I have had so much fun stuff going on that I want to share but I’ve just been too busy. But to summarize, in case you thought something might have changed: weekends are still awesome.
I wasn’t going to post project optimism today because, ugh, Monday, you’re killing me. Enough.
But in the end, husband Tom aka Saint Tom comes through with this photo and the text “project optimism?”
Remember that time I got a parking ticket? NYC actually accepted my not-guilty plea. Does that ever happen?
Thank you universe (and NYC Department of Taxation)! I needed a win today.
How was your Monday?
I was walking from Triple Crown, one of several bars around the Chelsea/Penn Station junction where the improv kids hang out. I was smiling, reflecting on the fun night I’d had at improv class, followed by the unique feeling of bonding over drinks with new friends.
And I got the feeling: someday I will miss this.
Ok, so remember like a month or so back when I had to “break night” for editing and I was pretty freaking proud of myself that I could still do it?
Well, the truth is that even though that experience was fun, I would have been happy not to see the inside of an editing room ever again. But apparently that’s not how writing/producing works.
(…and when I say “run”, I mean walk. Definitely walk.) Last Saturday, a couple friends and I did The Color Run NYC.
Last October, I attended the New York Television Festival as a viewer. My goal was to get a feel for the festival for possible entry next year, and try to do some networking.
The whole week, I watched comedy pilots, some brilliant and some not. But I didn’t talk to anyone at the screenings. It wasn’t until Friday night that I got up the nerve to introduce myself some show creators, who were so friendly and encouraging, that they gave me the courage to talk to more and more people.
I don’t want to incriminate myself but I guess there’s no other way to say this: thanks to the encouragement of my new friends, I ended up at a happy hour that I didn’t have a pass for (not the shock of a lifetime? I still feel guilty about it). A few drinks in, I decided to confess my illegitimate status to a couple of the festival’s organizers:
“I’m not supposed to be here, shhh,” I said, as I threw back a free Stella. They looked unamused, so naturally, I made sure they remembered my name. “Jill Pinnella Corso,” I repeated. “Remember my name, I’ll be here next year.”
“Things could be worse.” It seems to me that this is a cynical way of expressing an optimistic thought. I guess the better way to say it would be, “Count your blessings.”
This weekend, my bff Rachel came down to visit for my birthday. Friday night, she wanted to know what time we were getting up, showering, and leaving the house to go shopping on Saturday. I would usually find her scheduling and planning extremely odd, but I understood that it was her job to get me out of the house for my surprise party.