Kelly Roberts came into the world one Super Bowl Sunday to parents who decried her gender because they couldn’t name her Joe, Broadway. Ever since, she’s been a passenger-seat driver who’s prone to mania, and cries easily at lame commercials and YouTube videos (or just about anything, if we’re being honest).
Kelly loves popping bubble wrap, one small bubble at a time, and dancing to anything with a beat.
She’ll watch almost any horror movie, especially the ones that propel her fingers into her ears (try it…it takes the scare out). But nothing scared her more than the fat, sweating Santa who visited her home one Christmas day, and the night she dreamed the devil said, “You’re mine now.”
Both happened in Australia. Just sayin’.
Kelly believes everyone deserves a John Hughes movie moment and that you haven’t lived until you’ve had a triple Americano from Zanzibar’s in Des Moines, Iowa. She’s inspired by the fragrance of cilantro and the musty smell at the top of the stairs in her old house.
Kelly is highly susceptible to motion sickness, admires fearless people, and finally embraced her Midwestern roots and the crease that forms under her nose when she smiles.
When she’s not watching her husband pet their former puppy mill wire fox terrier Maisy, she’s been known to cook and spontaneously yell “AWESOME!”
She’s held various positions in her lifetime, although not too many of the yoga variety: caramel corn cooker, dish washer and biscuit maker at an unnamed greasy chicken joint, hand model for a cooking magazine (where the photographer described her hands as “lobster claws”), legal assistant (aka, summarizer of medical records and attorney’s emotional punching bag), and most recently resourcer of humans.
Oh, and she writes too.
Kelly reserves the right to modify this page as soon as she figures out who she really is. She thanks you for your patience…self-awareness is hard.