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?”
“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.