My husband and I married when we were very young. We married so young not only because we were madly in lust love with one another, but after already birthing one baby and being five months pregnant with the next, my father was polishing his shotgun and starting to use Boo’s picture for target practice.

Dad has deadly aim, so we figured (in the name of safety sake and Boo’s preservation) we should probably make things legal. Besides, I couldn’t find a nunnery that would take a horny 20 year old with an eight month old baby and one on the way.

So we stood up before God and our friends and family and pleaded for mercy. Er, said our vows. At the end of the ceremony, before we were pronounced man and wife, I asked my dad to finally put away his loaded shotgun. He complied but only before Boo’s brother and my brother wrestled it out of his hands.

True story.

Because we married so young we didn’t have a proverbial pot to piss in. We were dirt poor. At the time, I was the main bread earner because, well, I looked so good in pants. Never did I imagine I would be a stay at home wife, kept in the comfort provided off the earnings of my hard working husband as I spent my days loafing and surfing for internet porn.

How far we have come.

We struggled with early parenthood, being relative children ourselves, and finding our way in this cruel hard world we live in. Along the way we developed a deep and abiding love and respect for each other. But only when I wasn’t screaming at him for forgetting to put the toilet seat down.

It was a tough road to travel. Several times we teetered on the brink of losing it all and each other, yet we always muddled through and found our way back to marital bliss and financial stability. Turns out, we both hate being poor and that motivated us to make smart choices and become financially responsible.

Early on, after we almost lost our home and were staring homelessness in the face, we made a promise to one another to never spend more than a hundred dollars with out running it past the other person. Groceries and bills were the exception to this rule, but everything else had to be cleared with our partner.

Such draconian efforts literally pulled our arses from the fire. We slowly became stable with our income, paid off our debts and now we are actually solvent. It is a wonderful feeling knowing in a matter of five years we will be completely financially independent.

But we still adhere to our one hundred dollar rule. Or rather, Boo does. I occasionally slip. I mean, I’m at home, by myself most days of the month and other than parenting, what else do I have to do other than surf the net than shop? Ha , ha.

This tends to annoy Boo, but because I’m such a wonderful wife, (stop laughing) he often forgives me.

Until yesterday. When he discovered that I broke the rules and bought furniture without even telling him. I know. BAD Tanis. Bad wife. Bad. I ought to be ashamed.

Oddly enough, I’m not. Cuz my new furniture is soooo purdee. The thing is, the furniture had to be delivered because I drive a station wagon and can’t fit a four-poster bed and matching dresser in the back of my car no matter how hard I try.

I figured once Boo came home from work and saw our new lovely bedroom he would be more forgiving once I waggled my eyes, patted the mattress and offered to christen our new home furnishings with him. Sex usually helps, I find, for all of you who haven’t figured that out just yet. It’s why I keep knee pads in the side table. I’m often asking for forgiveness.

The delivery truck was supposed to come on Wednesday but due to a mechanical problem, it was rescheduled for Thursday. I sat around my house, twiddling my thumbs and looking out the window waiting for a large truck to pull up into my drive way until it got dark.

Still no furniture. I called the store and they promised me the furniture was on the way, they were just running behind. They would be at my house no later than 8 p.m. Weird, I mean, who delivers furniture at night, but hell, as long as I’m getting my new bed, I’ll be a happy girl.

The clock was ticking. It now became a race to see who came home first. My bed or my husband. My ass would be grass if my husband came home to find no bed since I had disassembled our old one and tossed it out on the deck. My visions of a romantic reunion on fancy new furniture were disappearing with every hour that past. I was starting to imagine the spanking I would receive and not the sexy type if you know what I mean.

Finally, at MIDNIGHT my furniture arrived. I live out in the middle of nowhere, in the dark and I’m a woman alone with kids sleeping in their beds. It was like a nightmare come true. Strange, creepy delivery men knocking at my door in the middle of the night. Common sense told me to send their asses home and tell them to come back when it’s light out, but then common sense doesn’t have a husband currently en route and unaware of the drama unfolding in his domain.

Granted, the delivery men were more interested in setting up my bed and getting the hell out of dodge than they were in raping and pillaging me, but still. I was more than mildy annoyed. The obscene amount of money I spent on this fancy furniture should at least guarantee me the safety of a daytime delivery. By men who didn’t sport prison tattoos and look like they were looking for fresh meat.

So not only was I exhausted, but now I was freaked right the fack out. What the hell had I done? Furniture, no matter how lovely, is not worth this type of stress.

Thankfully, just as the men were loading the boxes into my home, my very confused husband pulled into the driveway. The man always did have exceptional timing. He was actually fairly calm, considering he just drove six hours to come home in the middle of the night to find two men alone in his bedroom with his wife.

Mind you, he did have a crow bar in his hand, so I guess that speaks volumes. By the time the four of us had set up the bed and dresser it was past TWO a.m.

We crawled into our fabulous new bed and I waggled my eyes suggestively for forgiveness and all my darling husband could say was “Rub my neck. You’ll pay for this later. I’m too damn tired right now.”

Such sweeter words I have never heard, I thought to myself as I yawned and proceeded to give him the neck rub of his life. It really is better to ask for forgiveness than it is to beg for permission, I thought to myself slyly as I worked at the knots in his back.

That is until he rolled over and looked at me and told me it’s a good thing I bought a poster bed. I could be expected to be chained to it for the duration of his stay at home.

Sigh. The price I have to pay for my slight financial indiscretions. It could have been worse, I suppose, he could have demanded I bring out the ole knee pads.

***Side note: Is it me, or do I have a right to be fraking mad about receiving a large furniture delivery at midnight? Is this usual? I never buy furniture so the delivery time took me by surprise. And for all of you wondering, I bought the furniture through ASHLEY furniture. It’s beautiful, but after only getting five hours of sleep and the stress I endured waiting for the delivery, I’m not sure I would do it again. Thank God my husband came home when he did. But should I rip a strip off some unsuspecting manager’s ass? What would you do?***