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.

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!

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.

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!!!!!)