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.

Returning to Buenos Aires? Miss Cybil did that!

Argentina, I want my money back. First, I had to deal with the inanity that was the “south” of Argentina, just because I was politely asked to leave my hotel. (And Jimmy suggested I leave the city for a while, even though those nuns had it coming, I tell you!) But then I decided to come back to Buenos Aires.

So Lois, I went to the park. And you know what I saw? A couple that seemed to be on the verge of divorce.

Photo credit of impending doom: Cybil Blaine

Granted, you might not be able to tell from the photo. But I can. Just look at how resigned to a life of despair they both seemed to be!

And then, you know what? Some guy came up to the cars while they were at the stoplight!

Photo credit of impending chaos: Cybil Blaine

In New York, when you were at a stoplight, they just pissed on the cars. But this guy, he was playing the trumpet. I liked it better when they pissed on the cars. At least the world wasn’t pretending to be nice for a minute.

So I tried to decompress by going to this paseo part of the park with marble something-or-other and lots of trees and roses. Sounds nice, right? Well, just take a looksie:

Yeah, that’s right. This random, anonymous girl just got all up in my face at the park! Photo credit: Cybil Blaine.

People, I tried to have a nice day, but disaster was all around me. So then I left the park and went back downtown. Could I get a second of peace and quiet? Not so much. I mean, really. Like the weather wasn’t bad enough!

(But they were still cute!)

What I’m trying to say is that this city, it needs help. Not me, I swear.

Miss Cybil votes… for pie at 2pm!

Okay kids, I’ve gotta get a load off of my chest. No, not the time I set fire to a monastery just to get back at God for that time I had to go to a church on Easter! Fine, near a church. My mother made me go near a church, because there was one on the way to the liquor store. But I was still scarred for life.

No, kids, what Miss Cybil wants to get off of her much bally-hooed “killer rack “is that her lawyer, Jimmy, didn’t tell her that Argentina is a democracy. It’s maybe going to be an election year, soon-ish,  so it seems you can’t go more than five feet without seeing the face of some guy. Now, I’m not bitter because I was just divorced by Voldemort, who I incidentally just put through dental school. Really! I’m just bitter because I have a hard enough time deciding what shoes to wear.

Much less what dude’s face I’ll want to ignore for the next four years. Besides, I haven’t been sober enough to vote since the Nixon administration. So I’m voting for Nacho.

And you know what? He’s got my vote. I say: let a Mexican into the White House! I mean, why not?

Although I probably shouldn’t, on account of my having eaten so many carbs since I got to Buenos Aires, or Peru, or wherever the hell I am! I’m getting a little rump in the roast, if you know what I mean (my butt’s getting big!), you’d really think that the black guys would be lining up to get a piece. So after I decided to go Atkins style, and I walked through Gaiman.

Yes, that’s Gaiman, also known as some random Welsh settlement, in the middle of the day. And no, I’m not making the footbridge bit up. Like, do hobbits live there? I mean, really. But now like I didn’t have enough enemies in the world–Lois, I’m looking at you, dear, I know you’ve been snatching my TV Guide–the hobbit people heard my Atkins pleas. And you know what they gave me for lunch? Get a load of this: 
See, while I wanted food, the rest of Argentina was sleeping–in other words, no other place was open while I was fucking starving–so I had to get tea. And Welsh tea service, as Miss Cybil discovered, is merely an excuse to have a smorgasbord of desserts in the middle of the day.

But you know what? I found something else out about myself: pie at 2 pm? I’m okay with that!

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!!!!!)

Cybil Blaine does Bariloche. And keeps it real.

Few things upset Miss Cybil more than the thought of her ex-husband walking around with that tramp in a motel room–our motel room, those mauve polyester curtains stained with our love sauce–in Daytona Beach. Or Fort Lauderdale. Or whterever the hell it was where I spent most of the ´90s, high on life, meth, and Mai Tais.

Just to prove to you, Lois, that South America ain’t all sunshine, political revolution and pumpkins, here’s a list of there are a few things that upset Cybil Blaine:

1. The inherent socioeconomic elitism of the Winter Olympics, and, by proxy, winter sports in general.

Pictured: a random, anonymous girl, Lila, and Mariana.

You need gear (which ain’t cheap). You need to get there (which, with that whole ¨global warming¨bit, is becoming a bit more difficult).

2. The lack of hot black guys in Argentina. (Am I asking for the impossible? I hope not.)

3. The lack of anyone who knows a decent schmear when they see one. My left nut for a dollop of lox spread!

4. Little ponies. Is it me, or does this freakishly small horse look lonely, like it’s sad that it has no other recently divorced small horse from Jersey to hang out with, who understands what it’s like to get banished to a different continent that has like all of these crazy things on TV, things that look like American Idol but involve trannies and ice skaters and Latin American versions of Ryan Seacrest, and I swear to God I’m not making this up?

But you know what’s fabulous? Being able to appreciate the winters of the world–while we still have them. So even though Cybil Blaine can’t ski for shit, she’s going to go outside into the snow and let some of them snowflakes fall on her tongue! Soon, maybe even today! Possibly while looking in the general direction of a really rich black guy! Because honey, these Pilates-toned hips have a taste for chorizo. (Mollejas are also pretty yummy.)