Ya AIn't Gonna Believe It

I've been around a while. My birthday is coming up in a few days, and I'll be ninety-fuckin-two. I can't even believe it, to be quite frank with ya. Just don't seem possible. Anyway, not that who I'm going to talk about is this old, but this lady's one of the few people I've heard of that's on the television. I used to watch her and that sexy young man with a mustache every Friday on show called 20/20. I don't even know if it's on anymore. I don't know how they expect many people to watch it here in Prairie Springs anymore. This town's coming to life and most people find something better to do than sit around and watch the boob tube. 

Today, I was sitting around here twiddlin' my thumbs when, low and behold, the phone rang here at the cafe. Maxine yelled, "Winnie! Come quick!" I jumped out of my seat where I was restin' for a few and ran to the phone. I was certain someone had done died on me. But no. It was L.R. Williamson, and he wasn't nearly as excited as he should've been, but the man who edited the book about our town, of which I am the star, lives in New York and he gave the book to Barbara Walters. Imagine that! Barbara Walters is going to read all about me. Of course, to get to me, she has to read about all the other loons in this town, but who gives a fuck.

My arthritis has been right bad lately. I ain't been in much of a mood to be typing away on this computer machine. I wouldn't have written today, but I downed some extra gin and raisins this evening cause I knew I would want to share the news.

Ya'll have a good night...and remember, you ain't gotta be asleep to dream.

Love ya.

Winnie C.

Eller

Nothin' makes my day more than for L.R. "Eller" Williamson to stop by and see me. I'll Suwannee! He's a fuckin' diamond in the dung. He might want to call first next time, however. He had the unpleasant surprise of seeing me in my birthday suit. You can imagine how wrinkled it is after ninety-one years, for crying out loud. Anyway, he stopped by and Maxine told him he could go on back to my apartment. I was standing at the back door, naked as a jay bird, smoking one of my mood ciggies, when he popped his head in. He turned as red as a beet and hightailed it back out into the table area of the cafe and waited for me there. When I emerged, I made sure I was completely dressed. One day I was nearly to the cash register when I realized I'd forgotten to put on my britches. Thank the Lord Constance wasn't there to snap a picture or I'd have been front- and-center on the first page of The Herald. 

So, Eller and me, we had us a cup of coffee together. I tell you, if I were fifty-five years younger, and he were straight, I know he would have been one of my husbands. As it is now, I just think he's as cute as a button. 

That book he wrote, Prairie Springs, is going to be a hit one day. I keep tellin' people to buy it. We got a stack of 'em here by the register and they sell like hotcakes. The ones who read it, come back and buy more copies to give as gifts. And I get more fan mail than I have in my life. Actually, it's the first time I've ever gotten any fan mail. He done me up real swell in the book. 

I'm as wired as an electrical outlet. I'm on my third expresso this afternoon. We started selling Cuban coffee and I cain't get enough. I'd better stop now or I won't be able to close my eyes when I go to bed. Friday's are always late nights anyways. It's the one night when the high school kids—those old enough to drive—come in and drink coffee. 

I got to do my taxes. You'd think they'd put an age limit on that shit. Every fuckin' year, it's the same mess of paperwork. I ain't gotta a clue what I'm doin', so I just do the best I can. 

Y'all have a good weekend. Keep the questions coming. My email address is winniecollins@gmail.com. 

All my love,

Edwina

The Worst thing about Being Me?

What kind of fuckin' question is that? Ain't nothin' wrong with being me. I enjoy every part of me, so I ain't right sure why I need to have a worst thing. But to answer the question that somebody done asked, I'll say, "I ain't got a fuckin' clue." I downright enjoy myself. 

Stacy Stewart, the mayor's wife, is getting her certification. Remember I told y'all she's always in here reading self-help books? Well, she already gots her psychology degree, so now she's going back to school to get her certification going. She'll soon be opening "The Couch" somewhere here in Prairie Springs. She hasn't set her fees yet, but I don't reckon I'll have the time or the money to go. Ain't no use trying to go get somethin' fixed that ain't broken. And if somethin' is broken, I don't wanna know about it. But there are some other folks around town that could sure use a couch for an hour. Hell, there are some who could use a sofa-bed.

