my skin something to cover up? I don't understand. I am fifty-eight years old. I have no modesty about such things. I wear substantial underpants. All of my shorts are of the men's cargo variety. They come to my knees and have pockets everywhere for CD players and batteries and gum and a phone, etc. How can he work around all that cloth, all those pockets? Perhaps he asks this because he is from another country, another culture, he is the color of bright coffee, I am the color of an old white person. And a woman. I don't know. I'm stressing out about this. My knees hurt. My hip feels better. I don't understand, though, how to walk from my shoulders, letting my feet fly over the ground. There is nothing flying about the way I walk now. There is no flight involved at all.

My dog is puking. Right now. As we speak.
$75. It would cost $75 to give my dog a sweet, gentle death.
I shouldn't think such things.
The poop I cleaned up this morning from the other dog was spread all over the hallway. It was the sort of poop that is almost cemented to the floor.
$75. I can't help but think these evil thoughts. These things.

Here's something I've been noticing lately and it bothers me: People are using the word "couple" with other words without "of" between them. Like, "I waited for a couple hours." Not "I waited for a couple of hours." Is it correct now to do this? I read it last night in a magazine I respect highly. This seems wrong to me but I'm seeing it everywhere. I don't like it and I don't usually give a shit about such things. Whatever. But still. I was thrilled to see on our dear Angella's blog today that she said..."in a couple of days." Thank you, Angella, for that tiny "of."

The wind is whirling the gray around. The day is whirling itself forward. I wish I had enough flowers to fill every vase in this house. I would set them around on every surface.
The wind is walking as if its feet were flying over the ground.
I take note.

Hello.