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.

Miss Cybil does a big hunk… of ice!

Now kids, I know what you’re thinking. How can Cybil Blaine have gone through so much in her lifetime–the divorce, the shakes after that round of Bloody Marys at the Hilton in Jersey City, that decade in which three human beings were removed from my uterus–and still live it up so much?

The answer? I keep it real. And sometimes, that means saying “no” to the pleasures of bubble baths and Mai Tais (say wuh?) and say “yes” to the pleasures of the natural world. Dirty stuff, and stuff that poor people might like. Or something. What I’m trying to say, Jimmy, is that I didn’t have enough money to check into the super-posh hotel in Calafate and had to check into a youth hostel. And then I got roped into seeing the Perito Moreno Glacier, which is a really, really big hunk of blue ice.

 
A random, anonymous girl steps in front of my attempt to capture the Perito Moreno Glacier on film. Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

But really, the glacier was pretty awe-inspiring. It means that there is a God, because He drinks and needs a lot of ice for His glass!

A bunch of random motherfuckers stepped into my view of the glacier. Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

Afterwards, on the bus, there was a movie. The Day After Tomorrow, with Mr. Randy Quaid and Jake Gyllenhaal. (Which is a lot like Not Without My Daughter, only with less Sally Field and more Dennis Quaid. And instead of the Middle East, there’s a blizzard. But basically, Gladys, it’s the same movie.)

And you know what? I realized that instead of black guys–who are so 2006, anyways–I should be trying to get it on with 17-year-olds (hello Mr. Gyllenhaal!) or black guys with British accents, which is what one of the guys was in the movie. I mean, at least he had a decent job!

And then, on the way back, we were stopped by something else in the road.
And I found a Vicodin in my purse while the sheep did their road-crossing bit. So life was pretty sweet.