In other news, Maxine and Luciano still haven't set a date, but Maxine's wearing her ring proudly. The INS hadn't been back in here, and I doubt they'll be back. You don't wanna mess with a 91 y.o. who owns guns. A lifetime sentence for me would be pretty damn short.

While I'm on the subject of foreigners, I hear they're thinking of building a big wall between here and Mexico. My question is who's gonna build it? The Mexicans are the ones who build the roads we drive on and I ain't never seen the INS arrest a highway construction crew. I suspect the Mexicans will also build the wall and at the very end there will be a little hole for them to crawl through when their work is finished. That just don't make any sense, but I bet my bottom dollar that what's going to happen. I asked Luciano why he don't become a citizen and he told me it takes over ten years. It ain't no wonder there are so many illegal people. Maybe Maxine should go teach them how to use the computer at the citizenship place. 

I got me a purple wig. Now, don't go thinkin' I've lost my marbles. I only wear it on Friday and when we have special meetings here. I think it looks right fine on me. Today I ain't wearing it, cause today ain't Friday and there ain't no special meetin', but I'm all for spicing up dull routines. When The Tonight Show calls back, at least I'll have my new wig to sport about. I'll look right fancy strutting up and down Rodeo Drive in it. 

Speaking of colors, I see Constance coming across the parking lot in her turquoise getup. I doubt she's coming for caffeine, but I could be wrong. Anyway, I gotta go back to work. 

Keep the questions coming in. 

All my love, 

Edwina Collins

It's About Damn Time

The other day—'bout a month ago or so. A wicked storm came through Prairie Springs and knocked out phone lines and electricity wires. It was terrible. I thought I'd done seen my dying day, but low and behold, I'm still here and they finally got the phone and internet a-workin'. They probably had to wait on some Chinese children to make the cables and crap, bless their hearts. But, we're back on the screen here at the Theater Cafe, and the phone works, too. 

Now that we're back up, I ain't got much time to write. We're always busy first thing in the mornin', but I'll be back later, ya hear.

All my love, 

Winnie C.

Grab a rake!

I ain't got much to say lately. I've been in one of my moods. Pawpaw ran out when someone took out the garbage, and I ain't seen him since. That ain't what's got me, though. And I'm not about to sit here and try to figure out what's goin' on inside my head. It didn't make sense to me before, so I doubt it'll make sense to me now. 

But I was thinkin' last night as I lay in bed about people taking paths in life. I done took me so many paths I can't even recall what they were, but somehow I got where I am now. Anyway, get you a rake, a shovel, whatever ya need. Make your own path. The only thing you can do wrong with paths is sit there and ponder over 'em. 

I've always been a big listener of Dolly Parton's music. While it might seem she's been around as long as I have, she ain't been. Not even fuckin' close, but the girl's got a lot of talent in her pockets. I heard me a new song on the radio the other day about "Ya Better Get to Livin'." I thought that was real sound advice. 

Since life is full of shit, it's like my momma told me once when I was little and got my heart broken by some boy in school, "It's how you get through the hard times that makes you a good person." What good is a day if the day is wasted? 

I'll try not to be so quiet. I appreciate all of them letters y'all have been writin' me askin' if I was okay. Ain't nothin' wrong with me.

Love to everybody,

Winnie C.

Barn Snowball

That bookstore I was tellin' ya about in Syracuse called Barn Snowball, well, they ain't gonna have that book about me. I guess I'm too low class for 'em. I told L.R. "Eller" Williamson on the telephone that it had been a week of bad luck. That poor soul on that Star Search Idol show got the boot, and now this. I'll tell y'all like I told him, "Keep your chin up and a Band-Aid in your purse. Ain't no time for tears when the clock's a-tickin'." Y'all know how far I went to get to the center of the Rockette's dancin' line way back when. If ya don't, I sure as hell ain't gonna tell ya on here. Honestly, folks, I don't know what the hell y'all are waitin' for. The book ain't gonna get any cheaper. I got wind the other day of an Italian woman who makes $150,000 a year doing some shit at an office, and she borrowed the book instead of gettin' her own. That beats all I ever saw! Them's the peoples' funerals you just don't go to. Send used flowers—just to make your point—but bathe the fuckin' cat that day. That's all I got to say about people who don't support other people. 

