Ho ho, hee hee, ha ha...

Well, I finally pushed the button. Yanked the cord. Pulled the pin. Flipped ze svitch. Broke the glass. Dropped the bomb. Shot the Turk. Swallowed the pill. Blew the hatch. Jumped the shark. Crossed the streams. Snatched the idol. Popped the cork. Called the squeeze. Served the nuts. Tried the shrimp. Smelled the glove.

I quit my job on Friday, just a few months shy of the seven-year mark. For the last six months, this has been a not-if-but-when question (note the approximate age of this site, which I cobbled together during a particularly cathartic screw-you-guys-I'm-going-home moment last fall — this whole thing was originally intended to serve as a creative outlet should I become suddenly unemployed, and now, at last, it shall meet its dessssssstiny).

Truth is, it was a bittersweet decision to make, because I do very much like the people I work with. It's the work itself that has gone sour, and last week the confluence of incoming and outgoing projects came to a point where the gettin' was as good as the gettin' gets. Plus of course, we're sitting on the cusp of summer, baseball's just getting started, I have a stack of books at home demanding attention, a to-see film list a mile long... add it all up, it spells q-u-i-t-t-i-n-t-i-m-e.

I'm still feeling the aftereffects of the anxiety attack that accompanies walking away from a perfectly spendable paycheck. But those knots are already subsiding, and the anticipation of open seas ahead is making me downright giddy. I'm whistling a lot. Smiling entirely too much. People at work are starting to loathe me, I fear.

No immediate plans to hit the streets in search of a new gig. I have a lot of writing to tackle first. A lot of day games to see. A lot of dog-walking to do. And I should at least give cabin fever half a chance to set in and do its work (right, Brooke?).

I distinctly remember, oh so long ago, referring to August 23, 1999 as the Mother of All Mondays — which by projection and extrapolation means May 5, 2006 will be the Father of All Fridays.

And it bears committing to print here that none of this would be possible if Maus wasn't the greatest wife and the most supportive partner on Dog's Green Earth. A drunkard's dream if I ever did see one.

Break out the sweatpants and the canned beer — it's slothin' time!