Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (23 page)

“Because I found out today that my crafts are… are…
ugly
and no one likes them. They all think I’m a fool, Star, Chloe, and… your mother.” She let out a wail of pain. “I’m such an
idiot!”

She spent the next half hour recounting the entire ordeal. The more Larry learned, the more furious he became with Star and
the other women. He brought Ofie a Tylenol PM, a glass of water, led her to bed, and rocked her to sleep.

He had thought of all this while he swept up the mess and thanked the Lord neither his mom nor Anjelica saw any of this. It
was a stroke of good luck his little girl was staying with her grandmother tonight. What if they had been here? He sweated
while he worked, not from the physical exertion, but because he had no idea what the outcome would be. Would he need to ask
for time off from work to care for Ofie, which may cost him his recent promotion, which would lead to less income for the
family? Would she need medical attention?

At 12:30 a.m., Larry checked on Ofie. She snored loudly, her mouth wide open. He fixed her flannel nightgown and pulled the
covers up to her chin. He noticed something poking out from under her crossed arms: a red blanket connected to a ball of yarn.
Larry carefully slid it away and set it on the nightstand.

“Larry…,” she said groggily. “Where’s Anjelica?”

“She’s with Nana Chata. It’s all good, mi amor, relax.”

“Do they know?”

“No. They don’t and I’ll never tell. Now get some more sleep.”

“Please forgive me, Larry.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You had some tension to release there, didn’t you?” he joked, stroking her frizzy box-dyed auburn
hair. “Please forgive me for letting it get to this point without intervening.”

“I wanted to get rid of the mess I made of this house,” Ofie said as she dragged her heavy body up, rested her head against
the wall, and gulped down the last of the water, which seemed to refresh her.

“I can take the truth, Larry. I realized it when I came home. It all looks so cheesy. Why couldn’t I see that? Something came
over me and I just wanted it all to go away. I don’t think I ever want to see another stencil or rubber stamp as long as I
live.”

Larry peered at the yarn that she had been cuddling minutes ago.

“Well, except yarn.” She laughed. “Before Star sent me over the waterfall of humiliation today, Benecio taught me how to hook!
Or crochet, I mean.”

“You made that entire thing
today
?” Larry reached over and retrieved the project to examine it. “My God, you’re like Speedy Gonzales. My nana used to make
blankets all day long and it took days to get that far.”

“Here, give!” She reached her hand out for the yarn and scrunched her fingers in and out like a baby grabbing for candy. Larry
smiled and passed the yarn and crochet hook to her. Ofie returned his smile and went back to work on her blanket. The same
stitch over and over. It was as if she had been doing it her whole life. She could even carry on a conversation while she
looped her way down the row and up again.

“See? I can do it. I was so upset at La Pachanga after everyone left and my brain just sort of shifted to the yarn,” she said
in a matter-of-fact manner as she continued her work. “Einstein once said, ‘In the middle of every difficulty lies opportunity.’
”

Larry couldn’t believe how sweet his wife was—or how fast her hands churned. And she was supposed to be sedated!

Ofie stopped and stroked her husband’s razor-stubbled cheek. “Larry, can I ask a favor, and if you say no, I’ll never mention
it again?”

He closed his eyes and savored her caress. “My love, I’d do anything for you.”

“Is it okay if Nana Chata doesn’t help us out so much every day? Like shopping for Anjelica’s clothes, and cooking, even the
laundry? I know she means well, and she loves us, but I want to try doing those things myself. I’ve never spoken up about
it because I didn’t want to be disrespectful. I want really badly to show you that I can be a good mother and wife. I know
I can. Chloe hurt me today with what she said, but inside I knew it was true. I can do much better.”

Larry kissed her hands. “My mom loves you a lot. She’s told me. She means well. But I understand. Consider it done. Except
her menudo. I can’t live without that.”

“Deal.” Ofie’s whole face lit up. “And I’m going to get a job too, and pay her back every penny she ever gave us. Just wait
and see. Now you go to bed. I’m going to keep on crocheting for a bit. It relaxes me.”

Larry covered her hands with his, lifted her chin with his nose, and pecked her forehead, her nose, and her lips. “Tomorrow
we begin with a clean slate: our house and our minds.”

Ofie squirmed her hands free and continued with her new favorite hobby. “Let’s redo Anjelica’s room first, before she comes
home.”

