Party of Two: My Dad, The Oscars, Nachos and Me.

Different moments, different occasions remind me of my Dad. Random times. When most people are checking out what the stars are wearing down the Red Carpet and wondering why so many breasts are making appearances, I would always check the clock, because I knew my Dad was on his way home, ready for our Oscar Party.

Most people who I know don’t really make a big deal of Oscar Night. I mean they may or may not watch it. It’s not a DVR kind of event for them. But for me and my Dad…we had “the Dreamer’s Disease.” Well I had it and my Dad got it by association. I would tell him … “the day I become an awesome writer and get nominated for award like the Oscars or Emmys you will be date, Dad.” And when most people would laugh or just say get your head out of the clouds, his response was … “well I guess I’ll have to rent a tuxedo.”

The Oscars

It was a night where we hoped our favorite picks got selected. We also looked for the person with the most genuine enthusiasm as they received the golden statue, as well as the best speech. So far my Dad’s top pick was Cuba Gooding Jr. for Jerry Maguire. He smiled to see someone so happy. That’s probably what I would look like if I won. No he said…that’s probably what we would look like if you won.

Aside from looking for the most genuine, we’d also have a pool and side bets. My Dad would always choose Clint Eastwood, even when he wasn’t nominated he’d say Clint Eastwood would have won that one. Sometimes he’d go with Jack Nicholson. Sometimes he’d get it right, other times well …

But he’d get over it with food. Even though our Oscar party wasn’t ice sculptures and caviar, it had good eats, ambiance, and Guat humor. Carne asada, rice, beans, enchiladas, and nachos. I know it sounds like Super Bowl food, but for a writer and a dreamer the Oscars is the Super Bowl. With all the savory tasties you would think we had like ten people there, but no. It was just me and Dad. My mom would hang out for a little bit, but then go upstairs and crash, or watch something else. Premios Nuestros or Cristina, something like that. So for the most part it was just me and Dad, sometimes my cousin…the moocher.

But the best part was hanging out. Sitting on our worn-out couch stuffed with food, we’d sip our after-you-pig-out drinks: ginger-ale for me, coffee for my Dad. We hung out like buddies surrounded by decorations from the 99-cent store or Pic-and-Save, which I used to make it look more festive.

So today as I poured the cheese on my Tostitos, and covered them with chicken, pinto beans, tomatoes, avocados, cilantro, jalapenos, and sour cream I thought about my Dad, and how he’d probably enjoy the fact that Billy Crystal was hosting it again. I looked at this towering dish of awesomeness oozing with monster calories, and I missed my Dad, wished he hadn’t passed away.

I shook my head … too bad Clint Eastwood wasn’t up for it this year, Dad would’ve liked that.