If apes can do sign language...

...then certainly we can solve this looming problem.

Having toilets that flush automatically is an astounding privilege, and you are abusing it. It's as if we take for granted that we have usable hands or some shit. Since the beginning of the automatic toilet's creation, I have seen hundreds, thousands, probably millions of public bowls sullied with yellow-brown water, wads of toilet paper, menstrual blood, you name it. Often times I give the pissers, shitters, and menstruators before me the benefit of the doubt and assume, "That thing must be broken."

There are signs behind most of these toilets next to buttons that read "Press to flush." I always give the button the old college try because I do not care to add my urine to the existing muck so someone else can gaze upon all those natural colors. Nine times out of ten, the waste flushes down to where it needs to be--out of fucking sight. Am I the only person who can read these signs? No. You are just lazy and nasty

People of Earth who use public restrooms, I implore you! You are not kings and queens. I know this because monarchs do not frequent toilets at stadiums and airports. If they did they would probably have an assistant accompany them in order to take care of Royal Flush anyway. (You're welcome.) If the automatic mechanism does not work you should have the damn decency to flush the fucking commode.

Let me put it this way. If you walked up to an automatic door that did not open upon your arrival, would you not shop at that grocery store? Would you just stand there like the little dog from that episode of Two Stupid Dogs I loved so much? No. You'd push. It takes more manpower to push open a door than it does to push the tiny button on these new-fangled toilets that aren't so much a novelty in this day and age as they are an expectation. Button pushing is satisfying as hell! We push buttons repeatedly throughout the day while sitting at computers or communicating via text. We love pushing buttons. Think of it as a game. Think back to when you were potty training and you loved to watch your business spiral into what seemed like an alternate universe. Better yet, think of your fellow man, the person who has to come into the stall behind you. That person could be me, and I do not care to view your fecal matter.

So remember- if you piss or shit in town and the automatic flush don't come 'round, flush it down.

Life is a cancer. A wonderful, glorious cancer.

I will begin this post by stating that I am fine. I am going to be okay. Typically, I am opposed to sharing something so personal via the web unless, of course, it's hilarious. Inspiration struck about an hour ago and, though you may be reading this after several days have passed and I've begun to regret the decision to be so open, I promise to leave this posted because it is important information.

Cancer is a terrifying thing and, even though I've known people to die from and overcome it, I have never thought about it beyond the scope of its mere existence. As a young buck (Actually, I suppose I'm a doe.) no one imagines they'll have to seek an answer to that dreaded question- Is it cancer? The term "cancer scare" now has a whole new meaning to me.

Luckily, when I discovered my body's latest...uh...development, I was a week away from an already scheduled appointment. I spent one agonizing weekend worrying that I could be knocking on death's door. After that appointment, where I was told I was not allowed to worry or stress which did not work, I was referred to Stroger hospital. As a newly insured American citizen, I did not have a regular doctor to see and all recommended physicians had mile-long waiting lists.

Another agonizing couple of days. A trip to the ER because, apparently, that's how you start things at Stroger. Initially, I was told that my insurance would not cover the cost of the ER visit to which I responded, "You mean I have to pay out the ass and jump through hoops to find out I'm not dying of cancer?" I don't know if it was my talent for being extremely blunt when I am scared or the tears I shed that won over the administrator's heart, but she personally walked down to Stroger's financial services office to make certain I was covered. I was. Considering I would have left without treatment had I not been, I am grateful for this woman and glad that I terrified her.

Hours later, I was sitting on a cold table in the emergency room, my heart pounding out of my chest, the nurse asks, "What brings you in today?"

"Um. I found something. In my breast. I want to make sure it's not cancer."

My voice was shaky. I was timid. It was the first time I'd said it aloud to anyone while looking them in the face, and I wanted to handle this with discretion. (I'd handle it publicly later.) She made some notes on my chart, told me the doctor would be in shortly and, closing the door behind her as she exited, shouted, "IT'S HER BREAST!" So much for being discrete. The doctor came in, felt of the thing, said, "Yep," and scheduled me for another appointment. More worry. More stress. Another appointment at a clinic that had clearly not been remodeled since the late 70's. Still no answers. This happened twice more before my favorite doctor throughout this entire process said, "I'm going to stick a needle in this."

These words should have terrified me but, on the contrary, they gave me a bit of relief. Not to go into too much detail but sticking a needle into this sucker could tell her whether or not it was a cyst or something much more sinister. Favorite doctor (Should have learned her name)set up an appointment for an ultrasound, which meant there would be more waiting. The thing I had was indeed a cyst but, as she put it creepily, "There could be something lurking behind it." I was given my choice of bandaid- "Barbie, peace sign, princess frog, or Disney princesses?" - for the spot on my ta-ta where I'd been pierced with a needle. Wasn't this a place for, I don't know, adults?

