Enoughness Project Series #10: Old friends, my childhood home and one smiling rockstar

This post is part of a series about my experiences in uncovering my own innate enough-ness. For three months, I am abstaining from frivolous material purchases, accepting all blessings that come my way and focusing on gratitude for all that I have. The idea came to me in a meditation-induced haze and it has nothing to do with politics or morality. I’m just a girl who’s hoping to: separate the association between looking good and being good; get comfy with receiving; become a glowingly grateful human being; get acquainted with my own motives for material consumption; grow my understanding of when/why I buy things; and establish new habits that are more aligned with my values. We’ll see how this goes…

If you allow for pointy corners, my childhood bedroom is shaped like a heart. I just noticed this last week as my children slept soundly on its floor. My bed is somewhere near the right atrium. I was surprised never to have noticed this.

Glow-in-the-dark plastic stars sprinkle the ceiling, as do totally unscientifically placed planets. Jupiter here, Saturn there, Mercury over there, Venus right here, Pluto right over here, etc. I heard about kids who were motivated to recreate actual constellations and astronomically accurate planetary alignment on their ceilings back in the nineties, but the prospect quickened my pulse at the time. And so, to this day, it’s a right-brained solar system of which two recessed floodlights, in the two atriums of the angular heart, are the suns.

While in Kansas, I had dinner with some old friends one night. The magic of time-tested female friends is all-powerful, to be sure, and I reveled in it. We are women now, many of us moms, but these were the girls with whom I belted Madonna into brushes, danced into the night on beer-soaked cement floors, morphed study groups into memories, tried on outfits before a date, cried when my heart hurt and generally started shedding the skin of youth to uncover the woman I would become.

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Strangely, in this Facebook-happy world, I didn’t get a pic of my friends at dinner. But I did snap a few of our kids playing at the pool together the next day.

Old friends are a little bit of magic. When you haven’t seen each other in a while, you gaze at each other in wonder, you drink every word of their life like it’s nectar, you want to know literally everything that’s going on and they want to hear the same—even the ugly stuff. And you share it. You share it all, and you bounce around from person to person, topic to topic, getting almost everything out in soundbites, and receiving instant healing in the salve of a knowing, loving look before being honored with the next revelation of vulnerability from the friend across from you. Or next to you.

We talked a little bit about my Enoughness Project, and about how some of them had taken it on, too. “What was your big takeaway now that it’s all over?” Meg asked.

I’m not sure what I told her, but it wasn’t a complete answer. I’m pretty sure I said it wasn’t over at all. Yes, my moratorium on frivolous spending is technically lifted, and I haven’t gotten back on the shopping horse since, but the enoughness journey is ongoing for me.

I drove home that night with my windows down, the damp Kansas night blowing wisps of hair across my face as I sailed through green lights and past the neighborhood pools into which my girlfriends and I snuck, as teenagers, for late-night swims in our bras and panties. Past the highway I used to take to my grandma’s house in DeSoto. Past the coffee house I patronized as a high school senior to have really complex conversations with really deep people who were, like, so totally real.

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My grandma no longer lives in the sweet little house in DeSoto, Kan. Instead, she lives in a glistening senior living center, where she provided Russel Stover’s chocolate and storytelling to Charlie and Kip, who happened to relish both offerings almost equally. Almost.

My kids played for an hour on the playground where a wondrous blond boy whose memory still warms my heart used to park his Jeep so we could “talk.”

In Kansas, I’m not really sure how old I am. I have to keep looking in the mirror and at my children to remind myself I’m a grown-ass woman. My mind slips into the teenage years and I feel myself thinking of friends and family and boyfriends, slipping into patterns of a bygone era. If I’d never left my hometown, perhaps all these memories and such wouldn’t rush back with such clarity. If I’d come of adult age in suburban Kansas, perhaps this place would have grown up with me, taken on new memories, forgotten the old ones, not stayed 16 forever, not compelled me to feel hopeful every time I cruise 119th Street.

I can almost see Amber rolling up with a diet coke between her knees and bare feet on the pedals to take me to swim practice, or Kristen blaring “Anna Begins;” or Ryan careering up Nall Ave with metal blasting from his open t-tops; or Sam sitting at my parents’ kitchen stools asking questions that made me hysterical with love and laughter.

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If you were a young girl when I was a young girl, there is nothing–nothing–like sleeping in pink foam rollers to transport you back to your youth. (Aside: I took this pic to send to my sister that night but, embarrassing as it is, it is too germane not to post here.)

