Grammy Countdown

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Grammy Countdown

Almost a year ago, I won a contest sponsored by Hilton Hotels and as a result, my husband and I are going to the Grammys in exactly one month. THE GRAMMYS, PEOPLE. Even after all these months it still hasn’t quite sunk in.

At first it was fun to think about what I’d wear, and who would watch our kids while we’re gone, and what bands would play at the show. (Answers: Betsey Johnson tutu, my niece and her boyfriend, and holding out hope for Vampire Weekend and Lorde.) We are probably the first people in the history of contest winning who, when contacted by the PR agency charged with making our flight reservations to LA, said, “Is it ok with you if we don’t fly? We’d rather drive.” We’ve always been fans of the long road trip, but haven’t been on one sans kids for sixteen years. Six hours, a good playlist, and a couple stops at In N’ Out Burger along the way: that’s our idea of a dream date.

But the Grammys are now only a month away. And it’s about to get real, my friends. Because I react badly when I see famous people.

I want to be cool. I want to simply ignore celebrities, or at the most give a slight acknowledgement with an eyebrow. Intellectually I understand, in the words of Jemaine from Flight of the Conchords, “You’re a person, I’m a person, that person over there is a person.” There’s no need to lose your bananas simply because you’ve encountered another carbon-based life form.

And still: there was an Emilio Estevez incident. There were numerous Bill Clinton incidents when we lived in DC. Most recently, there was the moment I came within a few steps of So You Think You Can Dance star Jasmine Harper, and my immediate impulse was to scream “Hi Jasmine! I am also from Rochester! Hi!” while waving. From 18 inches away.

My secondary strategy is to become so aggressively not-impressed that I end up just being rude, like earlier this month when I was all, hey, Missy Franklin Olympic Swimmer, you may have won my country an armful of gold in 2012 in the London Summer Games but don’t think that means I’m going to let you get past me on the plane we’re both boarding here at O’Hare. Those medals don’t count for anything when it comes to overhead space.

My husband is much, much cooler around celebrities, but that is mostly because he only reads cycling magazines and wouldn’t recognize Rihanna if she put a blunt out on his arm. (His behavior around pro cyclists? Well, you don’t want to see that.) But his hearing isn’t as sharp as it used to be, so stage whispering is now lost to us as a means of communication.

So picture the two of us next month, encountering a Grammy nominated singer at our fancy contest-approved hotel in the heart of Beverly Hills, or at the award show itself, or– and they may regret the decision to include this in the prize package–the official after party. I will undoubtedly be stammering “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod I love your album!” while my husband bellows, “Who is that? Who is that? Who is that?”

We need to lock this down, pronto. And that’s why my New Year’s Resolution is to Be Cool Around Famous People.

I need your help. If you are the type of person who doesn’t freak out around celebrities, how do you do that? Are you picturing them in boxer shorts or something? Seems like that would make it worse but what do I know? Tell me. I need some strategies.

And if that doesn’t work, there’s always my new purse. After deciding to go with the gold tutu, I figured since I was wearing an old albeit fabulous dress I could at least get new accessories. That’s when my friend Kimmee sent me a link to this beauty.

Rock n’ roll, right? Perfect contrast to the delicate dress, right? And every time I am tempted to hyperventilate, all I need to do is squeeze the sides to distract me with blinding pain and snap myself out of it. Like a dog prong collar, but for people.

Wish us luck.