Well, Maxine and Luciano are the happiest damn couple ya ever did see. Maxine's an interesting character. She's prettier than anything you'd see on the silver screen, but her personality comes and goes like a dizzy bird. Something's always brewin' in that head of hers. I'm glad she met her Argentine prince. He's the same person everyday, and I'd bet my bottom dollar that Luciano'll help her to relax.

I ain't got much to say. It's pourin' down rain—bucketfuls! We got the lights turned off in the cafe and it's as cozy as your grandmama's sofa. My eyes are barely open and this bright computer television screen makes me even sleepier. 

Stacy Stewart, the mayor's wife, is gigglin' over a self-help book towards the back. Maybe Eller should write self-help next time. There always blabbin' on the TV about makin' yourself better. Whatever happened to the days when folks just wanted to be entertained?

Eller did mention that his book was going to be talked about at the Gay Center in New York City in their reading group on Thursday. Ain't nothin' like a bunch of homosexuals to brighten a day! Or decorate a house! Or dress ya up right pretty!

I give ya'll my love.

Edwina Collins

Co-owner of the Theater Cafe, Prairie Springs, Texas

Car wrecks, wigs and such

Thank the good Lord in Heaven, I haven't been driving much. I know the others in town are grateful, too. Oh, I still got my wheels and get where I need to go, but like everything else in my life, it's because I'm old. Ain't nothin' wrong with me, but it's always my fault. Someone could run a red light—the red light—and broadside me, and somehow it would be my fuckin' fault 'cause I'm old. 

I got me a real long letter today in my mailbox on the computer. Some poor woman in Dallas had her a car accident. Bless her fuckin' heart. I know all about them wrecks. I had me two, yes'm, last year. Neither were my fault, mind you. The first one I lost my wig, but the second time, I held to it like a dog to a bone. Wigs aren't cheap—especially the red-haired ones. When's the last time you saw a redheaded Chinese person? All my wigs say 'Made in China.' That's one thing you'd think we could manufacture right here in the US of fuckin' A where people grow red hair. 

Anyway, back to my point—What I was talkin' about?

I got me a letter today in my computer mailbox. It was a real long one, and this woman was talkin' about a car wreck. I was in a car wreck twice last year, the first one—I beg your pardon.

Lordy! Memory lapse is one of the benefits of aging. I'll chew on some rosemary tonight. That's good for your memory, they say. Since I can't remember who said it, I cain't right declare how good it works, but I figure it cain't hurt. 

Tonight that American Idol show was on. It's a big fuckin' to-do, I'll say. Anna and Kyle even had a little party at their place where we watched it together. We had a good time. Thank God, Anna didn't make those disgusting greens that taste like fish. She did make her tasty punch that makes everybody happy, and we watched the little girls sing their songs. They were songs from way back in the eighties. I was in my eighties in the eighties, so to be honest, I ain't never heard of most of 'em, but I thought that Kady did a real nice job with whatever the hell that song was. She has some nice tits on her. I never had me any that size, and now that I'm 91, I consider that a blessing or I'd have to watch my step. 

After the show was over, we called a number on the telephone to vote. I thought that was the smartest thing since sliced bread. Why can't we elect our presidents that way? Considerin' what we got now, and we went to the votin' booth for it, I don't see how it could hurt. Gettin' back, Anna voted for the skinny girl who didn't even have the energy to stand up while she sang. Poor girl was sittin' down on the stage. And Kyle voted for my girl Kady. I drank me several cups of punch, but I sobered up before I drove. I don't drive much anymore since I had two wrecks last year. Neither one was my fault, and in the first one, my wig flew off—Aw, hell!

I'd better get some sleep.

Toodle-oo!

W.C.

Querstion

What do I do to stay sexy?

