And so I sit with my coffee at my side, a bruised foot and sleep tousled hair. I’ve spent nearly 3 days in my jammies. Not venturing out to soak up the sun or be soaked by the rain. This is what I call the ‘end of tour’ days.

After every tour I squeeze myself tightly into a little cocoon, with only the bare necessities at hand. My jammies. My laptop. My iPhone. Scattered piles of take out menus. And many television series’ on DVD. (I’m midway though watching Pushing Daisies and Torchwood, and I’m about to start Season 2 of Veronica Mars).

4 days later…

Now, after being home just over a week, I find myself restless, but also surprisingly calm… needing to know what’s next, but not wanting to venture outside in the cool fresh air. This is my typical day 7. I’ve vegetated, planted roots and started to bloom. I’ve contemplated, watched, listened and told. I’ve regained my place in society, where ever that may be. I’m skeptical as to whether or not I actually fit into the so-called ‘normal’ world, but I welcome the possibility with arms wide open. Let’s see if a drifter can belong, I say…

But my ‘end of tour’ days (this time) are a little bit different.
There’ve been changes.

Now don’t get me wrong, I think change is good, but if you don’t embrace the possibility of change, then hearts can been torn. However, they sometimes, sometimes can be mended. Hemmed with time. Trimmed with patience. But a heart, like that old pair of your favorite jeans, can only be patched and repatched so many times. Eventually it wears thin in places. You can see right through it. And there’s no recovering what was once something that fit like a glove. Something that you never thought would go out of style. Something that you knew would go with everything.

Well… I guess the only option is looking for a suitable taylor who can work wonders with a needle and thread. Or a hot therapist.

I’m partial to knitting, myself.
Lisa

Lack of sleep can play tricks on the mind.

I ordered a breakfast sandwich at Horties in Quebec a couple days ago and did 2 peculiar things:

- I asked for a receipt

- I apologized as I accidently plowed over a woman on route to the washroom

What made these 2 routine remarks stand out, was that I uttered them both in German when I was supposed to be attempting a high school learned, rarely used, French accent. (Thanks Mrs. Beaton. I loved your class.) But I don’t speak German, other than a few random phrases which obviously don’t come in handy in the land of poutine and sexy road bars. I didn’t realize my error until a strange look was given to me with my change from behind the counter and I corrected myself with a reddened face.

I wonder how that happens. Is it glitch inside my fatigued head or am I just crazed?

I have a habit of wondering about pointless things, probably as an unintentional distraction from the tasks at hand, and life in general when times are taxing. Oh how life has it’s little quirks and quarks (CBC plug). Why is it that:

- People don’t flush public toilets (C’mon folks, grow the hell up)

- Hotels with no real amenities can charge you a limb for a spring riddled bed. (I guess I’m paying to NOT leave the room itching and rashy, so the charge is somewhat valid)

- Cats are considered cute and cuddly (Wheeze, sniff, ugh… I like my pets to a) come when called, b) not swat at my legs and c) be domesticated… in the kitchen, baking pies, maybe dusting)

- We torture ourselves by wearing thongs (or rather, clotheslines) that create the great divide. (It’s like bottom segregation. Shouldn’t both halves be equal? They are not funderwear)

It was a slew of mindless questions like these that kept me awake last night. I didn’t sleep. Again. I haven’t slept a proper nights sleep in quite a while. Weeks. I’m carrying more luggage below my eyes than I typically take with me on a month long tour (and I’m a girl with gear). I do have the ability to fall asleep lying on a tarmac with a 747 screeching by, however my nights have been ending at first light and my mornings have crept in before the drool has had a chance to absorb into the pillow case. I’ve now ruined the mystery… yes, girls drool. But we drool rose petals, thankfully. And some of us snore. (not me of course)

So, for all you out there listening, without the sleep I need to function, I may speak in foreign tongues. I may randomly shed a tear for no reason. I may also be a bit snippy (I’m forewarning you all) without a proper explanation.

Tonight I plan on laying my head on the pillow before dawn… but only if dawn is consenting. No means no, but lately the stars have been quite vocal about their wanting control of my nights and they’ve been keeping me up all night.

Lisa

401 east to New Brunswick. We just left the city. I’ve not had enough caffeine yet. I sipped mine slowly in rush which meant that I didn’t knock back nearly as much as my body would have appreciated this morning. Time just did not allow me the luxury of lollygagging.

Adrian is driving. Robin is passenging. (is that a word). I’m blogging.

