Now don't get me wrong. I love my husband. I mean I LUVVVVVV LUVVVVV LUVVVVV that man. . . .

when he's asleep. . . while he's recovering. Sure we have our moments when he NEEEEEEEDS me, and I don't mind but blast it all does a sistah get a chance to take a half a breath!?

With all this pent up energy in more ways than one when dealing with removing a naughty prostate gland that went bad before his kneecaps, Kenny's lack of ability to have someone wait on him hand and foot make me wonder how good of a slave woman I would have been in the 1600s?

Verdict's in. . . those no good slave owners would just have to shoot me in the back. I'm not a cook, a housekeeper, a gardener, a seamstress. I don't knit or pearl one or two. I don't like to eat anything that can't fit into a microwave and my mouth under three minutes, flat! But when one deals with cancer, a woman -- and her man, reluctantly I might inflect -- need to make some changes.

Lose weight. Check!

Eat no salt, less sugar, no dairy or red meat. Check!

Do raw veggies and fruitsies. Check! (Uh oh! Well, that's a check mark for wifey, but the husband?--Is chocolate raw?) Hence, the war begins, and the UN can't help me with this one. So, I came up with a recipe for sanity practically right after writing "Whiney Men Ain't Sexy--(see the AD article section of this website).

I call it:

"I'm Sick & Tired of Takin' All This Mess-O-Greens-Salad." . . . .

(Wanna fix it? Here it go!)

Disclaimer: Remember, I'm no cook, but the sex was great enough for my marriage to last going on 30 years. (Guess this spoiled grown 50-years-sassy woman better learn to cook now, huh?)

Step 1: Get a nice mess of fresh, non-tacky lookin' big leafy organic collard greens, some rainbow chard, along with some organic romaine lettuce. Rinse well under filtered water, and if you tqke your chances with municipal tap water, don't blame me for the chemical aftertaste. And oh, pa-Leese don't purchase that packaged crap. Go real and raw for a change. Make your late great great grandmama proud!

Step 2: Instead of smotherin' your recovering spouse with a pillow, tear up the cooperative greens instead. Cut 'em, rip 'em off their stems, shred 'em and show no mercy. Get that tension out Girlfren'! Don' hurt ya-self? (Gotta talk southern, after all 'dese iz callud greenz!)

Step 3: Get about five unsuspecting, firm red rip tomatoes. Romas are best because they don't argue back, like your recovering husband. Think of these tomatoes as cancerous prostate glands without the machismo attached, and go Loraina Bobbitt on 'em. Over. . . and over. . .  and ooooooooo-ver.  Just think of it as "surgery".

Step 4: Introduce the greens and the tomatoes (whoops, forgot-this is southern stuff) . . . "da maydus" together. Since prostate surgery was close to a delicate source of manhood, better add some fruit. How 'bout some, say. . . pineapple? And make it, . . . "tidbits." Go 'head now, mix them tid with them maydus and that nice batch-a-I'm-sick-and-tired-of-all-this-Mess-O-Greens all up nice an' purdy-like.

Step 5: Go look in the junk drawer next to the Frigidaire (that's why my relatives in Alabama used to call an "ice box" until they got 'alectricidy". If you're lucky you'll find not one, but TWO packs of Subway Red Wine Vinegar. Don't ask why two packs, why is it that a man has one machismo and two "packs?" It just works. Any more questions!!!!???? I'm doing the BEST that I CAN!!!

--Oh, that wasn't you calling me to empty your catheter bag again, again, was it? Flashback. Sorry 'bout that.-- n-n-n-n-Next! :

Step 6: Get that good Balsamic Vinegar, (don't even ask me how much to shake, just shake it until you get your release, sexual or otherwise). Shake it up with a dash, or two, or three, or forty of garlic powder and some onion bits. Keep it real!  (NO GARLIC SALT. DR. BREALL SAID YOU CAN'T HAVE SALT!! BAD FOR YA! )

Whoops, flashback.

Step 7:If you happen not to have ended up in the women's lockup, then go 'head, . . . TOSS that salad. Is the bowl wooden? Better make it a wooden bowl 'cause when you throw a glass bowl you gotta buy another one. (No sense in wastin' good prescription drug money that your Walmart job insurance won't cover now, is there?)

Step 8: Cover the bowl (is it WOODEN!) with the plastic you were planning to use to put your recovering loved one out of their misery. Leave it out of da Frigidaire for at least 30 minutes. Then go on ahead and proceed to 'fridgdize it.'

Let it sit a while, like a day. Salads need space too. Then fork it onto a plate, sample some for your mate, glare directly into your eyes with "it's this or you starve to death" look in your loving but serious eyes, and bless your body with cancer fighting antioxidants that have no risk of blood clots, nausea, dizziness, dry mouth, headache, nosebleed, sore throat, loss of motor skills, itching, hair loss, decreased sex drive, night sweats, blurred vision or dreams of little pink trailers being pulled by little flying pigs.

Bon Apetit', (or else.)

copyright 2005. cynth'ya lewis reed. all rights reserv'd. . . . . or else.