The 98% humorous musings of M. Lizabeth Currain

Tag: plastic surgery

TLC Sundays

And I’m not talking about T-boz, Left-eye, or Chili. This is strictly about The Learning Channel and their Sunday evening programming. I’ve had this blog floating around in my head for awhile and finally decided that it needed to be let out. When I say “a while” I’m not talking two weeks, I’m talking two years at least. Two years I’ve held this belief, and I’m finally sharing it with all three of you.

The Learning Channel, most commonly referred to as TLC, shows the weirdest, most depressing programming on Sunday evening. Seriously. It’s usually about people with birth defects, people who are severely over weight, people with odd conditions, etc. One time they had a show about David Reimer, called “Born a boy, Raised a Girl“, it was about how but they botched the circumcision at birth, so the doctors thought it would be best if he lived his life as a girl. That plan didn’t really work out as nicely as they thought it was going to. They sent him to therapy when (s)he was a child and the therapist pretty much molested him and his brother by making them touch each other. The therapist even brings in a trans to try and show how the situation is okay, but the girl always felt like a boy. Finally at whatever age, she gets to be a he, but ends up killing himself later on down the road. On Sunday Feb 8th, the line-up wasn’t as grim, but included The Pregnant Man , Mermaid Girl, and The Woman With Giant Legs.

We all know about the Pregnant Man–TLC was just reminding us. You don’t really want to get me started on this. I mean, yes, this is a step in the right direction for the acceptance of transgendered people and I believe that people should be allowed to live their lives how they want as long as it isn’t harmful to themselves or others…HOWEVER, this is not some miracle. This is a man who was biologically a female and kept those baby making parts, enabling him to have children. This is not a man who was biologically a man with man parts that squeezed a baby out of his peen. This is one reason that I am not so fascinated with the Pregnant Man.

Mermaid Girl–this one was depressing. This girl was born with her legs fused together, so that she sort of only has one leg and it looks like a mermaid tail. It’s hard for her to support her upper body and because she can’t be as active as she needs to be, she puts on weight easily. The surgery is dangerous because all of the nerves are tangled up and stuff. She’s probably going to be a mermaid for a while. But she’s pretty positive…I’m not so sure how happy I’d be if I didn’t have any genitalia. Here’s a clip I found on YouTube, it’s not from the TLC documentary, but it’s kind of equally depressing.

The Woman With Giant Legs was a little unsettling. Mandy Sellers is from England and has something called Proteus syndrome, which is most commonly associated with this dude:

Mandy also seemed upbeat, which is amazing considering the shear amount of energy she has to put forward to just put on her shoes (which are unfortunate, I wish the shoe guy she had could make her a cuter pair). One of her feet is turned completely around, which makes it even more difficult for her to walk. She weighs 20 stone which is roughly 280 pounds…and 210 of that are her legs. This is all putting strain on her heart. She wants to have her legs amputated, but if they do that, she will only have her top half…and they aren’t able to make prosthetics that would enable her to walk, so she is going to wait until the last minute to have her legs amputated. She was kind of funny because she was getting her hair done and going shopping for a new top and basically said if her legs are going to look like this and people are going to be staring at her, she’s not going to look like a hot mess up top. Those are my words, though, not hers. She also kind of looked like Stephen Merchant.

This coming Sunday the line up includes; Extreme Aging: Hayley’s Story and Joined For life: Abby and Brittany Turn 16. Also on the following Sunday, TLC will be airing; Half Ton Mom, followed by Half Ton Dad, concluded by, not surprisingly, Half Ton Teen. If there is one thing that I have learned, it is that TLC LOVES a fatty! Case and point Manuel Uribe. TLC was good for him..he lost some weight, got married, and some company even made him a sex ramp so that he could do the dirty with this wife.

It’s as if TLC is saying, “Hey guys, it’s Sunday. If you weren’t feeling shitty already about the beginning of yet another terrible week, here are some stories that are sure to cheer you up, because you know what, at least you aren’t 1000lbs, don’t have giant limbs, and have genitalia.” That kind of nonsense doesn’t work for me…and I’ll tell you why. One Sunday evening a few summers ago, I was watching at TLC documentary on a supercalifragilisticexpialidociously fat man in England somewhere. He was basically bedridden and had home health aides who he made sign a contract not to allow him to stuff his face with crisps or mayonnaise or crisps dipped in mayonnaise no matter how many horrible things he said to them. He was lying in his bed, his head peering above his ginormous body and his hands folded over his mountain of a stomach, telling us his story. As I was watching this, I realized that I WAS LAYING IN THE SAME EXACT POSITION AS HIM watching him talk about how fat he is and how much he likes his crisps. That is depressing and I immediately turned on my side.


