It's Summer, McGee is on Vacation, so Rich is in the hospital....

That's how THAT works.

The bad news is that nothing has changed in his condition. The good news is that he has the BEST doctors on it.

He's been vomiting since admission, nothing is staying down, and that's on a phenergan drip!! But his surgeon has “a feeling” that the tumor is pressing on the area where the stomach dumps into the small intestine so his stomach isn't draining properly and backing up. They're going to do a test that can confirm this. Waiting for that. Then Dr A. can go in and re-route the stomach to the small intestine. If anyone knows' Rich's viscera, it's Dr A. This will be his third time in.

I'm going to give you all a break and spare you the medical details of what we're dealing with and how we got here. Bottom line....it's summer, McGee was on vacation last week so.... Seriously. Just a few weeks ago, you may recall, Rich had a CAT scan and saw each of his doctors and they said "I'll see you in September." That was a great song from the Sixties but it's not working for me so much.

I think I need McGee's vacation schedule. Not trying to invade his personal space, I would just really appreciate a clue as to when the cancer is going to rear it's ugly head. Apparently, McGee is such an amazing oncologist that his mere presence keeps the evil cancer bastard at bay. Wow. Do I know how to pick the right doctors or what?!

I have a plan. It involves five gallons of gasoline and the same paving material used for high school running tracks. For the third summer in a row I'm facing a huge mound of mulch in my front yard and a crop of weeds that have almost completely taken over the flower beds and paths in the back yard, and all work to bring the two together has once again come to a screeching halt before it really began because Rich is looking at surgery. Rich is assuring me, between morphine injections, that he'll have the garden under control in no time.

Right.

For the third year in a row I can pretty much guarantee that it will be November before the mulch pile has oozed its way to the backyard, the weeds will have mutated five generations into a massive green Hulk and I will be looking forward to a blanket of snow. I'm good.

I say let's level it and pave it. Not only will the maintenance level reach a manageable level, the grand kids will LOVE the Big Wheeling potential.

I need to gradually ease Rich into the concept. Obama's got his campaign, I've got mine. Equally daunting. So I casually, in a joking tone, serve this dream to Rich this evening. Cuz, when you've got a morphine IV push for gravy, you can serve black top for dinner. Oh wait...he's not keeping anything down.

I know I'm not gonna win out of the gate—I've got several primaries, secondaries, and at least one tertiary to campaign my way through. But his response did blind side me. He said...because I can't make this shit up..... “We can't do that...it would ruin the resale value of the house.”

Dude. Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?! In what possible state of mind is the resale of our house a factor of ANYTHING? Oh, and yeah, the incredible creeping green Hulk in the backyard is going to give the real estate agent a woody.

Luckily, in MY state of mind I can keep it real. Focused on Rich's beloved garden slipping further into the valley of despair, feeling that the weeds aren't just strangling the peonies, they're strangling me as well. I know I'm not going to win this campaign, I'm just tired of the weeds.