Say Hello to J-Lo!

My dad had been coming home late from work - much later than usual. My mom was convinced he was out with another woman. She had suspicions as to who it could be. 

1. His coworker: “What her name? Sendy? Shindy? Como se llama!! Mishi?!” Author’s note: Her name was Cindy.

2. The neighbor’s 22-year-old, potentially mafia involved, daughter: “Es esa mafiosa (it’s that mafia girl)!. Is her! I know it. They were talking 2 day ago, like “ja ja ja!” Smiling and laughing!” 

3. A mother from my AYSO soccer team: “Futbol practica is over at 7pm no? Why he stay to 9pm? Peeking up the cones? I bet you he es peeking up more than the cones!” 

The tension during these weeks was palpable, and for my brother and I, it tasted rotten. My mom hadn’t brought up her suspicions to my dad and they had yet to fight about it. Instead, my mom would start every conversation lovingly, then immediately turn it into an interrogation disguised as a harmless curiosity. For weeks, they danced this dance - every step treading the line between affection and murder. 

But this night was just like every other night. We were all sitting in the living room with the dogs, watching a telenovela, when my dad decided to compliment the hair of one of the actresses. 

“Que bonito pelo,” he said, nodding in agreement with himself. 

My mom fired back with the sly intensity of volunteer community officer Dwight Schrute questioning a suspect of an inner office crime.

“Ah yes, muy bonito pelo. She look like Tania, no? Your co-worker? The one that call you when we watch TV jesterday, joo remember?” 

The difficult thing was my dad is a vocal admirer of beauty, in all forms. If he sees a cute poodle frolicking at the park, he’ll announce it boomingly, “what a beeeeeeauuuuuuuuutiful poodle! Lo vez, Pablo?! Ay Dios, what a beeeeeeeeeaauuuuuuutiful poodle!” If he thinks a guy’s hairstyle is fashionable, he’ll turn to me and in his signature scream-whisper (you know, the whisper that’s several decibels louder than a screeching baby) “Pssst. Roy, look at his hair...WHY DON’T YOU MAKE YOUR HAIR NICE LIKE THIS? Yours looks like the mop my tia used to have back in Peru!” 

It was the wrong night to compliment the woman’s hair from the telenovela because he was planning to go out to a fancy dinner later that night at Jennifer Lopez’s new restaurant in Pasadena.

“Ah, first you profess your love to the TV woman, y ahora te vas to J-Lo restaurant? Joo cannot stay away from her nalgas, ah?” inquired my mother. 

Dad: Hebe...calmaté...I’m just going to dinner with my seester, calmaté por favor... 

Mom: Calmaté!? La concha de tu madre (vagina of your mother)! Calmaté vos! 

Dad: Ok. Sayonara! 

My dad picked up his ironed black blazer, took a quick look at his hair in the mirror, and walked out. 

I knew it was about to get real nasty so I did that thing I always did in the cafeteria in middle school when I had no one to sit with and there was a lot of chatter around me. I’d rapidly press and unpress my ears with my index fingers to create a “fafafafafafafafafafafafafafa” sound. But through the fafafa, I could hear clearly hear what was said next.

“Say hellooooooo to J-Looooooo!” yelled my mom out the door, to the tune of J-Lo’s hit single, “One More Night.”

“Okaaaayyyy I weeeeeeel,” squealed my dad in response, doing his best J-Lo impersonation, which just sounded like a slightly more high-pitched version of his accent. 

“He is going to flirt with J-Lo,” my mother whispered. “I know it.”