Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (9 page)

Dori grasped Star’s dark-skinned hands and lowered her head in prayer. Star made a quizzical face and didn’t budge.

“Dear goddesses of the universe, Aztec Warrior Angels and Lord almighty—hear my call. Please watch over my happy star. Protect
her, guide her, let this warm summer night be remarkable, amazing, and fantastical. Let the beautiful shrine bring power to
all who admire it. Let it bring respect, truth, and above all, eternal love.”

It was too much for Star. She threw her arms around her mom’s body. “I love you. Thank you.”

“Many blessings with Theo, it will all go well,” Dori said as she approached the doorway to leave. She stopped, raised her
fist in the air, which caused her stack of Guatemalan friendship bracelets to slide down her thin arm. “If not, your father
and I will kick his ass.”

A
nother stupid craft fair down the drain,” Ofie whined, loading her rejected, misunderstood crafts in the van. She calculated
the investment: a fifty-dollar entry fee, one hundred and fifty dollars for the eight-week ceramics course, and another forty
dollars in supplies—all for a bunch of bird-brained shoppers to mistake her terra-cotta luminarias for pineapple paperweights.
One guy had the nerve to ask if preschoolers made them!

Ofie sat up straight and recited one of her favorite Ralph Waldo Emerson quotes to lift her spirits. “What lies behind us,
and what lies before us, are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”

There. Now she felt all better.

She started the ignition and accepted her next mission: to spend her last fifty dollars on groceries, and somehow make it
look like one hundred dollars’ worth.

“It’ll be fine,” Ofie rationalized in her minivan, which she affectionately called the Craftmobile. With the faded hula girl
air freshener as her witness, Ofie reasoned aloud while driving to the store. Her life would improve once the craft group
formed. Being around other creative people would kick-start her luck, as would her important role in the upcoming CraftOlympics.
Combined with her talent, it would lead to more family income and Larry, Anjelica, and even her mother-in-law, Nana Chata,
would deem her a hero.

Ofie didn’t crave a fat bank account, but she did pine for respect. Heck, not even that. Just to be acknowledged would be
a blessing. At five-ten and 270 pounds, she felt more invisible than a sheet of Cling Wrap. She counteracted the internal
torture with external graciousness. Aside from Larry, and Anjelica, Ofie’s delight came from making and sharing handcrafted
gifts. Craftiness provided inner peace, most of all, on sweaty Saturdays like this.

“Mother Mary of Mosaics, it’s bulk trash collection week! Pickup must be Monday!”

Bulk trash collection occurred four times a year and consisted of homeowners unloading their unwanted wares at the edge of
the curb. But before the local garbage truck came to whisk it away, desperate Dumpster divers or the artistically enabled
rummaged through to pick off the good stuff. Ofie considered herself among the latter.

She smacked her lips, cruised the blocks like a salivating T. rex at a meat factory, and within twenty minutes scored a large
wood box and nesting tables. The grand finale appeared on Butler Avenue, where she spotted a duo of steel garden chairs on
an empty driveway.

“They’re practically brand-new. Some people are so wasteful!” she whispered in amazement. She parked on the curb with the
motor running and snuck out of the van. Even though most folks knew the bulk trash goodies were free for the taking, she did
a quick courtesy scan while opening the back hatch. The hefty housewife shape-shifted into a sleek ninja as she tiptoed to
the chairs, grabbed one in each hand, and sprinted to the Craftmobile like a cat burglar.

“STOP! Thief!” yelled a heavyset woman with a smoker’s voice. “That Mexican Sasquatch woman is stealing my Kathy Ireland lawn
furniture!”

Ofie had committed the ultimate bulk trash sin. The chairs weren’t
technically
on the curb. In the peak of her conquest, she had overlooked that minor detail. She approached the woman to gracefully apologize.
The lady must have been in her sixties. She reeked of cigars and sported a head of wiry gray hair secured in a loose bun with
a large blue crochet hook.

“Oh, ma’am, please excuse me. I am so, so sorry. I thought these were for bulk trash,” she said to the lady with the red-alert
attitude and upper arms that reminded Ofie of honey-roasted hams.

The lady practically pressed her nose up to Ofie’s. There would be no forgiving. “The only bulk trash around here is you,
you stealin’ señorita. I know how your people work, wantin’ everything for free. Stay right there. I’m calling the cops! For
your sake, I hope you have papers!”

