My husband is a six foot one Irish-German guy. (His mom swears that he’s Mexican by association because he was conceived in Cancun.)
Anyway, our Little Dude has been throwing nuclear tantrums and the other day my husband walked into the kitchen as I was saying, “No llores, papi. No llores!”
Bewildered, my husband says (in his O.C. accent), “What a coincidence that the word for crying is the name of that town where all those women were disapearing.”
“Llores,” I replied. “Not Juarez.”
“Oh.”