Monthly Archives: July 2018

How Lowe Can You Go? Part 2

If you missed Part 1, please click here. You’ll need to catch up. I’ll wait.

This is it. This is the exact poster that hung on the back of my door.

This is it. This is the exact poster!

I dropped my arms in total disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. I had to take matters into my own hands. After all, I had a huge poster of him on the back of my bedroom door. He was the last person I saw at night, and the first person I saw in the morning.

I was his biggest fan and I had every right to take matters into my own hands. I just couldn’t let him get away.

“YOOOOO HOOOOO!!!”

I yelled in the loudest outside voice I could muster up, my arms swinging in the air. I looked like one of those air traffic control guys. Except I wasn’t on a runway.

And, well, I wasn’t an air traffic control guy.

Anyway, if you know me you know I have a good set of lungs. I could put Jamie Lee Curtis from “Halloween” fame to shame.

“ARE YOU WHO I THINK YOU ARE???”

He stopped at the corner where his limo driver was waiting with the back door held open.  With his left foot inside the car, he turned to look at me (remarkably, I might add) and nodded his head.

“Yes.”

That’s all I needed for confirmation. Right there in the flesh was good old Rob Lowe. Just like I thought.

At that, I turned on my heel. And as fast as four inch heels in a skirt that allowed as much leg room as an economy seat on a Spirit airline flight could go, I ran.

I ran like my life depended on it.

I ran as if I was Speedy Gonzales going for a pound of the fanciest Swiss cheese this side of the Alps.

You would be impressed.

From where I stood, I could see the shock on his face, the lifting of his eyebrows, the mouth turn in a large “O” shape. I’m pretty sure he could have fit ten Havana cigars in there.

He leaned down and jumped into his limo, but he wasn’t quick enough. I gained on him so fast, his driver didn’t have time to close the door. At that moment I was more proud than when I won a stuffed snake during one of those water race games at the local fair when I was twelve.

I never learned how to dive, but there is a first time for everything. I threw my arms over my head, and with clasped hands, elbows to ears, and chin tucked, I dove into that car better than Greg Louganis during the Olympic games of 1984.

And then I said it. I said those words no self-respecting young woman should ever utter:

“TOUCH ME!!!”

(My hand. I wanted him to touch my hand.)

I asked this of him as my body was stretched across the seat, my shoes hanging out of the car door, pointing to the blacktop.

To my chagrin, there already was a young lady seated next to him, and I was laying across her lap. Rob was at the time engaged to Melissa Gilbert, so I was none too happy that he had another woman with him.

I accusingly ask who she was. I had a right to know. Me and Half Pint went way back and I owed her that much.

He ignored my question, and with his head pressed against the far window, he stuck out his right hand to shake and then very impatiently asked me to get my friends and get in, or get out of his car.

My parting words to him were, “We will NOT go to your party because you are rude!” You know, because having a twenty year old jump into your car uninvited was perfectly polite.

But damn, I worked so hard to get there.

Once I wedged myself out of the backseat of his limo, straightened my skirt and fixed my hair, I looked up to see my three friends staring at me in utter disbelief.

It was their turn to pick up their jaws with the roller end of a Bonne Bell Lipgloss.

And that, my friends, is the story of the night I met Rob Lowe. It is a thirty-one year old memory that will last a lifetime. And quite honestly, one that just never gets old.

It’s amazing the ridiculous and idiotic things we do in our youth, without a care in the world.

Would I do this now? As a fifty-one year old, mature woman?

Of course not.

I can’t run in heels anymore.

(Edited to add after publication):

There are a number of reasons I did not go with Mr. Lowe on this particular evening. #1) my friends apparently were not interested; 2) It did not feel right and felt kind of icky, even though I threw myself at him; 3) He was known to be a bad boy and had a bit of a drug habit. I had at least some sense to hang back. In retrospect, I used his bad attitude to get out of it. I really did just want to shake his hand!

How Lowe Can You Go? Part 1

The year was 1987 and I was fairly new at being a twenty year old. The drinking age in New York had changed from nineteen to twenty-one in 1985, missing my ability to go into a bar or club with proper and legal identification by a mere two years.

As an adult, I know this was a good thing. Nineteen year olds do not always have the mental capacity to make good decisions. I mean, giving them a legal drink is pretty much like giving a pack of bubble gum to a toddler. Not smart.

As a nineteen year old, it all but ruined my life.