Papers?
Ofie thought.
What papers? Newspapers? Car registration papers? Neighborhood papers?
Fear and confusion sent a spasm attack on Ofie’s chin. How would she explain
this
to Larry?

The woman turned to yell for someone else in the house. “Henry, call 911! We got us a thief!”

Ofie chucked the chairs on the driveway and darted for the Craftmobile. She hopped in, floored it, and peeled out. The back
door flapped and the nesting tables spilled out on the blistering summer street in a cloud of dust. She was gone in much less
than sixty seconds.

The rush made Ofie forget the groceries, and she remembered as she approached her home and saw the car parked in front of
the house. It represented something more nerve-racking than getting busted for stealing garden furniture: Nana Chata, domestic-critic-at-large.
Next to playing with her granddaughter, Anjelica, Nana Chata’s favorite activity was offering advice.

Ofie pulled into the driveway and whispered a quick prayer. “Please God, let Anjelica have put her dirty underwear in the
hamper. Please let her have picked up the dog poop in the entryway. Or at least let her be clever enough to have covered for
me…”

Anjelica opened the door that was covered with five years’ worth of dirty fingerprint smudges and greeted her mother with
a tight embrace. Right behind her, Nana Chata stepped out and planted a confrontational stance in her daughter-in-law’s path,
launching quickly into a tirade about time, food, and sorting socks.

“Why are you sweating and why is your makeup smeared? You look like a lucha libre victim. Where is the food?” Nana Chata asked
as if she were speaking to a child who came home late from school.

Ofie needed to think of an answer, fast. “Today is what us Fuentes chicas call Girls’ Time Out,” she offered sheepishly, tugging
down her size 2X T-shirt to cover her hips. Her self-esteem shrank even further when she peered over her mother-in-law’s shoulder
at the spotless kitchen sink. Nana Chata had washed three days’ worth of dishes and dirty pans.

Nana Chata tilted her head, obviously conducting a lie detector test via mother-in-law ESP.

“Yeah, Nana Chata! It’s Girls’ Time Out,” Anjelica blurted. “We always eat out on Saturdays, and shop on Sundays. Right, Mommy?”

Anjelica’s burst of authority shattered Nana Chata’s interrogation. The unflinchable fifty-eight-year-old actually flinched.
She bent down and squeezed the girl into her meaty chest. “Que linda! Whatever mi reina says, goes!”

Thanks to Anjelica, Ofie was off the hook from Nana Chata, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling of failure. What kind
of a mother allows
trash
to lure her away from buying food for her child?

Disgraceful
, Nana Chata thought, looking at Ofie. And yet she had compassion for her daughter-in-law. She used to take Jazzercise with
Ofie’s aunt a long time ago and knew the family was eccentric but kindhearted. Ofie followed suit, with a dash of ditzy added
on for good measure. Nana Chata’s stomach soured when Larry married her and she swore to have patience. But on days like this,
she couldn’t help but scold her scatter-minded daughter-in-law. Especially when it came to Ofie’s obsession with crafts—and
spending Larry’s humble earnings on pricey kits. It wouldn’t be so bad if the woman had a lick of talent, but she didn’t.
It was a secret friends and family kept from Ofie throughout the years. None of them had the courage to admit her projects
looked as attractive as a hairless dog with pimples.

The family’s fourteen-hundred-square-foot house consisted of low-income basics: modest furniture, used appliances, and the
hideous home décor concoctions Ofie churned out. Aside from its being unkempt and neglected, there were garish wall stencils
of geckos, cacti, dancing mice, unfinished mosaic tables, and unraveled stitched couch covers. To Ofie, the projects were
treasures; to everyone else they triggered nightmares.

But Larry and Anjelica adored Ofie, and dealt with the tics, such as the occasional premenstrual meltdowns that could only
be tamed with tempera, a sponge brush, and a clean chunk of wall space.

Ofie’s crafty compulsive disorder emerged shortly after Anjelica’s birth. The baby entered the world four weeks early due
to a bad case of toxemia, which resulted in an emergency C-section for Ofie. That trauma stunted the lactation process and
Ofie could not feed her newborn. As with everything, Nana Chata came to the rescue with a Gerber paradise of bottles, nipples,
thermometers, baby Motrin, and cases of formula. Her actions not only nursed Anjelica into a healthy girl, but also contributed
to Ofie’s insecurities as a maternal reject.