Larry agreed, climbed off the bed, and removed his clothes down to his polka-dotted boxers and black ankle socks.

“Did Star call?” Ofie asked nonchalantly.

He sighed, not knowing what to say. “Why? Would you like to talk to her?”

“Yes, of course. But… not just yet. I want some alone time. This will all blow over, I know it will. Many so-called friends
have walked in and out of my life, but Star is the only one who has left footprints on my heart. She’s my best friend.”

“Well, take all the time you need, mi amor.” He loaded a CD into the boom box on the nightstand, pushed a button, and turned
up the volume knob. “You feeling better?”

“Lots.”

“Good enough to dance with me? It’s Buena Vista Social Club, our wedding music.”

Ofie laughed. “Larry, after the day I’ve had? Look at me. I’m a mess! And I need lipstick!”

He stood at her bedside and held out his palm. “To me, you are as beautiful as the first day I met you.”

Ofie set down her yarn, rose from the bed, and gave him a long kiss. The two embraced, and swayed in unison to the Cuban love
ballad “Dos Gardenias.”

The song ended, and Larry escorted his wife back to bed to tuck her in.

An hour later, Larry was the one blowing the z’s into the air while Ofie crocheted. The Energizer Bunny had nothing on her.
She kept going and going and going.

All through the night, Ofie immersed herself in a one-woman hook-a-thon. A switch of some sort had been turned to high, making
her a lean gazelle in the process of stitching in, over, and through. She could easily see her work was flawless—not a lump
or hole in sight. Even her rows were even. She only knew one stitch—the double crochet—but she worked it like Fergie in front
of a microphone. Ofie found the process soothing. Every time she wrapped the yarn around the hook, she erased a nugget of
self-doubt.

Ofie not only finished that tear-soaked baby blanket she’d begun earlier in the day at La Pachanga, but she also began another
and there were still a few hours until daylight. At one point, she ran out of yarn so she searched the house for substitutes.
She found expensive chenille, cheap craft yarn, scrapbooking fiber embellishments, and even embroidery thread. She scoured
Larry’s toolshed and retrieved kite string and neon orange twine. When she couldn’t find any more, she took old sweaters from
the closet and unraveled them to add to her new blanket in progress.

Larry awoke at eight a.m. to a crocheted bonanza. He sat up and rubbed his eyes in awe. Ofie was three-quarters finished with
a crazy afghan.

Unfazed, he watched his wife sleep in peace, clutching that first red blanket to her chest.

Any other husband would have called the mental ward to deliver a straitjacket. But not Larry. He knew this was a sign of good
things to come.

Ofie had
finally
found her craft.

T
he next day, Chloe rested on a chaise longue on her loft’s balcony. Wrapped in a thin shawl that Benecio had knitted for her
birthday, she turned off the ringers on her phones for peace of mind. As she swirled a glass of chardonnay, she gazed at the
decadent Phoenix sunset. Despite four hours and four hundred dollars spent at the Biltmore Resort and Spa today, she still
felt like Satan’s semi had plowed over her several times.

But if there was one thing Chloe had picked up from her short time with the craft group, it was to find positive in the negative—a
practice she had subconsciously been working on these past few months. However, this situation presented a challenge. She
set down her wineglass and created a mental checklist.

Friends: As of yesterday, nada.

Love life: Buh-bye, Ezra! Hello, single girl in the city.

Job: Transferred to KPDM’s dinky sister station in Tucson, following her unpaid leave of absence.

Career: Forget it.

Last night after La Pachanga, she phoned the CraftOlympics head office to inquire about her spot as host. An administrative
assistant returned her call this morning to inform her of a misunderstanding. Apparently, there had been a change in plans
and Betty O’Hara was offered, and had accepted, the job months ago. Chloe hung up in a stupor. She didn’t know what to make
of it. She left multiple voice and e-mails for Mark Jefferies and he didn’t return any of them. Did he scam her for sex? Would
he really be so evil? Did the CraftOlympics executives change their minds in the last twenty-four hours? She couldn’t relax
until she heard the truth. Since Mark wouldn’t answer her messages, she’d have to escalate the case to
Fatal Attraction
status and call his home.

Chloe opened her leather address book, punched in the code to block her number, and then dialed Mark’s home number.

