In the dead of night, Roy sat bolt upright and rasped, “Oy, farkakt!”

As he leapt from the bed Miriam managed to mumble, “Herm, wha-hazzah? Roy, what in the world?!” Her husband was hastily pulling back the flowered curtains from the white board kept in the room. He had wanted something there to jot down late night inspiration; she had wanted to make it a better fit with the decor.

“I figured it out! It came to me in a dream, like…”

“Do not invoke any of the prophets in relation to your schvartse hobby!” Her ire was raised less by the potential sacrilege and more by being awoken once again in the middle of the night. She fumed while he scribbled furiously.

“If I’m right, and I’m sure I am this time, I could be making progress by the end of the week!”

Miriam rolled over with a huff, “After you mow the lawn and run the incinerator, then you can make your progress. Epes a meshuga.”

He said something akin to, “Yes, dear,” and mouthed something less worthy of mention as he finished his scrawl.