A writer who won’t give up! (part 3)
When I first arrived in Denver, even though Hillary and I reconnected easily after 30+ years of not communicating, there were some things about me that she didn’t know. She tried her best though to make me feel as comfortable as possible in a new city. And I responded with my usual attitude – polite on the outside, “get me the hell out of here” on the inside.
The first few days she made, what seemed to me, endless make-over appointments. First she made a “make-up” appointment for me at Nordstrom’s. Yes my earlobes were peeling from Denver’s dry air, but learning how to apply eye liner was definitely waaaaaay below eating, sleeping, and writing on my priority list.
I’m also definitely not the manicure/pedicure type, but Hillary convinced me it was a festive thing do to. (I never went but for awhile, I acted like I was game.) As long as my fingernails are clean and not jagged enough to use as a kitchen utensil, I’m good. And pedicures…the whole concept just seems wrong to me.
Hillary also constantly campaigned for me to find the right hair stylist. I complied. I went to 3 or 4 before I found one that “got it.” I don’t even use a blow dryer, so I tried diligently to find a stylist who could cut my hair in a style that wouldn’t require me to buy the $80 jar of “styling gel” that was displayed prominently behind the cash register.
Bless her heart, Hillary also hooked me up with a dog-sitting gig (I’m not really a dog person, but I was desperate) so I could earn some extra cash while staying with her. The fact that it was a spoiled French bulldog named Chubba didn’t phase me – I must have been distracted by the owner’s beauty and her plush home. After a few weeks of overnights (the owner went on frequent business trips), I realized that this dog was seriously spoiled and there was something terribly wrong. No kidding – part of my daily routine was to hand-feed him wet food and take him for walks when his mood struck. I tolerated it while my ego was so so fragile. But eventually, as my psyche recovered, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I stayed at Hillary’s house for 5 weeks while going back and forth to take care of Chubba the French bulldog. A lot of non-California homes have finished basements with bathrooms. (I was pleasantly surprised to learn this since she had told me over the phone, when I was still in California, that I could stay in her basement.) But after 5 weeks of living in the basement, I was sooooooo ready to sleep in a non-twin bed (I broke some ribs during my second week in Denver (another story) and I needed to be able to turn over while sleeping). I had saved enough $ to put a deposit down on a one-bedroom apartment.
I was thrilled to have my own space. Plus, once Hillary and I were no longer living under the same roof, I was able to more seamlessly bypass her suggestions for beauty treatments. It was at about the same time that we started focusing more seriously on writing a book together.
We decided to write about what she had been enduring on a daily basis…breast cancer treatment. We also decided that the world didn’t need another depressing, clinical book about breast cancer. So we set our minds to capturing some of the lighter experiences that she was having and also some of the practical lessons that she was learning…
To be continued…
