What if my parents had been the closed-minded sort, who thought Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In was too hippy-dippy for their 11-year-old daughter? What if I missed meeting Edith Ann and Ernestine? I’ll tell you what: You wouldn’t be reading this story.
I adore Lily Tomlin. I have all of her albums, now vintage, because I got them as they originally released. I have those albums also on my iPods and iPhone. I have the book The Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe (signed). I cannot even begin count the number of times I’ve watched Nine to Five and All of Me. And so it goes, to this day.
Even knowing how much I love Lily Tomlin, you cannot possibly imagine my excitement back in 1987, when I read in the paper that she was bringing Search for Signs to the Chicago Theatre. For a six-week run. Stalking hadn’t yet caught on, so I didn’t know then that I was actually being a little stalkery when I wrote to Lily through her literary agent (whose name and address was printed in the book), and invited her to supper at our house. Because she was going to be in Chicago for six weeks, I thought she’d appreciate a home-cooked meal and hanging out with Bill and me and a real five-and-a-half-year-old little girl.
After posting the letter, I phoned the Chicago Theatre for tickets. They informed me that tickets wouldn’t go on sale for another three months. I said I’d hold.
Summer turned into fall. And I finally ordered the tickets. I asked for the best seats, and got them. Third row, just right of center.
Then one day, I returned to my cube from lunch, and listened to a message on my phone. “Hello, this is Irene Lodato, Lily Tomlin’s personal assistant. Miss Tomlin has read your letter, and I’d like to talk with you.”
Of course, my first reaction was to holler over my cube wall at my friend Jane, “Ha. Ha. Very funny, Jane.” Jane couldn’t (still can’t) hide her delight in a good practical joke, so it was immediately clear that this phone message was the real deal.
I returned Irene Lodato’s call, hands shaking. Ms. Lodato was so nice. She explained how flattered Miss Tomlin was, and she explained that although it would be impossible for her to come dinner, Miss Tomlin would like for me to be her guest at the show.
I told her I already had my tickets. And she said that Miss Tomlin would like for me to have the best seats in the house. And…I told her I thought that I did. We agreed to talk again the next day, so I could tell her our seat numbers.
The next evening, as I was chatting over the backyard fence with my neighbor, little Ginger called out the kitchen door, “Mommy! Lily Tomlin’s on the phone!” Well, of course, it was Ms. Lodato, and Ginger just hadn’t heard correctly. I gave Irene (by now, we’re now on first-name terms) our seat numbers, and she agreed — indeed we had the best seats in the house. But would we like to come back stage after the performance, to meet Miss Tomlin?
Would I!
(I feel like I ought to write this in two parts, but I’m not going to. Sorry.)
October finally came, bringing my anniversary present of seeing Lily Tomlin live. I bought a cute black, flouncy dress, sheer black stockings, and black heels. I even dyed my hair black, to look stylishly pulled together. I did not remember to buy a black brassiere. But my nude “Sweet Nothings” bra would be fine. Right?
We went to dinner. I remember nothing about that.
We watched the show from the best seats in the house. I laughed and cried, and laughed and cried. It was wonderful. My heart was full. The curtains went down and the lights came up, and we waited in our seats for Irene to fetch us backstage.
And what do you think I did, when Lily Tomlin walked up to me and took my hand?
I did what any sane woman would do. I burst into uncontrollable tears. And lost the capacity for speech.
She had to send a stage hand for a box of tissues! I plucked them out of the box, just as she herself had recently mimed onstage. And she laughed. I made Lily Tomlin laugh.
I finally squeaked that I’d meant it when I invited her to our house. She was gracious. And probably a little frightened. We posed together for a photo.
And here it is.
Do you see where a black brassiere should have been? In 1987, I was too young to see the humor in this. I was robbed of the experience of showing off my photo of Lily and me to my friends and family.
But I am older now. And I think this is the best darn picture in the world.
And that’s the truthhhhhhhh.
ginnygram 