Josh left for boot camp today. And not a week long intensive workout routine designed to slim your hips and thighs. Actual boot camp. Basic training for the Air National Guard, which is like the Airforce, but slightly less serious, depending on who you ask. First of all, boot camp isn't for husbands. It's for 18 year olds who have no idea how to be grown ups or shoot a gun. At boot camp, unless you join the navy, you learn both of those, (if you join the navy you don't get to shoot cool guns at basic) partially. Full fledged husbands with kids and wives and jobs and a lot of dogs shouldn't be going off willy-nilly to boot camp to learn how to Properly Fold Shirts. He will be gone 8 weeks, which means 8 weeks of husbandlessness for me, which May or May Not correlate to two months of poor dietary choices and a lot of pouting. Day one of no Josh and the kids all opted to go to their dad's house for the night, which I am taking as a bad omen.
In salute to Josh's 8 week sufferage, I am dedicating myself to the complete antithesis of boot camp, to restore balance to the universe that is Liv & Josh. I got off to a roaring start tonight by turning every light in the house on and leaving them. Then I ate most of a box of Count Chocula for dinner, and only relented when the roof of my mouth was torn off. I put on my least matching sweatpants and dropped a couple Hundo on Target's website, which gives me free shipping for being So Awesome, and also one of their best patrons. I finally turned off the kitchen light so that I couldn't see the dishes that I refuse to do, and I will probably not brush my teeth before bed. Sometimes I can't remember if I am rebelling against boot camp or Josh himself, but I think maybe he will fit in there just fine, which worries me that he might bring home some new household-running ideas. All the more reason to be wantonly irresponsible before he gets back. Maybe I'll even take a shower until the hot water runs out.