First off, I must apologize for my absence, but sometimes, a girl has other plans. Last Tuesday, I saw Barack Obama kick John McCain’s ass in the election. It was very emotional and had me in tears that night and the next morning when I watched his speech again. Then I also watched Maya Angelou be interviewed and was in tears again. However, why do I feel like Harry was doing his best impression of Will Ferrell doing an impression of James Lipton? I think it was a very emotional time for the whole country and I just can’t believe the election is finally over and the outcome is in favor of all American’s and not those who don’t have humanity’s best interests in mind. I was glad to be in the company of like minded people–even if there were some awkward moments that ensued; perhaps at a later date I will share them with you, when we know each other a little bit better. Then over the weekend, I was reunited with my friend Sara from college. It was like old times; we hardly missed a beat. We attended two concerts–one being great. Fran Healy from Travis did a solo performance for the organization that I work for and it was awesome. The other, Creaky Boards, was good, but I think we both could have done without their obnoxious fan base the consisted of bad hair and stupid hats (see, also).

Before I go on, I must also say, that wordpress provides blog stats, where you are able to see how many people visit a day, how they are finding you, etc. The most traffic this blog gets is from people searching the interwebs for Jocelyn Wildenstein. The woman has not lost it. She is as popular as ever. It’s kind of amazing that she still has that sort of draw. In the past two days, 16 people have visited this humble blog via searching for Jocelyn. It’s mind boggling. Perhaps they are people who are given the name by their plastic surgeons and told to “Google” her, in order to persuade them to lay off the ol’ nip/tuck. She is something to marvel at–the idea that this woman has become part of our lexicon to describe or be a portrait of plastic surgery gone wrong, is an accomplishment all on it’s own. It doesn’t matter what this woman did or is doing, all people care about is how scary her face is and if it will get any worse.

On to Fiddlesticks. Fiddlesticks is this terrible restaurant that ate at in Greenwich Village a long while ago, but has remained with me for sometime. Let me tell you why. It was a spring afternoon, and I was with my pal Victor. We had been walking around for a while, and decided it was time to get lunch. We happened upon Fiddlesticks and decided, since they had lunch specials, we would just settle and eat there, instead of trekking onwards in search of perhaps, better food. Victor was wise and went with a turkey burger; I decided to be adventurous and order Penne ala vodka from an Irish Pub. UNWISE.

After lunch, we ventured on, walking the streets of SoHo, making fun of people, looking at things we couldn’t afford. I started getting an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, and as the minutes ticked on, that uncomfortable feeling began making it’s way through my lower GI. I had this bad feeling. I told Victor that we needed to find a bathroom. Unfortunately, we were in SoHo, and nary is a bathroom to be found, because those rich folk do not have bowels. The feeling kept getting worse. Plus, it was a very sunny and warm day, which was adding to my pain. Luckily, Victor, at the time lived in the West Village. He suggested that we go to his apartment and I could use his bathroom. I would have jumped at the chance if this hadn’t of been the first visit I was making to his apartment. What an awful way to introduce yourself into someone’s home space. But I had no choice, because this feeling was only getting worse, and one wrong step or relaxation of a muscle could have ended what has turned out to be, a hilarious friendship.

Imagine a speed walker–because that is what I looked like walking through SoHo to the West Village. Luckily, Victor was a good sport through this seemingly long walk, because he has a sensitive stomach and pretty much anything that he eats upsets his stomach. This walk was probably the longest of my life. People kept getting in my way and the sun kept getting hotter; it was terrible. When we finally got to his apartment, I had to walk up 5 flights of stairs. Five flights is bad enough when aren’t about to crap your pants, but it’s even worse when you are clenching every muscle that you have. Lets just say, when the moment finally came, it was something like this.

I know this is all very graphic and some might consider it an over share, but I am only sharing because I know everyone has been in this situation at least once. I am just trying to help take some of the shame out of it. I personally hate using public restrooms for such business, but sometimes you have no choice and from the times that I have been in Barnes and Noble in Union Square, I know a lot of other people feel the same way. Sometimes, it just happens. I worked with a woman that actually crapped her pants on the train. So, you know, it could always be worse.