Brenley is back at the loft, nursing her neck back to health. She will be meeting us in NB. She reinjured herself jumping on a bed at IKEA, of all things. There should be warning label at IKEA about things like that. Diving (of any kind!) may cause injury. Cheese graters are not for your head when you are in the middle of a public squabble. Eating $1 pasta may cause indigestion and embarrassment if one was to see you doing so. Thankfully I have very high standards, and I go for the calorie free cinnamon roll whilst shopping there. I can even deal with the sticky fingers (I should really shop there with a wet nap). Hold on, if I have to deal with the fact that there is never an exit to be found without walking for 9 miles through the rugs and racks, then IKEA can deal with my sticky fingers. And really, you can’t go wrong with liquidy sugar on a piece of fattening sugar stuffed dough. Mmm…

Now I’m craving. It’s been a while. There must be a Horties on this friggin’ road.

Current playlist:

- Superstitious (Sergio Mendes and the New Brazil ‘77) from the ‘Wonder of Stevie’ album - This song could almost make me dance, which is a HUGE feat. Head’s a bopping and feet are a knocking.

- By The Time It Gets Dark (Yo La Tengo) - Mellow. Gentle. Simple.

- Be Thankful For What You’ve Got (Yo La Tenge) - Not as mellow.

- Love Me Darlin’ Just Tonight (Vern Williams) - About as trad bluegrass as you can get.

This is a short blog, as my brain is not functioning as it should. It’s cluttered and clogged like an all girl’s campus shower drain.

I need Braino.

Lisa

I’m in Wakefield. We just drove through torrential rain to get here from Mont Tremblant. It was a long journey, though it felt much longer than it was. It felt like an eternity in the car with no fresh air coming in or going out. Just a stillness that could not be removed until the windows came down when the heavens stopped falling.

But I am out of the car now. I can breathe once again. And I can stretch my road weary body. And I can stare at the water out the window. And I can.. and I can.. and I can.

At least I think I can.

I’ve decided that I will try my hand at living life as the ‘little engine that could’. From this day forward, I will not only think I can, I will. I will see the sun in a different light. One that’s not blinding, but that both burns and heals. I will sing until my throat is hoarse from the words that I truly mean to say. I will listen. And I will understand.

If we took our advice from children’s books all the time, the world would be a much more interesting place. There would be green eggs on my breakfast plate (and it would be okay). There would be large red talking dogs prowling the streets and cats would wear hats. But there would also be a lot of love. Maybe that’s where we went wrong as we grew taller. We let the ways of this stormy world creep in, and the love out of our sails.

So I suggest that as soon as possible, we should all find a children’s book, one that teaches (not preaches) about love, and sit it on our bedside tables for that rainy day, when the sun is still blinding.

Lisa

I saw squirrels consummating their relationship last night.

We were waiting patiently for our dinner to come (I thought that they were actually out setting the lobster traps for my dinner) and Adrian pointed out that there were squirrels fornicating in the tree above our table. Funnily enough, when we scanned around the restaurant (to make sure we didn’t look like freaks for bending our necks out of shape to watch the show) we were not the only ones watching. ‘They really should have charged admission’, a gentleman next to us declared.

It was at that point when Brenley noticed that it was an inter-racial relationship. A black squirrel and a grey squirrel.

Hmm… I wonder if there are issues like that in the animal kingdom. Would it matter to the mother squirrel if the squirrel perched on top of her daughter (or rather, behind) was of a different color? Or maybe he was brought up in a socialist, rambling, birkenstock wearing hippie family of squirrels that like to be on the move, eating baked tofu, and the relationship between his partner’s more conservative pan seared tuna w/ wasabi mashed potatoes eating family, and his, would be one of constant struggle. Or maybe they’re all cut from the same cloth, crazy for nuts, and life would go on without any inconvenience. Or maybe one of them would get hit by a car shortly thereafter their tryst and it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Yes, the glass of beautifully aged bordeaux is definitely half empty in that squirrels situation. But one of these days we may take a gander up that tree trunk and that glass will be verging on half full, teetering on a branch, without a drop spilled.

I’m sure that there will be people who will get on my case, and think I have fallen off the deep end after reading my posts, with no little orange floatation devices strapped to my arms to keep me from sinking to the bottom. Maybe if I learned how to swim, people wouldn’t fear a sodden heart, and the possibility of drowning would come to a halt.

But we all know that life flows better a little watered down, so go teach your kids how to swim.

Lisa

Are things that get left unsaid easier on the soul than things you can’t take back?

Sounds like it’s going to be a really serious blog, eh? No. Actually, I feel like that was more like the beginning of a Sex and the City episode. Not that I watch(ed) that show. Not that I’ve watched every season, every episode, every scene over and over when I felt the need to be emotionally soothed by the interaction of 4 friends and their dysfunctional relationships.

Why is it that we garner so much satisfaction at the expense of others (on tv)? Be it watching those deal with their problems, or falling unlucky in love, or making complete fools of themselves, or being dissected on a gurney. We’re drawn to both awkward and harrowing experiences. Or at least I am.

