I am alone in Arizona watching The List on TV. Something they have mentioned has caught my attention. I’ve gone from feeling disgusted with myself to feeling justified.
I have just learned that the manner in which I have been retrieving my morning coffee is referred to as Winnie the Poohing. [Urban Dictionary: Winnie the Poohing – The act of walking around with a t-shirt and nothing else on, like Winnie the Pooh].
Yes, I know the Urban Dictionary and not The Journal of American Medicine has legitimized my malady. But I feel better knowing there are other Poohs out there. I have my reasons for being half-dressed, both literally and figuratively.
Figuratively, I have no home. We’re living in one of our rent houses but we don’t even own the dishes there so it’s a push to call it “home”. I’m homeless. Rudderless. Pantless.
Plus, September happened.
In our house-cum-home, massive plumbing issues were revealed requiring us to tear up the master bathroom. We took in my mom’s dog who had injured her back. My mom came to stay with us one Saturday because she was not feeling quite herself and by Sunday she was in the hospital–she suffered two strokes (all better now!). The following Saturday our son got married. The next week my mom’s dog got attacked by a neighbor’s dog, our money manager informed us we were the victims of identity theft and I received a jury summons in the mail.
That, my friends, is what we southerners call a good old-fashioned bitch-slapping.
So, yes, judge if you must but my post-September medicine is to Winnie the Pooh for a week at our house in Arizona. I have been here for four days and I’m starting to smell. The Husband and Jersey Dog are on their way by car which means I have exactly seven hours before they arrive and expect me to get dressed and get back to living.