I can’t pinpoint the exact date, but I do know it was warm as I do not recall wearing a coat. Early fall perhaps.

What I do recall is the long, stretch denim pencil skirt that just skimmed my ankles, and the high heeled, pointy-toed red pumps that I wore that evening.

Not the exact night, but the exact hair

Not the exact night, but the exact hair

A group of three of us took a train into New York City to meet a friend who lived in Brooklyn. The Brooklyn chick was twenty-one. The rest of us were not. Yet, we were under some presumption that we could get into a hot dance club based just on our teased up Aqua Net hair and poodle socks alone.

I had no fake ID. Although, I did have that little identification card that accompanies a newly purchased wallet.

Yes, it’s true that little card once got my friends and me a Flaming Hurricane at the local Chinese restaurant.

But we weren’t in a little Chinese restaurant in farm country. That little card would be of no use to us on this specific evening.

Why didn’t I have a fake ID? I mean, everyone had one.

Because although I thought I was cool on that fall Saturday evening in Manhattan of 1987, I was terrified of getting into trouble. Which, if you knew me between the years of 1983-1986, sounds like a contradiction of epic sorts.

Also, I didn’t have an older sister to borrow one from.

We stood in every line of every joint, and slum-house (we did not discriminate) from mid- to up-town New York. Inevitably, when it was our turn to have our ID checked, I used the same original excuse, “I left it at home.” But to no avail. Our inability to gain access into Anyplace was my fault.

After hitting the literal pavement for a couple hours, we finally hit pay dirt. The place was called “The China Club” and was the pinnacle of my youth. They didn’t seem to care that we weren’t of legal drinking age, to which we were eternally grateful.

If you look up The China Club, it was THE place to be. Apparently, it was the watering and partying hole for celebrities and professional sports players alike. In all our glorious innocence, we had no idea. We didn’t have the internet back then and we were from a little podunk town ninety miles due north of “The City That Never Sleeps.”

I was lucky I knew how to find my way out of a paper bag, let alone know where David Bowie hung out on a Thursday night.

What we were aware of was that this place had the two things we were after; alcohol and music. Not necessarily in that order.

Some things stick out in my mind about that evening…

a couple cocktails (surprisingly not many at all — I believe because I had not yet discovered wine and the only drink I even knew about, aside from the Flaming Hurricane, was a Screw Driver, which gave me heartburn),

dancing,

all of us being entertained by a “magician” who could magically pull quarters out of our ears,

…and something else.

I’m pretty sure we closed the place down. It had to have been close to four in the morning. We were tired and hungry, and made our way to the sidewalk, where we waited while Brooklyn Girl hailed us a cab.

Let me start by saying that one of my girlfriends — a friend who is my bestie to this day — is very attractive. She has never had her lack of being hit on. In fact, I’m sure she still gets hit on on more occasions than I care to discuss.

The only thing that hits on me these days is the wind.

We stood there on the sidewalk in a circle, reminiscing about our evening, when my attractive friend’s left shoulder received a swift poke with a finger.

“Hey, wanna come to a party with me?” Came a deep, albeit slightly anhebriated, masculine voice.

Crickets. Radio silence. I mean, she didn’t even turn her head.

He tried again. “Excuse me, would you like to come to a party with me? Your friends can come, too.” More crickets. This time I think I even heard bullfrogs. I mean, we were in the Concrete Jungle after all, right?

At this point recognition lit up my face like the LAX runway at midnight, and I started to perk up. The excitement I felt was overwhelming. I picked my jaw up off the sidewalk with the roller end of my Bonne Bell lip gloss and screamed at my friend, “OH MY GOD! DO YOU KNOW WHO IS TALKING TO YOU RIGHT NOW???!!!”

She continued to ignore me.

I grabbed her face with both my hands and whipped her head in my direction, forcing her to make eye contact with me. “DID YOU HEAR ME? DON’T.YOU.KNOW.WHO.THAT.ISSSSSSSSSS???” I repeated, sounding a bit like Regan from The Exorcist. I’m almost certain my head spun around on my shoulders.

Twice.

I was concerned she suddenly lost her hearing. Or her sanity. At that moment, I was pretty sure it was the latter.

Her eyes slowly rolled up in my direction (she is a bit shorter than me) with a look that all but told me I was an idiot and needed to shut my mouth. In a very annoyed voice, through gritted teeth she uttered, “I don’t really care who it is.”

At that, he started to walk away.

Stay tuned for Part 2 next week…