The boys and I left a day early to drive home. It was time to get back to our real life. It was a gorgeous day of blue skies, low-hanging cotton-ball clouds, millions of purple wildflower blossoms along the shoulder and enough sun to cast every farmer’s field in the richest of green. The highway was uncluttered, we mixed local radio stations with trusted ipod playlists, we talked a lot and we did our darnedest on a few occasions to pretend our car was a dance club.

Not too long after crossing the border into Illinois, probably a little more than half way into the 9-hour drive, Charlie announced he had to poop. We pulled over to gas up and find a potty. Two pumps down was a big, shiny, very fancy looking black van with a shimmery black trailer behind it. Two men walked toward the vehicle. One had long hair, steely eyes and one of those t-shirts that looks intentionally shabby but costs $75. The other was a meticulously groomed fellow, pristine in an all black getup that included a man-tank, tight jeans, a studded belt and well-shined boots.

“Hmm,” I said to the boys. “These guys look like musicians, don’t they? I wonder if they’re playing Chicago tonight.”

We rushed inside toward the bathroom and four additional guys—all skinny, all wearing nice clothes and a disproportionate number of statement rings per hand, all averting glances of other patrons and all sporting both overtly crafted rocker looks and cooler-than-thou airs—hovered at the register.

Three options: 1. They just happened to be regular guys from LA, 2. They were a highly contrived band of buddies hoping to get backstage at Lolla, or. 3. They were real-life rockstars. (For purposes of this story, let’s assume #3.)

Carrying Kip in one arm and leading Charlie by the hand, we walked briskly toward the back of the convenience store.

“Oh, Mommy,” Charlie called to me as though I were across a ravine. “I love you.”

“Yep, Mommy, I wiwy wuv you, too,” Kip echoed, also very loudly. “Dis is such a fun wode twip.”

We were almost to the bathrooms when Charlie made his next pronouncement. “Mommy? I really, really have to go poop!” he said, with plenty of feeling. I laughed out loud. “Mommy, can I go in the men’s room all by myself? I’m getting to be such a big kid. Or…maaaaaybe I can at least have my own stall in the girls bathroom? I can’t wait to get in there and go poop. I’ll feel so much better!”

Totally tickled and chuckling to myself, I happened to glance to my right and notice one of the rockers, in his smart little fedora and pointy boots, approaching down a perpendicular aisle, looking dead at me with an enormous grin on his face. He’d heard everything. Without a thought, I flashed him the biggest, happiest, flirtiest, most enchanting smile in my arsenal. I squeezed Charlie’s hand, kissed Kip’s head and, in the next second, pushed open the door to the ladies room, where we lingered for quite some time.

If anyone were to ask me today what came of my Enoughness Project, this story would have to be my best answer.

Barely any makeup, no glossy hair, dog-hairy yoga pants, worn t-shirt, kids slung all over me, conversing about poop and, when confronted with a dashing image of maleness and an otherworldly image of cool-ness, kissing my kids, batting my eyelashes and smiling like a starlet while walking into a gas station bathroom.

At that gas station on I-55 North, that was the enough-est version of me I know. Me being me without judgment. Me loving my loved ones, loving the present moment and loving myself such that no unfavorable ratio of me to “cool” could shake the fact that I am enough.

And that is exactly what I was going for with my Enoughness Project. Am still shooting for, because it’s ongoing. It wasn’t just about being mindful of and controlling my buying habits, it was mindfulness as my vehicle for reaching new awareness that I am enough, in every way. It’s not always easy, but at least I have a practice now. I know I have every second of every day to love myself and trust that what I innately am is exactly enough for this particular moment.

Perhaps you’ll have to come to this on your own, but this I do know: The same goes for you. You are exactly enough for this particular moment, every moment.

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Car dancing, naturally.

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Get to juking, Chicago. Pride Week is upon you.

This weekend begins the 44th Annual Chicago Pride Week. As such, I would like to come out in support of my queer pals, and offer up a devastatingly vivid visual of this mama letting it all hang out at a big, gay dance party a few weekends ago.

How long has it been since you’ve danced with reckless abandon? Your own hands weaving through your hair like the fingers of a lover lifting the locks off your neck at 1 a.m. when the music is so loud and you’ve been dancing for hours and the new air on the skin of your nape feels like heaven.

