Being in my mother's house when my mother isn't in it is sort of depressing. When I'm in my place, it's normal to be without Mom, but when I'm here, it's really not. I'm certainly not alone, of course, there are three boisterous cats - no, two boisterous cats and one lethargic ball of fluff - to keep me company, not that they do a good job of that when they're all sleeping in rooms where I'm not. Willi IS pleased to have me home, though, so much so, that this morning she woke me for food and then immediately curled up again in bed with me. I miss my Stinky Bee.

Yesterday, I saw Dr. Tovich, a strangely named man of Chinese extraction, who is remarkably pleasant. He is a neurologist of some note, and he has never treated me as a research possibility, a child, or a pest. He takes his time and asks a lot of questions, expecting his patients to ask many in return. Without resorting to catch phrases like 'it's just your migraine pattern maturing' he told me that there is little that can be done, other than pain management, and that my course of treatment is very good. This does not mean he dismissed the seriousness of the condition at all and, in fact, he's sending me up for a CAT scan.

Today, as I said, I slept late with a cat curled up with me, and then I spent a lazy few hours in my nightgown and robe watching, if you can believe this, Can't Hardly Wait, a teen movie that came out some time in the last couple of years. Amazingly, I got completely engrossed in it and even found myself completely filled with satisfaction by it's end. Bizarre. Then I decided it would be a very good idea to get some laundry done and put some decent clothing on.

I hopped in Scarlette and drove up to Portage Place to get some things done - including part of my gift to Rick for our 2nd anniversary. I was NOT pleased to hear that it won't be ready in time, but since I can't afford to pay for a rush order, I had nothing to do but accept that he'll have to wait for the final bit of his present. Oh well, there's nothing to be done but wait.

Upon coming home, I sat down at the kitchen table and finished Maya, a book by Jostein Gaardner, which Nick had bought for me. This was the same book that he read over the course of one night when he crashed at my house. What can I say about it? Um, it was philosophical, to the last, and confusing. Just when I thought I'd gotten it, a moment in which to shout out, "Eureka !", I realised that, in fact, I didn't get it. I -think- I liked it. I -think- I even agreed with much of it, but I don't know what I was supposed to get from it. I guess that's the thing about philosophy; all that thinking.