Neighbors are neighbors

Gladys, listen up: I’m doing a bit of writing for work. Imagine that! Me, a reviewer! On account of my glamorous job writing for other sites, too, Miss Cybil has spent a lot of time in her apartment this week. And you want to know what?

Her upstairs neighbor works from home, too! As a music instructor! As a talentless, talentless music instructor! You’d think that hearing the acoustic version of Radiohead’s “Karma Police” would just be something you’d do in Portland, Ore. Maybe some post-apocalyptic hippy farm. But not Buenos Aires.

But that’s obviously bull crap. Because music is like a virus: it spreads, just like the clap, and even faster if it’s catchy. Unfortunately, you can’t say the same thing about talent. Because this half-assed no-good hack is on hour 12 of scales and butchering Radiohead today. But you know what, Gladys? No one can butcher my dear sweet Radiohead. No one!

Royally screwing up her Mexican? Miss Cybil did that!

Lois, Gladys, Jimmy and Sal–prepare to wet yourselves. I’m not perfect. I know, I know, I know, who is? Aside from Bea Arthur, that is–that bitch has everything!

Since Mexican isn’t my first language (that’d be Klingon for all of you curious types out there), a few times, Miss Cybil has made a mistake here in Buenos Aires. And no, I’m not just talking about the reason I can’t go to Montevideo next weekend. Apparently you can make drunken eBay bids in the Southern hemisphere, too! I’m here to talk about mistakes I’ve made while trying to speak my 4th language, Mexican. Or use language at all, really. I’m also here on earth to preach the good word of Jesus, but the fact that you’re going to hell in a handbasket–not unlike my ex-husband, Voldemort–I’ll save for another day!

1. I told a pair of architects that I was unable to sit on my toes.

2. I told a group of college kids that I was a professional desk.

3. I told a doctor that in order to learn how to speak Mexican, I really needed a unique brunette.

4. I’ve told about eighty sales girls, twenty waitresses, ten cab drivers, and three of my kids that I didn’t need any help.

5. I told a guy from South Africa that I really enjoyed meeting him. (Note: this would have been in American.)

6. I failed to tell a girl from New Zealand that I wanted to punch her in the mouth.  (See above.)

7. I didn’t write to a friend of mine in China, a guy I’ll call Juan, that he was a douchebag in a recent e-mail I sent. In fact, there are about a million people whose douchebag status I’ve yet to reveal.

8. But I will. In time, I’ll post the others, too.

Non-Buenos Aires Argentina? Miss Blaine’s had enough!

Gladys, sometimes life gives you lemons, but you really just want to do an Anna Nicole Smith and lie in bed, popping pills and donut holes. But on account of fear of both the New Jersey Department of Child Welfare and your lawyer, Jimmy, you soldier on. (I mean, Jimmy, why did I have to swallow all of those condoms before heading here??? You’re lucky that’s not the first time Miss Cybil’s swallowed a condom in her day!)

I know I’ve got a black belt in making life fabulous, but when you’re banished to South America, sometimes…

…well, what I’m trying to say is that I miss my rabbit slippers. And I’m sick of Argentina. It’s ugly.

Lois, trust me on this one: if someone ever asks you, “where do you want to go? What do you want to do? What do you want to do with your life?,” tell them you want to stay home.

Tell ‘em you want to keep doing what you’re doing because you don’t want to see the rest of the world. Don’t bother skimping on new clothes or food or cable for a bit (you only live once, and it might not be for very long, so think short-term!), ’cause it ain’t pretty out here. Scenic world, my ass!
Nope, you’re not going to meet great people or see beauty that’ll renew your vigor for life. You sure as hell ain’t gonna learn about yourself. You ain’t gonna be reminded of the fact that even though you already seen so many pictures of these places, there ain’t never gonna be any substitute for actual experience.

Know what you’re gonna do? You’re gonna get the sniffles, maybe, and miss all of those reruns of Friends and Matlock. Granted, you’ll do stuff you couldn’t have even known about or planned for, but whatever. Just don’t leave the states or ever think, “is the rest of the world worth seeing?“

Because it ain’t. It’s a dump, the world, so just finish that Mai Tai and call it a day.

Things Miss Cybil loves about Argentina

Escuchame, kids! Apparently, making lists is in style, so here’s one for you all about whatever-the-hell fabulous country it is that I’m in. Also, I’m still mighty high on… uh… life from the weekend, and if Miss Cybil tries to make a point that lasts longer than a sentence or two it ain’t gonna be pretty!

1. They put dulce de leche on everything. (That’s caramel to you gringos.)

2. They like soccer. And as a fabulously divorced woman, I love it!

Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

3. They love meat. And as someone who loves meat so much she once bit off the ass of a live calf in front of a group of six-year-old Hindis, I LOVE IT!

4. It’s about the same size as India, but with 1/25th the people. And all of the cows are on plates, not running around in the street. And whereas India was half a billion guys with mustaches, here it’s like the Million Mullet March.

5. I’m going to kill my ex-husband when I get back. I just realized that the motherfucker took my limited-edition Elvis Zippo!

6. All of the cell phones need “chips” to operate; a chip is a little piece of plastic that gets inserted into the phone itself, and it has your phone number and ID info on it. So you can easily switch cell phones and numbers. It’s very spy friendly like that, South America. Go figure!

7. You gotta get used to the sound of gun fire. Usually, it’s just the shocks and pieces of cars and trucks that keep giving out. Sometimes, it’s the sound of firecrackers in the middle of protests. But damn if the stench of imminent upheaval ain’t a sexy beast!!

8. You gotta get used to the crappiest tissue paper on earth. You know that stuff you use to get a donut from the clear plastic bins? They use that to blow their noses here. And you know what? I’ve risen to the challenge of it, and have gotten used to it. And I’m a better person for it.

9. Caramel, yes, but they don’t sell peanut butter.

Swear to motherfuckin’ God, Lois, you’d piss all over your Blahniks!

10. They speak Mexican. Someday, I’ll tell my kids about this. (There. You happy, Jimmy?) See, my lawyer says I should really mention the fact that I have kids, if I ever want to prove my “sanity” and “get custody.” Or, at the very least, “be able to see them without several inches of Plexiglas separating us,” or “having to endure the Kafkaesque bureaucracy of Jersey’s department of child welfare.” So there ya go! I’ve got kids. Two.

11. Vaqueros! Miss Cybil is now on the hunt for an old-fashioned cowboy that speaks Mexican!

Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

12. Fine, I got three kids if you want to count Sal. I usually don’t count Sal on account of the club foot. I mean, is it really even considered a person if there’s no chance in hell he’s gonna become a tap dancer? Not in my book.

(Sorry baby, but you know how Miss Cybil feels about Mr. Baryshnikov!!!!!)