A particular sense of freedom rises, uncaged after God knows how long. And you’re picking up the beat or the melody, or sometimes both, and moving without once worrying what everyone in the club thinks of you. You don’t even pause to consider what you look like, who sees you or whether you actually have any business dancing like no one’s watching, because you magically feel unconcerned that your body wasn’t built for music videos, and you can’t wipe the smile off your face. Your hips shake, your head tilts back and a hand laces in yours, pulls you in close, chest to chest and now you’re face to face.

I’m going to take you away. Just escape into the music. DJ let it play…

You haven’t felt this way in public in…maybe not ever. It’s ecstatic without X, drunk without drunkenness, sexy without sex. You laugh. And then you break it the hell down with the warm body pressed up against yours like you’re on Soul Train. No, more like Save the Last Dance, but the imaginary version starring a straight girl and her gay male friends.

You learn a new word, “juking,” and you’re not sure what it means, but you are pretty sure you’re nailing it. You find out later juking* is “A frequently used word by the Chicago urban scene meaning to dance, party, get crunk, get buck, get loose, and just simply have fun,” and you know you that’s what you did.

This is not how you spend most Saturday nights, not anymore. Usually you’re snuggled in the hammock with your husband after putting the kids to bed. Sometimes you’re out to dinner for a girlfriend’s birthday. Sometimes you’re already asleep. But Saturday night is rarely about unleashing your best attempt at Shakira hips, unless in front of your dining room mirror, and, if you do happen to be out dancing with actual people in public, it’s never to a gay bar because you’ve had too many wonderful friends mention they’re not fond of the bachelorettes who storm into the only place some gay people feel comfortable publicly revealing their sexuality with penis necklaces and cameras as though they’re visiting the circus. “I’m not your clown,” comments one of your friends. So, with respect as your intention, you stay away from Boystown and Andersonville’s dancey bars. You let your gay friends and their gay friends have their space, knowing that, as a heterosexual person, comparatively, the whole world is your space.

But these generous men talk you into joining them one night, this night, and you don’t feel like you’re dressed for a night out in white shorts and a top you’ve had for ages, but you throw on some heels and go anyway. You talk, you laugh, you dance together, the world slips away with the spinning DJ, you get told you’re gorgeous approximately 105 times by people who want nothing from you, no one so much as looks at you with disrespect and you smile the entire night. You wonder if, you being you, you could experience this kind of euphoria at a regular dance club, and, if you were out with your girlfriends in a typical hetero club, would you be ducking around, trying not to let loose for fear of a.) looking foolish, b.) not being as good a dancer as the glamorous chick in the sequins, or c.) attracting attention inappropriate for a married woman to entertain?

You brush the thought away because you’re here and not there, and your new favorite song is playing. Don’t you worry, don’t you worry, child. See Heaven’s got a plan for you…

You watch one of your friends, a particularly tender soul, fall into conversation with a handsome stranger. And it makes you smile, like, huge, because he really needed someone to just notice him tonight. Whoa oh oh oh oh oh oh. See Heaven’s got a plan for you…

Despite all the joy, it’s late and you’re losing steam, so two friends wait with you on the curb to see you safely into a cab. You go home and fall asleep wrapped around your husband with your hand on his heart. You wake a few hours later pinned between your man and your five-year-old, who’s saying, “It’s morning, Mommy.” You tell him you’re super tired because you were out very late dancing in one of those places where grown-ups dance all night long. He responds by saying, with a quivering lip, “You’re making me feel a little jealous, Mommy.”

You know that it was a fluke of a night, and that it’ll be a while before you enjoy another dance party like that one, but you feel the sense of freedom lingering. And you pause to consider whether that freedom was accessible to you before this night, and before the two other nights of your adult life in which dear friends invited you to dance with them amid a sea of some of the free-est-seeming people you’ve ever seen.

But whether it happens again doesn’t really matter.

Your hypercritical inner mean girl got a little bit smaller tonight because your appearance-conscious self was juking without a care in the world. What else is there to say?

…A prayer. Yes. You can say a prayer.

Dear God,

May all queer people of the world feel as free to be their true selves as I felt in the safety of their space. You made us all, and we’re all perfect in your image. Thank you, God.

Amen

Happy Pride Week, Chicago!

*Note: “Juking” may also have a slightly more risqué connotation, and I can assure you what I was doing on that dancefloor didn’t remotely resemble the juking you might find on YouTube. How I’d love to be able to make my body do that.

