My name is Liz. I need direction. I overuse commas, my house is a mess, my hair needs a trim and I have no marketable skills: It's fun here, you'll see!

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September 11th, 2009


Last night, at a party,  I was offered executive producer credit on an independent film and didn’t take the gig. I don’t think it was a legitimate job offer, but all the same, please don’t tell the Unemployment people. What happened was this:

I’m not much of a “networker,” so I had spent most of the night in silence, except for a number of enthusiastic, “Yes, thank you’s” when offered any hors d’oeuvres. After my sixteenth crab cake, I decided to try a mini-cheeseburger. I misjudged both the size of my oral cavity and the moisture content of the burger and as a result found myself retreating to the corner of a well-landscaped patio to chew my dry appetizer in private.

Just as I was swallowing the meaty bolus, a man approached me. “Hi!” I said. He replied with a loud, moist cough and a grunt. Then: “Jesus, I’m tired.”

“Yeah. It’s getting kind of late,” I said, nearly puncturing my right kidney on an aloe plant as I tried to back away. After exchanging the usual “Getting To Know You” drivel, the man informed me that he’d written a movie and was trying to get it made. “You could be executive producer on it,” he offered.

My BS meter was going haywire, so I cautiously asked him what he meant. It seems he wasn’t technically lying. I could be executive producer on his movie… IF I could either a) help him find the $1.3 million he needed to make it, or  b) give it to an A-list celebrity who would want to play the lead part. “Oh, I don’t know,” I wanted to say. “I’m not really as tight with Sir Ben Kingsley as I used to be.”

Instead, I thanked him for the opportunity and politely let him know that he creeped me out and I would already have run away from him, but I was being held in place by a very sharp succulent.

Nah, I didn’t say that either. What I really said was, “Unfortunately, I mostly know TV people. No one who focuses on movies, but good luck.” Then I smiled and waited for him to say something while I swept pickle chunks out of my molars with my tongue. After about 45 seconds of silence, he scratched his right nostril and told me he was going home. “Nice to meet you!” I called after him, extracting myself from the plants.

These kinds of parties always have their share of awkward moments, but as long as they keep serving tiny crab cakes, I’m going to keep accepting invitations.

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