But what really grabbed my attention was this post...A reminder. This is one strong, courageous woman here. And just to prove it, here's a little taste of Kelly...
I asked her.....
"Which famous/infamous person(s) would you invite to dinner and why?
I’m a girl who’s played it way too safe in life (not counting that six-year span in college and grad school when I went slightly off the rails), so I wouldn’t be able to pass up the opportunity to sit down with someone infamous whose devil-may-care behavior might rub off on me.
So of course I’d have to sit down to dinner with Lady Gaga, right? How could I not? I’d show up in my mom-of-two capris with my four-years-out-of-style flip flops and a bedazzled Lane Bryant tank top. She’d show up in a tight gold knit jumpsuit that covered her entire face and head. I’d order a grilled chicken salad with no onions and light dressing on the side. She’d order nothing but seltzer water with lots of lemon. I’d drip dressing down my shirt. She’d raise her eyebrows while slowly squeezing more lemon into her glass.
But we’d talk. About gender and race and class. About being an overt sexual non-conformist who gets a thrill out of turning the tables on the expectations for a pop star. About being a girl and a woman in this world. About raising girls to be strong women — as I am trying to do with my daughter and she is doing indirectly with the millions of young girls across the planet who idolize her.
I’d tell her there are things she can do better. Like eat actual meals and create art for the sole purpose of making her soul sing rather than because it makes money. Mentor young boys and girls to be exactly who they are without shame or guilt. Expose straight-laced middle-aged folks like me to the real, thriving subcultures of our country without exploiting anyone.
And she’d give me a pep talk of my own. She tell me to keep taking better care of myself and that getting off the couch more is definitely a great idea. To take more risks — jump when my mind wants me to curl up, reach when my mind urges me to hold back, and laugh when my mind screams at me to cry. She’d encourage me to write what makes my soul sing and to not care whether anyone ever wanted to read those words.
We’d talk and we’d laugh. And maybe by the end of it we’d dance. I’d pull my grungy wallet out of my 31 bag that I bought specifically to match my frumpy mom outfit, but Gaga would laugh at me and say it’s already taken care of. She’d put her arm around me as we walked out to our cars to go on about our separate lives.
Our disparate lives. Her and me. Learning to take risks for the right reasons and to shine in any light. Our souls singing. Separate, but so much the same. "
I’m a girl who’s played it way too safe in life (not counting that six-year span in college and grad school when I went slightly off the rails), so I wouldn’t be able to pass up the opportunity to sit down with someone infamous whose devil-may-care behavior might rub off on me.
So of course I’d have to sit down to dinner with Lady Gaga, right? How could I not? I’d show up in my mom-of-two capris with my four-years-out-of-style flip flops and a bedazzled Lane Bryant tank top. She’d show up in a tight gold knit jumpsuit that covered her entire face and head. I’d order a grilled chicken salad with no onions and light dressing on the side. She’d order nothing but seltzer water with lots of lemon. I’d drip dressing down my shirt. She’d raise her eyebrows while slowly squeezing more lemon into her glass.
But we’d talk. About gender and race and class. About being an overt sexual non-conformist who gets a thrill out of turning the tables on the expectations for a pop star. About being a girl and a woman in this world. About raising girls to be strong women — as I am trying to do with my daughter and she is doing indirectly with the millions of young girls across the planet who idolize her.
I’d tell her there are things she can do better. Like eat actual meals and create art for the sole purpose of making her soul sing rather than because it makes money. Mentor young boys and girls to be exactly who they are without shame or guilt. Expose straight-laced middle-aged folks like me to the real, thriving subcultures of our country without exploiting anyone.
And she’d give me a pep talk of my own. She tell me to keep taking better care of myself and that getting off the couch more is definitely a great idea. To take more risks — jump when my mind wants me to curl up, reach when my mind urges me to hold back, and laugh when my mind screams at me to cry. She’d encourage me to write what makes my soul sing and to not care whether anyone ever wanted to read those words.
We’d talk and we’d laugh. And maybe by the end of it we’d dance. I’d pull my grungy wallet out of my 31 bag that I bought specifically to match my frumpy mom outfit, but Gaga would laugh at me and say it’s already taken care of. She’d put her arm around me as we walked out to our cars to go on about our separate lives.
Our disparate lives. Her and me. Learning to take risks for the right reasons and to shine in any light. Our souls singing. Separate, but so much the same. "
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