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Sometimes you can’t even believe how blessed you are to count these guys as your dear ones. They have treated you to innumerable joys, but for context of this blog post, they’ve facilitated two of your life’s best dance parties. And by facilitated, I mean they have made a sandwich out of you for the entirety of “Hungry like the Wolf” and not laughed at your serious efforts to pretend you know how to samba. Here, you prepare to break it down to 80s cover tunes at Midsommarfest.

Bridging the porcupine-human divide for a more peaceful America

“Mommy, I’m a porcupine. Watch out!”

“Oh no! Please don’t get me with your pokey quills!”

“I won’t get you, Mommy. I like humans. My mom is a human. But my dad is a porcupine and so I’m a porcupine, too. But you better watch out, Mommy, because my dad is coming and he does nooot like humans.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, when he sees you, he’ll get you. He hates humans and he’s reeeally mean when he’s mad. Run, Mommy, run!”

“Ok, I’ll run, but wait a sec. Your dad doesn’t like humans?!?”

“Umm, no. He doesn’t like them aaaaat all. But…I think it’s because he just doesn’t know any.”

Here's one fierce little porcupine following swim class. Who knew his big brother would blow my mind with his simple insight?

Here’s one fierce little porcupine following swim class. Who knew his big brother would blow my mind with his simple insight?

Dude. Wow.

If we can overlook the obvious hole in the story—clearly porcu-dad must’ve “known” at least one human, and I’m certain his hatred was borne of her scorn—Charlie’s observation is profound. In one simple scene of preschool pretend play Charlie identified our problem and our solution…

Problem: Hate (See also judgment or disapproval)

Solution: Get to know that which you hate (or that of which you don’t know, or that of which you disapprove)

After recent conversations with a beloved and well-respected friend whose sociopolitical views are disparate from my own, I find in Charlie’s comment my marching orders.

I encourage you to join me in expanding your network of acquaintances or, better yet, friends, to include someone who’s your opposite in some way. Get to know someone who’s different from you—in terms of gender, race, culture, faith, sexual orientation, political belief, sports team affiliation, economic status, whatever—and try to get to know them. Even if just a little bit. And then tell me about it.

This goes for both sides of the coin, whatever your coin is. We’re all being called to open up just a smidge.

See, when a porcupine makes the effort to see a human, previously perceived as different, unacceptable, distasteful or worse, as a fellow child of God with his or her own heartache, hardships, loved ones and joys, love becomes that porcupine. And what’s a more powerful agent for that which heals individuals and the world than the energy of love?

To commemorate the Thanksgiving holiday and all its beautiful leftovers, I have an announcement to make: I’m probably going to steal your Tupperware.

The goddess can still mash.

My grandma is one of an elite circle of divine Tupperware-and-Cool-Whip-container goddesses. Her sacred power? Packing up delicious, love-seasoned leftovers to send home with her loved ones. She doesn’t wield her powers as often as she once did but, when I was a kid, the magic was flying all the time.

Sundays often went like this: Dinner (which was really lunch) around Grandma’s kitchen table in DeSoto, Kan.; nap on the living room floor; dessert back at the kitchen table; extended thank yous and goodbyes as she divvied up leftovers. Once back at home, when I opened the fridge, just the sight of her vintage Tupperware containers filled with remnants of our Sunday dinner was comforting to me, an instant symbol of the fact I was loved. When you’re a kid, you need that reminder, and often. Edit: When you’re a human, you need that reminder, and often. And so, with apologies to my friends, I must blame my grandma for getting me hooked on lovingly prepared hand-me-down food gifts wrapped in a snap-lidded receptacle, because that cycle of foodborne love is irreconcilably the cause of my present-day Tupperware thievery.

I opened my container cabinet yesterday and plastic spilled out everywhere. I stopped an avalanche of glass jars from falling by jimmying my thigh against the top shelf. I then noticed I’ve been withholding some things that aren’t technically mine. It’s true I’ve never formally stolen anything besides a candy corn from the bulk bin at Hy-Vee in Leawood, Kan., and yet I might be a kleptomaniac. Of the Tupperware variety.

Contents of my leftover container avalanche.

