"When I die," I told Phil this evening, as I sat on couch taking deep long breaths of air in and out, "make sure you surround me with my art, and the iPad. You have to bury me with the iPad." "You know you're not dying," PG said, holding my hand. "I know, but if I am, make sure you do that. I need the iPad with me, ok? I feel like I'm short of breath. I can't get enough air in right now," I told him. "Stop talking and breath," he said. "Just don't forget the iPad," I reminded him. "Maybe we can just send you with one of those cardboard iPads like the cardboard TV's from the furniture store," he said. He's so supportive, my PG. "You know, those kids aren't cleaning up their rooms up there, like I have asked them 100 times. You know, you can hear them singing and dancing and laughing . . . they aren't cleaning up their rooms ," I said. "I swear, I...