What an extraordinary sense of freedom I had this morning after quitting my job. No thought went into my decision. The President has taught me that too much thinking can lead to indecisiveness. After turning in my precious name tag, I said farewell to my co-workers and exited the downtown clinic for the final time.

My job was secure, but it left me unfulfilled like Chinese food. I felt an immense weight lifting off my shoulders while walking to the car, and I rode a wave of euphoria all the way home.

I was still basking in my new found freedom when I entered my house. My wife was in the bathroom, and I could hear the shower running.

After grabbing a Corona from the fridge, I flopped on the couch to watch some TV. Carlito's Way was just starting on HBO. Life was good.

I was an hour and four beers into the movie when Mary made her appearance from the bathroom. I often wonder what takes women so long to accomplish in that room. I can take care of business in twenty minutes, but Mary spends over an hour in there every morning. I could shave, shit, shower, masturbate, nod out from opiate indulgence, and come back to life in less time.

After thirty years of marriage, you would think that I would have given some thought to how my wife was going to respond to my early retirement. The details of life always elude me.

Mary seemed surprised to see me as she exited the bathroom. "You're home," she said flatly. "What happened?"

I gently placed my beer on the end table, and began to juggle answers in my head while watching Carlito threaten to kill Benny Blanco. I apprised her of the good news, but my wife's response was not very cordial.

"Are you out of your mind," she screamed. "What kind of idiot quits their job in the middle of a recession?"

That idiot would be me. By this time, my ebullient feeling is beginning to wane, but my quick response mechanism remains intact.

"George Bush says this is just an economic slowdown," I explained. "I still have a stimulus check coming."

"George Bush doesn't have these bills," she responded while pointing at the stack of unopened letters on the kitchen table. "How are you planning on paying those?"

Mary was starting to put a damper on my enthusiasm, and her tone of voice had taken on some elevation. I thought about asking her to bring me another beer, but my self preservation instinct kicked in. My mind was racing faster than my brother could run from Mr. Stimple, our seventh grade pedophile gym teacher.

"I could send Kenneth Copeland a thousand dollar check, and wait for my hundred fold return," I offered.

I didn't mean to pick on Kenneth Copeland. You could substitute the name of any TV word faith preacher who promises financial gain to the folks who will mail in their tithes. There's Frederick Price, Joyce Meyer, Benny Hinn, Creflo Dollar, (You gotta love that name) and many others. Their Prosperity Theology preys on the poorest people while they live extravagant lifestyles with private jets and huge homes. They make God an investment banker.

"What's wrong with you?" Mary screamed, shattering me from my reverie. She had managed to close in on my personal space, but wasn't blocking the TV as Carlito was being set up by his old friend Pachanga.

"You better have a plan to get out of this," she said.

Her eyes were starting to turn red at the corners, and her hands had found a solid resting place on her hips. I consider my wife the most beautiful woman in the world, and when she gets angry it turns me on like a freak at a parade. This is a paradox because making a black woman angry can be life threatening.

"After the movie is over, we should go to bed for a little while," I suggested. Sex is the solution to any problem unless it's fungal.

"Have you lost your mind," she bellowed, while poking an extremely attractive finger into my chest. Her eyes have closed to slits.

"How about going to the casino?" I asked, while trying to squeeze her breast. That was my final attempt to save the day.

She slapped my hand away. "You better find another job real quick," she said, and headed for the bedroom.

I wondered if there were any Benzos left in the kitchen drawer. I could have made some special tea and followed her to the bedroom, but sometimes you need to give a woman private time.

Carlito got shot at the train station, and I spent the afternoon on the computer at Careerbuilder.