My grandma had a cabinet full of that pale green and burnt orange-ish early-days Tupperware, the kind with the triangularly-bumpy lids that took a million tries to close up tight. Once she’d filled them with our goods, we transported them to our house and eventually ate their contents, at which point they sat on the back counter of my childhood home awaiting her next visit, or ours, so we could return them. It seems like a varying assortment of my grandma’s containers perpetually rested on that back counter for most of my childhood. Seeing the stack was a reminder of that particular Sunday dinner at her house, the nap we took on her floor after eating, the sound of the ice cream scoop clinking against the blender glass…

Every time, she carefully packed a brown paper bag stacked with take-home containers and sprinkled with Starlight mints and Russell Stover’s individually wrapped French mints, which we opened and devoured on the drive home. We’d enjoy the bag’s remaining contents that night or the next day, relishing her homemade (angel-food cake), full-butter (mashed potatoes), powdered sugar-sprinkled (strawberries), Crisco-fried (pork tenderloin patties), slow-stewed (spaghetti sauce with meatballs), whole-milk (cottage cheese salad), marshmallow-topped (sweet potatoes) creations.

When she moved out of her house a couple years ago in favor of a senior living center, I got to take home her Tupperware pie slice container. I’ve only used it once or twice, but every time I see it in the back of my cabinet, I smile.

My grandma’s treasured take-home-a-slice-of-pie container. I like to call this “Tupperware’s senior portrait.”

Without questioning the fact that a plastic container can make me smile, I admit the sight of more than a couple of the containers I’ve been harboring brings about a sense of comfort and joy. Especially yours, Joanie. Still, only my Grandma has said of the pie container, “Take it, Honey. I don’t want it back.” As for the others, I will now attempt to make amends:

Joanie, this is the container that held the chocolate cream pie you made for Dennis’ birthday. It was the best dang chocolate pie I’ve ever eaten, yes, but it was way more than that to me at the time. One, I think it was the very first of many exquisite homemade creations you shared with me. Two, that pie was a symbol of all the love, friendship, mothering and good TLC you gave me when I needed it more than I needed the air around me. I apologize for this, but unless you have a sentimental attachment to this container that merits my trip to the post office, you are never, ever getting that container back from me. The best I’ll be able to do is to pay that love forward. I really hope you’re ok with this.

Joanie’s holy high-vibration Rubbermaid: Nobody leaves this baby in the cabinet. See? It’s full of leftover rice even at this very moment.

Emilee, this is from that time when Jim rode his bike to our house in the middle of the party you two were hosting to deliver low-country delicacies to Brian, who was on his own with then-Baby Kip for the weekend and had to leave your party early before the food was ready. Brian was so touched someone would do that for him. I’m sentimental about it because your man took care of my man. And that is why you never saw it again.

Emilee’s container: This held some bitchin’ Cajun food, if I remember correctly.

Becca, that tomato soup you made was otherworldly. How did you know I had nothing in the fridge for my lunch the next day? Somehow, you always know. You even said, “This is for your lunch tomorrow,” when you produced it out of your purse. You bring me nourishment in a variety of ways, but this jar? This jar contained an extra special dose of liquid love. I do actually plan to give it back to you, however, because I know those Ball jar lids are key when you’re canning, like, kaffir lime leaf relish from the tree in your kitchen. Or something. Suffice it to say, you inspire me. (Note: Between writing and posting this, I broke the jar. I really apologize for that. I will be giving you back your lid, though, just in case.)

Becca’s lid: The jar was a casualty of my take-home container avalanche. Thank goodness the lid survived.

Liz, this jar contained a steaming stockpot’s supply of the delectable powdered hot cocoa mix with which you gifted me. Your darling container now holds my guajillo chiles. And I think of you—so fondly—every time I grab one. That was a really great gift, and I don’t think I’m ready to part with the daily reminder of your sweet friendship just yet.

Liz’s cute jar: That was some awesome hot cocoa in there. Now my dried chiles have taken up residence.

Alyson, I know these BPA-free Whole Foods containers don’t grow on trees, but this particular one contained a scrumptious lentil vegetable stew, which you delivered as part of our soup exchange last year, and I loved it. I’m not sure if it healed a cold I had that day or if it made me feel better because it arrived in a moment when I really needed someone else taking care of me, but even though my name written on the lid is a constant reminder that I neglected to return it to you, so far, the reminder of the love it once contained keeps it in my regular rotation. I promise, on a day you least expect it, I will return it to you full of the sambar for which you have such a flattering appreciation.

Alyson’s container: Without question, I was supposed to return this container full of soup about a year ago.

