What's new, Buenos Aires?

Editor's note: Why, yes it is almost 5 am on a workday when I am writing this. How kind of you to notice! No, I don't know why I can't sleep. A stomach ache from that turkey sandwich I had at 10 last night? Breaking my new rule and having a healthy serving of caffeine yesterday afternoon? The fact that my air-conditioner has been running constantly since early Wednesday evening and yet can't seem to cool off the place? All of the above? And maybe this, too . . . ?

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Woo, what a day Wednesday was! At least if your name was Mark Sanford, the Governor of South Carolina, and you were met at the airport by a cub reporter from The State newspaper in Columbia, asking about your recent disappearing act to hike the Appalachian Trail--while you're exiting the plane just arriving from Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Yeah, perhaps you should've taken that left turn at Albuquerque.

It was quite a day for me, too, especially as I had to ignore the rest of my life and pay rapt attention to this story from Monday on (admittedly, a shallow distraction from the mesmerizing events in Iran of late) and then watched the climax unfold live on CNN in the form of a rambling, disoriented soliloquy from Governor Sanford, succinctly summed up (eight minutes into it, mind you) with the phrase: "I have been unfaithful to my wife."

At least this one time, god bless cub reporters and 24-hour news channels.

In some ways, the revelation that the Gov in Love had had an affair with some Argentine Firecracker named Maria was a bit of a letdown. The tearful big reveal on the steps of the South Carolina State House? Feh. I've seen episodes of The Bachelor with more shocking conclusions. (Actually, I haven't--I can't bear to watch that trash. If I wanted to see vapid, desperate women throw themselves at narcissistic jerks, I'd . . . well, I'd just watch these press conferences. And goodness knows, there's been a slew of 'em of late.)

I mean, who couldn't figure this out? Who couldn't see this coming? Connect the dots, please. No one knew where he was, even his staff, even the state's Lieutenant Governor, even his wife (or so she claimed), who mades it very clear she hadn't spoken with him for several days, had "been at home with his sons on Father's Day" (to paraphrase) while he was off the gods know where.

Never mind that officials had received a ping from his cellphone in Atlanta, then nothing more. That statement alone was to me the most damning. Because, you see, what the wife said was Southern code for "he's boffing some bimbo in Buenos Aires!" It's as if she was screaming it into a microphone during the halftime show at a Gamecocks game. How could you not hear it? Any good (relatively speaking) Southerner knows you can say all you need to say subtly, pointedly, snidely, and anyone who is paying attention will get it instantly, and those who don't, well, they're Yankees and are pretty much hopeless anyway. You see, Southerners understand the difference: It's not so much the wearing of white after Labor Day--it's that you're wearing white with gold medallions and bad dye jobs. That's the dead giveaway that you clearly don't get it.

I almost feel sorry for the Gov. (Almost.) Once Mrs. Sanford uttered those lines to the press, the undertakers started measuring him for his pinebox at Boot Hill. He was doomed.

All the claims that the Governor needed his quiet time, was off somewhere writing, was keeping fit by hiking--despite the fact that it was "Naked Hiking Day" in the U.S. (honestly, who thinks up these things? The chaffing alone . . .) and admitting that you were hiking the Appalachian Trail on Naked Hiking Day was tantamount to saying "Hello, my fellow conservative Palmetto Staters! I love showing my naked, skinny ass to the world! And look forward to seeing yours out there as well!"--liked to "drive his tractor" (or euphemism? You decide!) on the "family plantation" (jeez, only in South Carolina in the 21st century . . .), enjoyed driving along the coast of Buenos Aires--despite the fact that BA doesn't have much of a coastline and who would want to drive along it in the Argentine winter, anyway?--all of it came to less than nothing once Mrs. Sanford said, "I don't know where he is; I'm here at home with the children on Father's Day weekend."

Cue chilling Law and Order style sound effect.

While we're at it, cue the music from the shower scene in Psycho, though, once you get a glimpse of the statement from Jenny Sanford regarding her husband's affair.

Goodness, how many Biblical figures can she compare herself to? What, no references to the fishes and loaves, the burning bush, the Ten Commandments, or the Lil Engine that Could? (That was in the Bible, wasn't it?) Jenny, you clearly took God's word to heart 'cause you're practically hanging off the cross.

Turns out Mrs. Sanford is from Illinois originally, by the way, so she gets her Southern She-Wolfness through conversion, not (in)breeding. Still, obviously, she's taken to Southern spleen like a rather taciturn duck to pond-scum-covered water. No one expects the South Carolina Inquisition, but, man, oh man, Mark Sanford, you're gonna get yours, especially now that you've "earned the right" to "resurrect" their marriage.

Well, praise Jesus! Praise Jenny!

How do you solve a problem like Maria? Gov, that's the least of your worries now that your wife's on to you. The shame and wrongness of leaving your wife and sons and career behind in Columbia and running off with another woman down Argentine way will be nothing in comparison to what you're about to face next at home from your "loving" wife and family.

Just ask John Edwards--after you read Elizabeth Edwards' recent New York Times bestseller, Resilience.

In your case, though, I suspect Mrs. Sanford's book will be titled, Excoriation.