Does that make me a masochist? Because the ‘drama’ (seems a nicer way to put it) is not actually in my own life and I don’t take actual pleasure in other people’s harm. Or more of a voyeur (not in the sexual sense of the word)? Maybe I’m just human and nobody else will admit that we’re all a little screwy and like when things in our own lives don’t seem as messed up as they appear to be in someone else’s? Again, would that be better left unsaid, so that we don’t offset the ‘we’re all such good people’ equilibrium?

But see, I also take great pleasure in little things (I’m not all bad), like finding open wireless while stopped at a red light, people who will still hold the door for you or at least smile when you do the same for them, or finding the perfect coffee shop that serves skim milk, and not just soy as an alternative to cream.

Maybe if there were less ‘dark’ moments on the television, we’d take more time to enjoy the good things in life. Live life, literally, outside the box.

Or maybe this really isn’t that big of a deal, and I’m being dramatic, and I’m one of those people who likes making a mountain out of a molehill. Metaphorically speaking. Hmm… that wasn’t really a metaphor, but for some reason, I wanted to fit that in.

Lisa

I sipped my morning diesel to the sights and sounds of an androgynous long eared rabbit. No one can mistake that distinctive voice, or those utterly flamboyant mannerisms. Was he or wasn’t he? We’ll never know I guess. We can only hope.

I grew up on cartoons. On Looney Tunes. On Walt Disney. On anything that was scrawled by hard working artists. I wasn’t a fan, however, of the hues and illustrations of Japanese anime cartoons. I just didn’t ‘get’ them. There was something that wasn’t believable to me about them, whereas a talking bunny was totally plausible. Maybe my imagination was reserved for loud mouthed animals rather than human characters who would harm each other with their golden daggers or sorcery. I guess I preferred dynamite to swords. Acme boxes of trickery to wizards and warriors. Except for maybe She-ra… the Princess of Power. She was a great role model, no?

I grew up in a neighborhood of boys. All boys. And me. I watched both He-Man and She-ra with them (although they may not admit to the latter). I played Hulk Hogan in my WWF wrestling ring that my parents bought me for my 9th birthday (I found it in the closet in the basement and cried all afternoon because I had ruined the surprise… yes I was a sensitive child). I was the token girl who was put in net when when we’d play hockey. Thankfully I learned how to stickhandle as well as the boys, so I was eventually allowed out of the net and on the front-line. Being a girl did not mean that they were any more lenient with me, it just meant that I went home with more bloodied noses and bruised knees, much to my parent’s dismay. But I felt it really added to my ‘tough factor’, which you needed in a neighborhood of rascally boys.

Not that I condone violence. Ever. Even in hockey.

Mom and Dad were (and still are) good parents. They supported me in anything I chose to do. They allowed me the freedom to play all the sports I wanted (injuries and all), learn whatever instrument I wanted (and didn’t force me to practice) and to date whomever I wanted to date (as long as their parents weren’t voting conservative of course). This is the type of parenting, with cartoons, bloody noses, t-ball and piano lessons that made me whomever it is I am today…

On that note, thanks Mom and Dad.

Lisa

Here are a few new friends I met running in Maine this morning.
Suzie the potbellied pig and Milkshake the kitty.

This is where my new friends hole up when they’re finished eating all of Cujo’s dog food. I didn’t get close enough to Cujo to get a photo.

I’m ready for home.

The shorter the tour, the more difficult it is. Knowing that you are only a few days away from your own pillow is taxing on the heart, the neck & shoulders.

But we’ve been fortunate enough to have met who I would now consider new friends. Some people make an impression immediately. Some are growers. Some could fall off the planet and you wouldn’t notice. There have been no planet descenders on this tour, thankfully. Everyone greeted us with a warm welcome, a smile and a glass of vino.

And so I will inscribe what this wee brain of mine has to offer.

Towns we drove through in Maine:

- South China
- Manchester
- Mexico
- Belfast

2 signs we saw on the highway:

- Stop here and sign the petition to ban gay marriage (I’m left handed, so I’m considered evil anyway)
- Only a servent of Christ is truly free (Free to engage in gay marriage?)

Tim Hortons in America (not that I’m generalizing) has:

- No toilet paper in the woman’s washroom (Had to be resourceful)
- Small coffees that are the size of a Canadian medium (Hmm…)
- A different sign out front (That’s like changing the Canadian flag)

Listening to:

- Postal Service (the Such Great Heights EP reminds me of the good ole days)
- Great Lake Swimmers (Yay Canadians)
- Lily Allen (Potty mouth)
- Gomez (How We Operate)
- Fela Kuti (No comment necessary)

Okay… I’m starting to feel ill.

Must.
Stop.
Writing.
In.
Car.
Ughh…

Lisa

My favourite tattoo at Pride.

Canada Day - King Street. one way to get your cell phone back.

The Skye Theatre in Carthage, Maine. Robin’s egg blue and rust - the best colour combination.

For the love of God, please bring back the bench seats!
Moments after taking this photo, they kissed. So adorable.

The old railway path I ran on in New Hampshire.