The 56th Annual Grammy Awards
“You went to the Grammys?” “How did you get to the
Grammys?” “What was it like to go to the Grammys?” “How were the Grammys?” This
is what we’ve been asked for the last week, so we figure that y’all want to
know. Finally, here are the answers to
these burning questions, and probably a little bit more than you really wanted
to know. But you asked, so here you go:
“You went to the
Grammys?”
Um, yes.
“How did you get to
the Grammys?”
First a car, then a plane, then another car, then a lot
of walking…lots of walking... (there’s no way you didn’t see that coming). But if you’re asking about what vehicle
opened the door for us to get invited to the Grammys? We’re awesome, people, duh. Haven’t we been telling you all along? We just make spectacular music (insert casual
toss of head and puff of air on fingernails here). OK, maybe not exactly like that. The bottom line: our music got some attention
from
The Recording Academy. We’re going
to put on our humble hats here and say: "Wow, it was a pretty big honor to
just be invited." And off comes the
humble hat just long enough to fist-pump and say, “YES!!!” … and, hat back on.
“What was it like
to go to the Grammys?”
Well, now THERE’S a question. I can only answer that from my point of view,
which I should explain is that of a Hobbit Disguised As A Mennonite Girl From
Rural Indiana. So here’s the short
version (a longer, much more detailed and probably much more snarky version
exists, but will only be revealed by extremely enthusiastic demand).
First, the news comes through that we are going to the
Grammys. Like any good fan of good music,
my first reaction is “YES PLEASE!!!” Elation and blind enthusiasm cloud all
better judgment: We’re going to the Grammys!
Music’s biggest night!
Performances, musicians, glamour, parties! We’re so INNNNNN!!! This starry-eyed wonder
carries me through for approximately seven minutes (Paul and Ringo, people). Then, like any good Girl (but decidedly
UN-like any good Mennonite), the first logical thought comes into my head: “But
what am I going to wear?”
What follows are weeks of indecision that is finally
resolved exactly one hour before stepping into the car that drives me to the Staples
Center. Mennonites don’t glam: Where am I going to find a dressy
bonnet? Hobbits don’t glam: How am I going to find heels big enough for
my hairy toes? Farmers don’t glam: Won’t riding in on a horse mess up my hair? Even Katy Perry didn't get on her dark horse.
My hair! My curly, unruly, horrible,
still-thin-from-falling-out-after-giving-birth hair. Oh no, I’ve just given
birth! My puffy, exhausted, horrible
look-at-all-my-new-mom-wrinkles-and-bags-under-my-eyes face! Oh no, I’m still a
new mom! My unexpected, moody, horrible what-are-these-things-under-my-shirt-that-used-to-not-be-there-but-suddenly-have-three-different-shapes-and-sizes-every-24-hours
THINGS? There is no
dress/hairstyle/makeup look that can fix this problem.
Okay, it’s early December. I still have time to figure this out,
right? So I figure I can remake an old
dress in my closet, practice hair and makeup looks every week till I find the
right one, eat absolutely nothing over the holidays, and work out every day
until it’s time to go and I just might be able to blend into the background and
no one will see me. This was an
excellent plan. It almost worked. It would have worked perfectly if I hadn’t
split the seams of every dress in my closet that I tried on (yes, I even tried on
my wedding dress), lost all of my hair and makeup tools to a very unfortunate
puppy chewing incident, traveled to the Midwest (Land of Lard and the White
Sugar Deep-Fry) over the holidays, and doctored my entire family including
myself through the flu. Suffice it to
say that ten extra pounds and even less sleep later, I was still not “ready” to
get on a plane to LA. And I was nowhere
near ready to walk down a red carpet surrounded by unearthly beautiful
people.
Luckily, my female counterpart on this trip is Elvin
beautiful and I knew that I could hide my Hobbit self behind her and not consider
donning a Daft Punk disguise. So after a
month and a half of stressing out, some desperate shopping, and a last minute
hair surgery with a seventy-five-cent barrette (performed exactly one hour
before I stepped into the car driving me to the Grammys), I found myself, ready
or not, headed for the red carpet.
And that’s what it was like to go to the Grammys.
“How were the
Grammys?”
How were the Grammys?
Let’s see. You could ask a
football player to describe the Super Bowl, or you could ask a skier to
describe the Olympics, but you asked a musician to describe the Grammys. The answer is probably the same all around:
“…” Because that’s all I got for ya: “…”
The Grammys were “…” and if I even try to tell you, well, it’ll just
waste both our time. I can tell you
this, though:
Grammys were pretty good.
You should go sometime. If you
need some tips, give me a call and I’ll tell you all you need to know.