“Jefferies’ residence,” Mark said in a chipper voice.

“It’s me.”

“This is highly inappropriate.”

“I just called the CraftOlympics headquarters and they claim Betty O’Hara was chosen as the host. They said she had the gig
months ago. You lied to me.”

Mark began to speak in a sneaky whisper. “I never
technically
said you had the job…”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well, it’s too late now. They would have dropped you anyway. Your career is done. Our viewers think you’re a joke, not to
mention the station staff and arts community. But maybe I can pull a few strings in your favor. My family’s away for the weekend.
Come over here and we’ll figure something out. I’ll chill some wine for us, just like old times.”

Chloe slammed the phone on the receiver.

It didn’t matter. She’d decided last night that her crafty days—maybe even her TV ones—were over. No more centerpieces to
worry about, people to impress, or meetings to attend. Those women just doused her life with mushy sentimental nonsense, distracting
her from her goal of climbing the network ranks. And what did she get out it? Knowledge about high-gloss varnish versus matte.

She sighed, finished off the contents of her glass, and fell back in her chaise longue, buzzed. All of that hokey art stuff
was in the past. She would use her non-paid suspension time and lounge in Cabo San Lucas as a “cooling down period” as Mark
put it. When she returned, she would work in Tucson until she could hook up a new gig in L.A.

Already, she dreaded facing her mother to hear the “I told you so” speech.

Chloe went into the kitchen and fired up her stereo, which pumped out the honeyed island sounds of Reggae Sol. After she met
Gustavo that day, she came home and immediately bought both of the band’s albums online. Now she owned their latest disc too,
thanks to Star. His soulful lead vocals comforted her, and made him feel somehow close to her heart, bringing her a sense
of peace.

Happiness is free like air
… he had told her. Yeah, right. She wished it were that attainable. Maybe in Puerto Rico, but not in Arizona.

She tightened the belt on her robe, let her head fall back to soak up the music, and then swallowed two diet pills to boost
her energy. Her to-do list covered a whole piece of notebook paper. Bills to be paid, e-mails answered, laundry washed and
packed before she left for the airport… But before she prepared for her unexpected vacation, she would dispose of Ezra’s leftovers.
As she changed into a gray turtleneck and black capri exercise pants and slipped on a headband, the Reggae Sol mix ended and
the Brazilian bossa nova sounds of Bebel Gilberto began. Chloe got down to business.

She found an old microwave box in the garage and set it on the dining room table. One by one, she sorted through Ezra’s travel
and design magazines, his anime comics and DVD boxed sets of
The Hills
and
90210
. Chloe imagined him and Frances reenacting the melodramatic musings of vintage Lauren Conrad.

“I wish them well,” she muttered with sarcasm as she taped up the flaps. Just then she heard a chime from her office. Incoming
e-mail.

From Ofie, perhaps? One of her corny send-this-to-five-people-for-good-luck chain letters? Or she hoped maybe Star or Benecio…

She dropped the packing tape gun, raced to her laptop, and clicked on her in-box. Ezra.

Sorry, Chloe. It wasn’t jiving between us and I didn’t know how to tell you. Frances says sorry too. We’re in love. She gets
me. Between your pseudocareer, mood swings, and banging your boss, you never had time for me anyway. Wish you well, candyface.
Take care.

—E.

If she had been a weak person, Chloe would have chucked her Dell laptop across the room. Why should she expect that Ezra,
Star, or Ofie be concerned for her? Why would KPDM want her back at the station? But it was she who had made herself so disposable.
Chloe never had the intention of leaving a lasting impact on anyone. She expected others to serve her needs, end of story.
She led a shallow life on purpose, and this was the result. No ties. It was better this way. So why did she feel so hurt and…
useless?

The heck with positivity, Chloe thought as she sauntered her way to Ezra’s “studio.” She paused at the kitchen to shove an
entire Dunkin’ Donut in her mouth (more Ezra leftovers), and returned to her mission. She entered her ex-boyfriend’s cramped
art space under the stairs, grabbed an ugly gray suitcase of his, and stuffed it with his junk. She lugged it to the kitchen,
where she scarfed another doughnut. With her mouth freckled with icing, she tugged open the fridge’s door to take a quaff
of skim milk straight from the gallon jug, leaving a lipstick imprint behind.