Cin, I’m actually not harboring any of your containers at the present, but I once did, and for a long time. If you hadn’t asked me about a different container (also from the aforementioned soup exchange), thus unintentionally flushing my cheeks about a separate container I’d been withholding, you never would’ve gotten it back, mark my words. Nonetheless, even though it’s no longer in my possession, it bears mentioning here. You are my dairy-free-organic-vichyssoise angel. You are a magician, and soups are your ultimate performance. You take potatoes and leeks and turn them into a grounding elixir of joy. You transform kale and white beans into steaming bowls of light. Many times I found the container in question, a large Ball jar with the two-part lid, in my mailbox, or swathed in a plastic bag on my doorstep. No note. No text. No voicemail. Just soup. For me. It was the best surprise. I apologize for holding onto it for so long. It’s just that it made me so happy to look at it, like someone was out there thinking of me and making an effort to care for me.

So, thanks to Grandma, I equate containers of food with presents of love. Brian declared early on that “it takes a village to love Emily.” And, in surveying all my stolen Tupperware, I’m feeling very thankful that a village I do have. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. May you be laden with love, food-borne and otherwise, on this holiday and every day.

Overall, it was Kip’s technique that really wowed me.

Charlie really got into the rolling of the pie dough, and his skill was impressive, I daresay.

Resuming my haiku project with 5-7-5 tributes to four special women, who happened to subscribe to my blog

I’ve been quiet for a while.

New kinds of work have whooshed into my life and tuned my brainwaves into a different frequency, one that so far hasn’t allotted me much mind space to muse at Emily En Route. Well, not without sacrificing my self care, and if you read my recent post about your bangin’ body, you know how important I feel it is we take care of ourselves, which usually means not staying up till all hours so I can write. (Except, of course, when writing into the wee hours is more energizing than sleep, which occasionally does happen.)

Suddenly, in the course of my introspection on how I can fit both work and writing into my already full life, a spotlight pointed to the poetry-loving part of my brain, reminding me I still have a generous slew of thank-you haikus to write for friends who subscribed to my blog before its October 11 one-year anniversary. So, I’m very happily picking back up with my haiku-writing project. And I will resume with four women I adore.

Lucila D.

You’ve got that chispa

Magnanimous heart, sharp mind

La que es linda…

Cindy S.

Your heart beats with verve

If spunk and grace had a kid

She’d be just like you

Alicia I.H.

Miracles happen

When you show souls the power

That’s always been theirs

(Check out Alicia’s miraculous work at Your Soul Story.)

Merry Carole

Redhead fairy queen

Sprinkling potent pixie dust

Elevating all

(Merry Carole wields her amazing powers to build compelling personal and professional double-bottom-line brands at Branding Powers.)

Haikus for some fellow Jayhawks

I may not have the most school spirit, although it’s been known to get conjured during basketball season, but I sure am grateful to the University of Kansas for the immeasurably awesome friends and experiences it gave me. Here, some thank-you haikus celebrating a few of those people. I so appreciate you reading my blog. Rock Chalk!

Allyson F.

Your Feeding Sparrows

Is transformational, bright

Your light shines through it

Andy O.

You taught me to write

Scared me a little bit, too

First, fave editor

Melinda W.

Beyond womanly

You, alluring, always glowed.

Your life force dazzles.

Ashley L.M.

Graciousness in gold

Always gleaming, style to spare

Complex and lovely

Julie Z.

Reliably true

Flawless skin mirrors your heart

Luminous yogi

Catherine B.

You remind me of

the old Hollywood beauties

Classic, radiant

Emily En Route gets Hollar’d out

It’s gettin’ real at Emily En Route. We got our first official third-party endorsement. (Insert squealing and jazz hands.)

Katie Hollar, legal marketing wiz and captivating force of nature who happens to have a pretty fantastic marketing blog, named Emily En Route her inaugural Marketing Crush. “You should read it, as she delivers funny, inspiring and thought-provoking content on the regular,” Katie writes.

Whaaaaat?

I swoon. And I write her a haiku.

Katie

Whip smart, sexy, kind.

You have the trifecta down

Roar, lioness, roar.

I could write so many haikus about this broad. She’s a longtime friend. Does the fact we’re friends make the endorsement any less potent, you ask? No, because Katie Hollar is kind of a big deal, and she doesn’t endorse frivolously. I’m stoked.

Alternate haiku for Katie

You don’t need to floss

Goddess of nineties hip hop

Steelo like no one

To all my other amazing new subscribers, Emily En Route’s first anniversary was October 11 and so I’m wrapping up the last of the haikus. If you haven’t gotten a haiku, know that it is on the way, and that I apologize sincerely for taking so long to make you my muse. I will relish writing about you.