"Uh...peace sign?"

Upon seeing my psychedelic bandage, I contemplated doing a ton of flashing that day, but I didn't.

For the ultrasound appointment one month later, I sat in a mammography clinic full of women where the receptionist used always gross to hear, "Ma'am?" whenever she needed anyone's attention. Because, when you're in a room full of thirty women, that's the easiest way to single out a specific individual. I kept telling myself to find the comedy in this situation, so I was grateful this woman existed and that her method was so piss poor. I sat in my chair and played with my new, pink breast cancer awareness pen until my name was called. Worry.

I saw the ultrasound tech. She asked if I'd ever had an ultrasound before and, after a game of "Who's on first?" we both understood that I had not. She spread the goop on me and looked at the cloudy abyss that is the inside of my body. It occurred to me how I'd always imagined my first ultrasound. I never thought I would be nervous about it. Happy would have been more like it. I kept hoping she would say, "It's not cancer, Casey. You're just pregnant...in your boob." I don't particularly want a baby at this stage in life, but at least I'd know what to do with one. How do you nurture a cancer? Instead of giving me any feedback, however, she said, "You'll have to see the doctor. He'll be here in about thirty minutes. Please get dressed and go back out to the waiting room." Great. Another half an hour of waiting, more goop, and finally! The ultrasound confirmed that Favorite Doctor was correct. This was a cyst and, most importantly, it was not sinister and there was nothing lurking beyond it. I didn't have cancer. A weight was lifted from my shoulders.

I've been to Stroger once since the ultrasound for a follow up. I will have to go back in six months just to make sure everything is okay. In the past four months, I have had about ten medical appointments. There's a reason why I am eager to see the end of this year. I'm tired of cold exam tables and paper gowns. All things considered, I am grateful for those appointments because they gave me peace of mind and put the rest of my year into perspective. In the past twelve months I have:

-Written, co-produced and performed in my own one-person show
-Attempted and survived stand-up comedy many times
-Been a storyteller
-Said goodbye to one great roommate and friend but gained a new great roommate in a two week span
-Started work on two other plays as well as mapped out plans for a sketch revue
-Started a brand new job at Second City- a place I've loved and worshiped since way before I knew I would make Chicago my home

Everything I experienced this year caused me stress and worry. My first thought when I found this thing was that everything had been a waste. Of course I'd get cancer after a couple of months of finally feeling settled and fulfilled. Why wouldn't I? And how great of me to be a worrier all my life? I had ruined perfectly good days of living by being freaked out that my shoes were dirty, or my mom had a headache, or my windshield wipers needed to be replaced. Now, here I was, at the potential end of my life, and I would fret about what was killing me. A few weeks into the process, I realized that stress and worry were in fact my strongest motivators, because they kept me going back for answers. I had to make certain I was well, to eliminate that stress because I still had work to do. Fun to have. Stress to manage. Things to make and other stupid shit to worry about.

Thinking you could have cancer makes you appreciate the following:

*Production schedules
*Comedy
*Theatre
*Music
*Friends who sit with you in the ER and buy you giant Hello Kitty dolls
*Moms, grandmothers, aunts, and best friends who listen as you cry into the phone and offer words of encouragement
*Roommates who make you laugh and make you food
*Boyfriends who know the importance of wine and strong shoulders
*Love, as gross as it is
*Planned Parenthood
*Gchat
*Fucking Lifetime movies
*Harry Potter, especially those last two movies. Glad I lived to see those!
*Work, but not too much work
*Sitting on the stoop watching your neighbors interact with their dogs and children
*Beer
*Fat cats
*Peace sign bandaids
*Text messages from my dad about weird last names he heard
*Slamming my thumb in a car door
*This pad thai that I am currently eating
*Trips to New York
*and football

I'm just kidding about that last one, but I think that's a pretty stellar list. I used to believe that I would be famous by now. I thought I would be selling out shows on Broadway, starring in major motion pictures, creating brilliant art that spoke to the world, and/or publishing novels that set the world on fire. I haven't done any of those things. At the end of the day, I am just a lady who does regular stuff and makes things she hopes people will like. I'm not saying I'll never stress over little things or where my life is headed. I believe I can attribute 80% of my personality to the presence of stress in my life and how I handle it. (I deal with it like a crazy person, by the way.) Most importantly, though, stress means I'm alive. It means I have a life. Even if I'm not where I thought I would be, I am someplace good even if I don't always remember that.

