Grammy at the Grammys

As a new stringer (freelancer) for People magazine, I was thrilled to get a call asking if I were available to cover a Grammy event honoring Georgia’s 52 nominees. I immediately called my daughter.

“I’ve been invited to the Grammy party at Tiffany’s,” I told her. “What should I wear?”

“Whatever the other grandmothers are wearing,” she said, annoyed. “A nice pair of slacks and that turquoise blue jacket should be fine.”

“Not THAT kind of Grammy party. I’m talking about the Recording Academy nominees -- the real thing.”

“THAT Grammy party,” she gasped. “In that case, run right out and buy a leather bustier and some four-inch stilettos,” she jested.

We had a good laugh over that one.

To say I’m an over-aged People correspondent is putting it mildly. Medicare knows my first name and every feminine part of me has succumbed to gravity. A bustier would need to be made from solid steel to do its job.

“I’m serious,” I said. "What should I wear?”

“Why don’t you stay home and I’ll go in your place?” she cooed. “I’ve got the perfect outfit.”

About that time, the list of nominees popped up on my email. “Uh, oh. I’m in real trouble now,” I told her. “I have no idea who most of these people are.”

I read her the list. I had heard vaguely of Ludakris but T.I.? Akon? Third Day? Field Mob? Mastadon? Panic set in.

“What should I do?”

“I told you,” she said. “Take me.”

“If only I could,” I lamented. But the event was clearly an “invitation-only” affair and didn’t include a tag-a-long. I was on my own.

Needless to say, I spent the day on the Internet, reading bios, studying photos.

That evening, I put on my sexiest camisole and matching sparkly sweater. My son – living with me temporarily – raised his eyebrows.

“Will I do?” I asked, twirling.

“Are going to leave on the sweater?” he asked, hopefully..

I rolled my eyes. I don’t even own a strapless bra so there was no way that cover-up was going anywhere except around my bod.