I ain't much to look at, but I guess you could say I'm sexy. I read this about me today—Maxine found it, and I sound pretty damn sexy in it. 

Winnie Collins, lover of Jesus and the homosexual, ninety-one year old co-owner of the Theater Café in Prairie Springs, Texas, and who grows seven-leafed plants with her arthritic green thumb, would have made an excellent guest on late-night television...

Getting back to the querstion, I gotta say what makes a ninety-one year-old woman feel sexy is she ain't worried about being sexy.

 

Friggin' Taxes

You might want to do yourself a favor and make sure you read what I wrote yesterday, otherwise you'll be kinda lost since today's is Part 2. But that's just me. Do whatcha want.

You'd think when you turn 90, you could quit filing the bastard taxes, and they'd let you enjoy your last years of life without paperwork. If I get audited at this point, they might as well bring a Smith & Wesson and be done with me, because I cain't prove shit. There's no way possible I could explain where I got my money from, and I cain't write it on this bastard computer screen because it's all in that book Prairie Springs. The last thing I want to do is be sued by the man who made me a star, because I couldn't keep my trap shut. But if you wanna know where my money came from, I suggest you spend $15.99 of your own and buy the book. It's money well spent, I tell ya. Hell, just to read my story is worth 16 bucks, plus you get the story of the rest of the loons in this town. 

I'm on the computer early tonight 'cause a cold front blew through this afternoon, and I guess everybody's at home tryin' to keep their titties warm. Lord knows they ain't in here with their hands around a warm cup of hot chocolate. We got a good coffee drink. (I'm drinkin' me some right now. Later I'll probably be complainin' because I won't be able to sleep, but if I die before I go to bed, at least I'll have enjoyed this fuckin' coffee and cocoa.) My point is, in case you missed it, we ain't got too many customers. A couple of youngsters are in here studying, and Constance, the reporter at The Herald, is eyeing me from a rear table. She's probably waiting for me to have another heart attack. I'm like Liza Minelli—you cain't kill us. I bounce back like a rubber ball, not hard to do since I was faking the whole thing, but no one needs to know that other than the few people who do. To be on the safe side, Luciano stayed at Maxine's today and is following orders to stay indoors. Until we're sure that those INS men are outta here, he's gotta keep a low profile. Maxine and I were talkin' about who might've reported him—or us for hiring him—but we ain't got no proof about nothin'. When I find out, mind you, someone better have on their sneakers and be able to dodge a bullet. 

I left y'all hangin' last night and promised to write more today. So, yes, the party was just divine—fuckin' divine! We covered the front windows with newspaper after the cafe closed. I called Anna and Kyle, and they invited all of the friends they share in common with Maxine and Luciano. We had a good twenty people when all was said and done. We lit candles, cranked the radio, and drank a shitload of champagne. To keep everybody calm, I offered a couple of my special cigarettes that we passed around. And we burned them skinny smelly sticks to cover the odor. Honestly, I think them little sticks smell worse, but that's just my opinion. I kept the door to my apartment closed so Pawpaw didn't get a whiff of anything but catnip, and we celebrated for nearly four hours. I didn't get to bed until after three in the mornin'. I don't mind, though. I'd been waitin' so long for him to pull that ring out of his pocket, I wudn't about to hit the sheets just 'cause the clock told me it was time! No siree. 

Maxine was all a'glow. She got back the color in her face and then some. I don't think there's any need in me talkin' about what happened once they went back to her place. That's a bit private, but really early this morning, I'd imagine there was a wolf or two wondering where that howlin' was comin' from—Sounded like the civil defense siren had gone off. 

Hold on a sec—

I'll declare! Constance is nosier than Barbra Streisand, up here askin' me what I'm writin'. If she had the smarts to work a computer machine, she could read all about it. I guess I've disappointed her that I'm not gonna die tonight. Must be a slow news week, but she can keep walkin' if she thinks I'm gonna be Thursday's headline. (The Herald only comes out on Monday and Thursdays.)