Six months later, Ofie hadn’t yet surfaced from her postpartum pit. Daily naps stretched into medicated chunks of slumber,
shielding her from Anjelica’s colicky glass-shattering shrieks. Nana Chata and Larry consulted with doctors and read stacks
of self-help books at the library to find a way to bring Ofie back.

Healing finally arrived sixteen months later in the form of children’s finger paints. Ofie bought a set at the dollar store
for Anjelica, and from then on spent every day making crafts with her daughter. By third grade, Anjelica lost interest, and
Ofie took over the hobby for herself. At last she had found a calling and adopted it. Ofie smiled and laughed again, which
pleased Larry. He set up a craft area in the corner of the family room to encourage her, but little did the family know Ofie’s
addiction would consume their property and finances. Therefore, Nana Chata made it her life duty to be the family’s safety
net whether it was by cash, cooking, or cariños.

On this sweltering August afternoon, Ofie erased the day’s misadventures and couldn’t wait to spend quality time with her
daughter. They’d spend that last fifty dollars at La Pachanga by indulging in a spicy combination platter, chat about silly
sixth-grade gossip, and then pass out flyers for the craft group, a task Ofie had been eager to complete all week.

“Knock, knock… what’s going on in that ping-pong little head of yours…?” Nana Chata asked, snapping her fingers before Ofie’s
eyes.

The first plan of action would be to send Nana Chata on her way. How could she do that delicately?

“Oh! Um, yes! Girls’ Time Out it is, sweetie!” Ofie said to Anjelica as she detached her from Nana Chata’s side.

“Well, Nana Chata, we’re getting ready to leave now. Thank you for all your help today!” Ofie said, giving her mother-in-law
a warm “See ya!” snuggle hug.

Nana Chata froze like a manufactured burrito. “You tryin’ to get rid of me?”

“Nana Chata, why don’t you come with us?” Anjelica offered in her perky tone.

Ofie clapped her hands, but inside she wanted to cry. So much for a lighthearted lunch. “Of course! I was just about to ask
you myself!”

Nana Chata crossed her arms and a wide grin stretched across her tan, weathered face. “Aw, all right, since you really want
me to. I’m starved. Where we going?”

O
fie, Anjelica, and Nana Chata sat at the best table at La Pachanga, thanks to Dori, who welcomed them at the entrance.

“Are you really going to make us eat here?” complained Nana Chata. “The walls…
Ay!
They give me a headache.” She pressed a finger in the center of her forehead and rubbed.

Ofie wondered why Nana Chata couldn’t loosen up for once and enjoy the atmosphere. Practically everyone in the southwest gobbled
this place up like a salted cheese crisp, but not her mother-in-law.

In English “la pachanga” meant “rowdy celebration” and the restaurant certainly lived up to its name: three thousand square
feet of ultimate party pleasure for the senses. It was a certified five-star dining establishment, but also the champ of Best
of Phoenix awards for quirky categories like “Best Place to Tango on a Tuesday,” “Best Midnight Chorizo” and Ofie’s favorite,
“Best Place to Spark Your Creative Spirit.”

Even walking through the door was an event worth scrapbooking. Most guests arrived through the front to see Theo’s mural.
But Ofie preferred the back entrance. It took more effort to park, but the scenery made it worth it. Her pulse always quickened
when she walked up the brilliant mosaic pathway that divided two rows of majestic oleanders, and doubled when she crossed
the painted terra-cotta archway that led to the garden patio. Ofie loved to come at night even, to tip her head back and view
the hundreds of crisscrossed strands of white mini lights that twinkled high above. Al and Dori never promoted the rear patio
entrance because of the shabby shack back there. Ofie didn’t care. It added character. Plus, that patio was where Larry asked
her to marry him years ago when they found out Anjelica was on the way.

But on this late afternoon with her mom-in-law and daughter, Ofie explored the crowd from her table while the sexy DJ Brazilia
spun infectious latintronica dance tunes. At the back of the restaurant, she saw snobby espresso experts clustered at a light
table making hash marks on photo contact sheets with a China marker. And then she stared out the side window and admired the
lowrider enthusiasts polishing the hoods and wheels to their shiny muscle machines.

The place was an artist’s haven. Food, coffeehouse, and nightclub aside, La Pachanga served as an experience for all the senses.
Ofie often daydreamed that she owned La Pachanga. Sometimes when she made her crafts, she imagined herself in a sparkling
miniskirt, winking at the dancers below while rocking out as the lead singer of Las Feministas, La Pachanga’s all-girl house
band that performed on Friday and Saturday nights on the patio balcony.