A Day in the Life of a Viking Wife [Comedy Open Mic- Round 9]

“Wake me before you go to work,” I said, knowing full-well I’d be licking the crack of dawn when he did.

He groaned acknowledgement of my plea for morning masochism. We don’t need words to communicate. As hermit asocials, we keep to our cave and thus reverted to Neanderthal speech. It works wonders. Never had a fight. Impossible to do so without talking.

The silent treatment, you say? Oh, you mean sleep. That does cause fights with the spawn when they won’t cooperate. But how do we get things done like that? We do speak sometimes. Well, it goes something like this:

“I made last time. It’s your turn now.”

“No, no. I made twice before, so it your turn.”

And that’s how coffee gets made when both of us are awake.

Not talking doesn’t get in the way of conjugal privileges, either. Another reason to incorporate caveman speech. Of course, he’d get more often if he didn’t curse it. Can’t blame me. He often complained there was too much and he needed rest—to just chill it with the drive. Well, his wish came true. Now with wonky hormones from the last pregnancy, he gets all the rest he wanted back then. Not my fault. Be careful of what you wish for.

Of course, that doesn’t stop the random grope in hopes of near-future conjugal. Often, it works. Caveman language is keeping the flame alive. A grope here, a groan there. A moan in compliance and a huff of gratitude. Who needs words? That’s sexy. Helps when the thoughts mimic the speech. No over-thinking or distraction getting in the way of conjugal end.

What’s a shield-not-so-maiden to do when her drunken viking wants adventure? But he wasn’t listening. So now I missed seeing dawn’s mooning of the night and wake in my usual groggy nature to slug out of bed after another night of chemical insomnia brought on by last night’s conjugal. The day awaits. Haste it, because sleep is desired.

Cater to the younger spawn, deal with his literal shit, feed him, and keep him alive a time longer until it repeats tomorrow. Haste the day, haste this bloody day!

Words come in handy at times, however. Well, they would if he would keep the hands out of it and use his mouth instead. But then I wouldn’t be able to decipher what he’s saying. Who needs words in any way?

For humour, I guess. Drunken vikings are rather funny. Their beards tickle when they speak. Not that I’m listening. Can’t do two things at once, unlike he can. I need that superpower in my life.

So he returns from adventure, the sweat stenching up my nostrils. Smells of cookies. No idea why. Just wish he’d save some for me. Cookies aside and the pants down, I huff. He groans.

“You didn’t wake me.”

He moans.

“Oh, you did? Don’t remember that.”

Another groan as he takes his place in his spot.

“Well, then wake me when you wake tomorrow,” I say as I ponder on the salty crack of dawn again.

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