Speakin' of books, I could never figure out how to get the Prairie Springs book in that little slot on the front of the computer machine, so I used a friend of mine down in Sugarland and had her send one to that Rosie woman's mother-in-law. I done seen her on Rosie's computer screen, remember? Talking about some place called Pampos. "P is for petunia..." Maxine looked at where she was talkin' about, and she said they sell dance clothes. Since I'm an ex-dancer, I sure wished they had a store here in Prairie Springs. I could start up a dancin' league of some sort. Anyway, this woman reminds me a lot of myself when I was her age—at least she has the accent down—so I thought I'd spend some of my money and send a book over to Baton Rouge. 

Well, kids, I gotta go wipe me off some tables since Luciano ain't here. Be good to yourself, ain't no one else gonna love ya like you can love yourself. 

Winnie C.

Mercy Me

The party just ended. My head's spinnin' from the champagne and I'm feeling loose. Champagne does that to me. It was a grand fuckin' gala, but it was off to a rocky start. 

This all happened yesterday. I needed a day to recuperate.

It was just after three in the afternoon when these uptight men came in for coffee. I knew something was fishy from the get-go. You don't live as long as I do without learning the good guy from the bad one, and rarely does good news follow a man wearing a short-sleeved white button-down. I had one eye on the men, and the other was eyeing out a route to get to my gun. 

Pawpaw is doing fine, by the way. 

Luciano was wiping off some tables, Maxine was visiting with Kyle, that's Anna's friend, and I, as usual, was the only one paying attention to Starsky and fuckin'-Hutch. I couldn't figure 'em out, but they weren't here to sip on coffee, that was for damn sure. I went to the register, making sure they ordered something before ruining my day, and asked who they were. When I found out, I had to act fast. I fixed 'em up their coffees and slapped a piece of carrot cake on a plate, took their money, and then had me a heart attack. I held my breath, clutched my left arm, and fell to the ground. We have a nice little soft rubber mat behind the register that served as a comfy landing pad. I heard everyone in the cafe gasp and Luciano ran over. I whispered three letters in his ear, knowing the rest was up to him. "I.N.S."

He stood up and announced he was going to call an ambulance. He dialed the number and then said he was off to fetch me some aspirin. He didn't say "fetch," that's my word, but he ran back into my apartment behind the hutch and out the door that leads to the alley way. Remember I told you that was poor plannin' the other day 'cause we have to drag the trash through my room? Well, they say ain't nothin' happen without a reason. I guess that's true. 

Meanwhile, everyone in the Theater Cafe gathered around to watch. All I did was open my eyes real big like I was scared, and let my tongue hang out of my mouth. I ain't never had a heart attack before, but some of my husbands have so I knew what to do. Even if I didn't do it right, they'd think it was cause I was so old. Maxine was as white as a ghost. I was 'fraid she was going to faint then and there, but she held up until the ambulance arrived, loaded me on a stretcher and wheeled me away. 

She hopped in her car and followed me to the hospital and left Kyle in charge of the cafe. I found all this shit out later, but the two men in white shirts asked Kyle about Luciano, and Kyle said he'd never heard of him, but that there was a latin boy working at the Save-All. He said it because he knew it wudn't true. The Save-All hadn't hired a non-white since they opened their doors. 

So I didn't have to pay for the ambulance out of my pocket, I belched and made a miraculous recovery. I told them doctors I'd been having problem with my gasses, and "swore to lay off the refried beans and hollow-penis peppers." Then Maxine drove us back over to the cafe. I explained everything on the way. 

We were on the street behind the Dairy Queen when Maxine spotted Luciano hiding next to the dumpster. We turned in and pulled him into the car and went over to Maxine's house.

It was there, when it was just the three of us, that he got down on one knee and finally pulled out the gawldamn ring. I'd been waitin' so long, I had to find me a chair.

I'd planned on finishin' the whole story tonight, but I didn't figure it'd take me this long to type out the first part. I'll tell y'all about the party tomorrow. What a friggin' barrel of fun.

Plus, I ain't received not one letter asking me a question, so I'm headin' to bed...and I gotta give PawPaw some vittles. 

My love,

Winnie