While I was surprised, I can’t say I was completely shocked as, in this position and the one I held before it, I’d watched my colleagues randomly terminated in the name of streamlining and “increased productivity.” (Huh?)

The funny thing is this: Recently a few friends had asked me how work was going and I responded by saying things seemed to be “OK,” “Pretty status quo,” and the ironic “Haven’t had any lay-offs lately!” Guess I spoke too soon.

Just weeks shy of my three-year anniversary at the job that when my husband and I were simultaneously out of work, four colleagues and I were dismissed amid yet another “restructuring.”

I was sitting at my dining room table just before noon, working and considering what I might have for lunch when I received the news that my services were no longer required — which, let me tell you, is a total appetite suppressant. No desire to fix a fancy salad after being told you’re completely expendable!

When I heard my editor (shouting through her speaker phone) announce that she had the HR rep in the room with her and needed to have a “difficult conversation” with me, I’m not gonna lie, crazy thoughts flew threw my head. I’d just been in the office on Tuesday. Was I caught on camera taking too many Starbursts and mini-Snickers from the lobby-based community candy bowl? Then it dawned on me: They’re letting me go! My heart rate quickened as I listened and heard the euphemistic equivalent of “You’re being replaced by an unpaid intern.”

I know (or at least my mother tells me) my first thoughts should’ve been rage followed by sorrow but really all I felt was free. Like when the boyfriend you keep meaning to break up with does the dirty work for you. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled to have this job with health benefits and a paid vacation, but I knew I was never going to be moving up, and all my days were becoming a blur of spewing out a variation on the same thing you could find 400 other places.

Just the other day I was asked to participate in a Facebook Live event in which I was forced to wear — and demo — a dunk hat. Even my husband, when I showed him the photos, said, “Wow, this seems like , doesn’t it?” Um, yes. Yes, it does.

I feel like in many ways I needed this. Even as my former editor and the HR rep were telling me they’d box up my belongings and ship them, like the mindless drone I’d become, I was adding a photo credit and saving the post I was in the middle of writing. Thankfully, my inner voice of reason piped up and said, “Sweet Jesus, Liz, you’ve just been sacked. Let someone else finish this slideshow, you big dummy!”

I was on multi-tasking auto-pilot. I needed a break. Exhibit A: I just tried to call a dentist using my TV remote. I’m tired. Bone tired. I’ve been freelancing on the side since I accidentally bought a r. I have to take a minute and collect myself.

Also, the timing of this is pretty great. Early June? A gal could do a lot worse. As I wandered from room to room yesterday afternoon processing the news, it occurred to me that last summer I spent about two hours at the beach. Maybe even less because it was a windy day and my son (14 at the time) was struck by an flying umbrella. While I would maintain that he was gently grazed, he carried on as if he’d been run over by a Zamboni or trampled by all the bulls in Pamplona. And we needed to leave. Immediately.

In addition to enjoying sand and sea, this will give me more time to find the perfect Halloween costume for our cat. And look how excited he is about that.

I’ll be able to give my children my undivided attention this summer when they tell me how .

I can finally return the peasant blouses I keep ordering that make me look like a poor man’s Frida Kahlo.

In other words, I’ve got big plans.

But before I cue up George Michael’s ‘Freedom’ and dance around like a Risky Business-era Tom Cruise, there’s real life to think about. Of course, I’m going to have to begin the dreaded job search again and .

Luckily, I have great friends who routinely send me links to job openings. I still have all my freelance work. And let’s not forget my . But, without getting into the whole disaster that is our nation’s healthcare system, it’s still pretty frightening.

Earlier in the week, the 15-year-old car my husband drives to work wouldn’t start. It owes us nothing, yet we’re trying to save it to pass it on to our soon-to-be driving teen. I may need to score a Xanax before I pick it up because, in addition to the battery, it needs all new tires, a taillight, and some other thing my husband couldn’t quite explain but inferred would be both crucial and pricey.

Our trusty mechanic, however, found out that the battery was actually still under warranty.

“How?” I asked. Who knows?

But I’m taking this as a sign that things are never as bad as they initially seem. Sometimes you do catch an unexpected break just when you need it most.

Nautical terms + Business = You’re Sunk

One’s employment begins to feel rather tenuous as soon as the higher-ups start ship-talkin’. While that might look like a typo, what I’m referencing is the rampant use of nautical clichés to gently insinuate that your company, or in the case of these metaphors, your ship, may be sinking.

As I’ve mentioned, there have been multiple recently and while that’s never fun, what’s even more disconcerting is the way it’s been addressed.

Several people, independent of each other, have attempted to buoy our spirits by employing all sorts of seafaring jargon, as in: “We’re going to right this ship!” Or, “So-and-so has been chosen to steer us back on course!” And then there’s the, “We’re embarking on a new direction and hopefully it’ll be smooth sailing going forward!” I’ve heard this lingo before — at my last job — and the “new directions” ended up having the same effect as rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

As much as these captains of industry would like you to believe you’re aboard a state-of-the-art Cunard, what they’re basically saying is “Ahoy, Mateys, we’re capsizing!” and you’re actually on the starboard side of the corporate equivalent of the Costa Concordia or the S.S. Minnow (that’s a Gilligan’s Island reference for anyone under 40).

Since I’ve flailed about in these choppy waters before, I can’t help but wonder if we’ll all be setting sail for the unemployment office before too long. (Don’t mind the panting, that’s just me inflating my life raft.)

To that end, I feel like I must keep all options open. So, last month, when a friend and former colleague of mine reached out to ask if I’d be interested in doing some food site and app, I said, “Definitely!” After submitting a sample blog, I didn’t hear anything for a while. Then, when I did, “Jane” said they were out of cash and not hiring at the moment …. but … an influx of capital was expected any day and when it arrived, she’d be calling.

Fast forward two weeks — I was invited to come into the one-room office and off I went. It was great to see Jane, who told me the man I’d be speaking with — the founder — was taking an important call in the closet. When he emerged, he briefly debated what he’d like for lunch before telling me that if I joined their tiny workforce of 5, I’d quickly find that his management style was very much “throw the midget in the deep end.” Though he did acknowledge the inappropriateness of that phrase, that didn’t stop him from repeating it several more times before I left.

Now, I’m all for wacky sayings — I still laugh like a fourth grade boy each time my brother refers to someone who’s a downer (usually our dad) as “the turd in the punchbowl.” Still, I don’t know if talking about midgets and their possible drowning is the way to make a great first impression. If he’s comfortable saying this during our initial meeting, imagine what could follow?

Sure, the whole “sink or swim” idiom is overused, but c’mon now. I suppose one could find his brash honesty refreshing and a welcome change from the other water-related euphemisms I’ve encountered lately. And yet I can’t help but envision my inbox flooded with expletive-filled emails in which he compares my command of culinary terms to that of a “Jerry’s Kid.” Before I know it, I’ll be on the receiving end of racist tirades demanding the ethnic cleansing of our newsletter subscribers. He’ll follow that up by letting me know he feels I have the social media prowess of a one-armed octogenarian.

As I was still wondering if I should say something moderately shaming like, “Um, both my parents are midgets …” (somewhat believable given my 5'6"-and-shrinking stature), he shook my hand and welcomed me aboard.

You’d think this new opportunity would put some wind in my sails as any additional income keeps us afloat that much longer, but it hasn’t. All it’s done really is confirm that when it comes to business, aqua-infused conversations typically mean you’re sunk.