Out of this horrible incident came the most useful term to describe such a situation: fiddlesticks. Now, whenever you eat something, and you get that feeling in your bowels, just say that you are having a fiddlesticks moment; if your friend is any sort of friend at all, they will totally help you find the nearest bathroom.


Every day, I encounter someone interesting, or gross, or weird, or smelly–but occasionally, some of these people have an interesting story to tell. Some have no story to tell you at all. Some ask you for a dollar. And some leave some pee for you to clean up at closing time while their ingrained stench offends your olfactory system. All of this can happen in the span of two days.

Yesterday, Wednesday: On my way to the train yesterday morning, a young girl, somewhat resembling Notorious B.I.G; weird eye included, was shouting on her phone to someone saying that she would call them when she got off the train. Then I hear her shout, “EXCUSE ME!”, so I turn around and she asks me where the subway is. So assume my role as good Samaritan, and tell Biggie Smalls that I’m on my way there now, so she can follow me if she wants. So I start on my way again, and she asks, “can you hold this, while I put on my coat. It’s cold out,” then hands me her purse, her cell phone, and her cell phone case. I must look trusting, because I would not be asking some random girl on the street to hold my purse. Bitches be all cray-cray! So as we are walking, the most conversation we really have is, “it’s so cold!”, because it was–and blustery–and I was ill prepared for such weather. Then, we are about a block away from the subway station, she asks, “Do have a dollar I could borrow?” Borrow?! Really?! Was she planning on getting my information to mail my dollar back to me? I really doubt it. I was like, “Um, I have no money. I’m broke.” I do not give handouts. Especially when I am in need of a handout of my own. She was less interested in me after that.

To end my day on Wednesday, there was an older homeless (I don’t actually know what his living situation was. Mole person maybe? Crazy, older eccentric? Hygienically challenged, most definitely.) gentlemen who came in to the store. He comes in very rarely, but the last time he came in, he fell asleep on a couch and my coworker had to wake him up–I thought he was dead–and the guy had a giant carbuncle (be thankful this is the image I chose. I threw up in my mouth at least 75 times researching, trying to find one that most resembled what ails this man) on his had. I think my coworker roused him gently by tapping him on the knee, using the very tip of his fingernail, which he then ripped off. Anyways, on Wednesday evening when he came in, to say his odor was offensive is an understatement. Every sense I had was accosted, harmed, DAMAGED. There are really no words that would be able to describe his odor in a way that could make you understand. He smelled worse than Times Square on a hot summer day. And his odor lingered. For an hour after he left. You know why? Because he piddled. Piddled on himself, and our floor. When I find when we were fixing up the store after we closed. Cleaning up hobo urine was not in my job description. I used a mop. Which came in handy for cleaning up my VOMIT. I feel bad for this old guy. I mean his suit is all wrinkled and stained and he ended up paying for a coat he couldn’t afford because I think he felt ashamed. It’s terrible. And I know making fun of a helpless, old man in a blog makes me terrible, but you know what, I feel somewhat justified, because I cleaned up his urine. Which didn’t smell like any urine I’ve ever expelled, which is also another sign of poor health, most likely, but I’m no doctor.

Today, Thursday: I was talking to my work BFF about Jocelyn Wildenstein and how she looks like a lion. I’m not sure how this really got started, but I think it had something to do with my work BFF pulling her face back with her hands and saying “plastic surgery” and from there I lept to Wildenstein–it’s not really that big of a leap, more like a shuffle over a crack in a sidewalk. Well, this middle aged gentleman; who I am assuming is a male gay because I don’t know that many male straights who care about Jocelyn Wildenstein; comes over to me and the conversation is as follows:

Presumed Male Gay: I heard you talking about Jocelyn Wildenstein, but I didn’t hear the last part. What were you saying about her?

Me: Oh, just that she looks like a lion.

PMG: I have a story about her. I was the 6 train going Uptown and she was sitting there reading a magazine. Well she wasn’t really reading it, but was pretending to read while everyone was staring at her. But everyone was staring at her because she had a wrap top on and she had her purse strap going across her chest, and it had moved the top so that her breast was exposed! Everyone was staring, but she didn’t notice. I guess she’s had so much plastic surgery that she couldn’t feel it. But there was a famous actor sitting down and we just looked at each other and were like, “oh my god, what the fuck?!”, it was really crazy!

Me: [laughing politely, would have laughed genuinely if hadn’t tossed in that bit about a “famous actor”] That is crazy!

Pretty soon Jocelyn Wildenstein’s face is going to look like this. If I am going to have nightmares and choke on my own vomit, so is everyone who reads this.

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