I guess what I'm trying to say is I'm glad I'm not dying? Not at an accelerated speed anyway. I have a new understanding and respect for those who have lived with cancer. I get it. The fear is palpable even if you don't have it. Getting yourself checked is important, ladies. Peace of mind is everything! I am incredibly lucky to be out of the woods and surrounded by supportive people. Instead of worrying about my day-to-day stress, I'm going to embrace it and then move past it. You'll probably hear me bitch a lot. Just remind me in times like that, friends, that I am not sick, it's just a bad day. Also, remind me that I once had a ten-day vacation...which I should be packing for at this very moment instead of writing this. Fuck.

The Muppets. I mean, come on, guys! So good!

As a child of the 80's, I expected to like this movie. I did not, however, expect to fall in love with it.

The script is perfect. There was probably no better way to reintroduce the world to the beloved Muppets than by calling out the fact that we seem to have forgotten about their brilliance over the past couple of decades. I've been saying it for years, and I appreciate this movie for saying it as well: Today's idea of entertainment for children is watered down, idiotic, and probably turning our future leaders into morons. These are the people who will be taking care of you when you're old. Treat children with respect. They're smart. Also, it wouldn't kill you to write family films that (Here's a novel idea!) the entire family can actually enjoy, would it? Clearly, according to what I saw this weekend, it can be done. I'm an adult, but I laughed and cried my way through this entire movie and plan on seeing it again. My best friend's 3 year old son, also a fan. I'm sure my grandmother would enjoy it as well. I know my parents would! So...there's that.

The music killed me. The direction was stellar. Why? Because two of the people responsible for the Flight of the Conchords success had their hands all up in this thing. James Bobin and Bret McKenzie, take a bow.

Jason Segel, what can I say? I love you. I love you to pieces, and you should be proud. (He's not really reading this, but this is what I would say to him if he walked into the room right now. Chill out.) What better person to bring back our old friends? This project came from a genuine place of fandom which is probably why I can't say a bad thing about the film. It made me happy as hell. This proud member of the Muppets generation thanks you, and you've found a forever fan in me.

And, to our newest Muppet, Walter: Welcome! No cousin Oliver/Scrappy Doo syndrome here. Thank sweet shit for that. Walter is just as delightful, charming, and lovable as Kermit, Fozzie, Beaker, Animal, Miss Piggy, the Swedish Chef, Janice, Gonzo, Sweetums...do you get where I'm going with this?

Today's brilliance.

Sometimes comedy writes itself, and sometimes Perez Hilton inadvertently writes it for you.

This is not real.

Are you kidding me? Facebook users actually believe that a surgeon sat down with a family and said, "Your son is in need of a heart transplant. The surgery will cost you upwards of one hundred and forty-five thousand dollars. But, hold on! Don't cry, Mrs. Waters. Have I got a deal for you! If you act now and take a sad photo of your child hooked up to life support and post it on Facebook, and if one hundred people share that picture, I'll do the surgery for free. I'm just that nice of a guy. Whadya say?! One hundred shares. That's all I'm asking. That's less than the dollar amount. I really need this to happen. I love Facebook sharing. It's my drug. Make it happen."

Bullshit.

Why should you respect your techie or stage manager?

Think about it. They don't get a bow. They do not get reviewed. They do not receive applause. Rarely will the average audience member or critic rave about the props, the set, the lighting, or the sound. A technician's job is often thankless and, this may cause a few pairs of undies to bunch, some may argue they even work harder than you do, dear actors. Yes, that's right. There is a reason why it is easier to find a paid stage manager than a wealthy performer in Chicago. There is a reason why you point to the booth during the curtain call. It isn't to stave off some old superstition.It is to direct the audience's attention to the person behind the glass, the man behind the curtain. A long time ago, some person (perhaps it was a director) had the brilliant idea to make it customary because actors, while basking in the glow of audience affection or the stage lighting that makes them look oh, so pretty, would most likely forget to do so. The performer who does not appreciate and thank his or her technicians (And understudies, dammit! Even talented people get explosive diarrhea at inopportune moments.) deserve a literal leg break.

Do not disrespect those who are in a position to truly at the helm of your little show. And, by the way, to ignore is to disrespect. You may receive most of the glory, but the show is in your technicians' hands. Your stage managers should be considered gods. They have the power the cut the lights at any time. Perhaps when you're exiting down a flight of stairs...

Think about it, pretty assholes.

On a very special episode of CSI...

I call this photo 'Make Out Point' or...'Where the Body Was Found'