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

One of my fans

Back a few days, one little lady asked me a querstion about the end of the world and shootin' that rocket ship down, or whatever it was that was going to blow us to smithereens. Well, today she done wrote me to say she got accepted to a big ol' school and is going to get her master's degree in psychology. I think that's fuckin' fantastic, and lemme tell ya why. Cause when I was a little girl, most of us didn't go to no school. I picked cotton from the time I could walk, and when I was old enough to dance a little, I moved to New York to dance on that fancy team at Radio City Music Hall. I never did finish my studyin', which is why you might find some errors in my writin' and spellin'. I ain't never claimed to be book smart, but I'll whip ya into shape right fast if ya's having trouble with life smarts. 

One of our customers here at the Theater Cafe is Stacy Stewart, the mayor's wife. She's a regular since we started that book trading thing, and she's generally readin' about psychology doings. You can read all about her in Prairie Springs. Speaking of which, some man wrote me an email today 'bout how good that Eller Williamson's book is—said every line was carefully crafted. I done been tellin' folks it's a good one, but I appreciated him a-writin' me. Maxine was doin' a little research and found that it's also been included on a list of recommended readin'. She wrote the man who runs the site and he told her he includes only one or two books a year. She told me to tell y'all that if you go to that Google page I told ya about, and type in GLBT Literature, it's the first link. (I don't right know what a link is, but that's what she said.) Then you have to go to the book recommendations. 

Tonight, I was watchin' that television show I mentioned with them singers. My girl, Kady Malloy, bless her fuckin' heart, was going to be sent back home, but then they called the other girl's name. I was so happy, I shed a tear. The problem with tears at my age, is they get lost in my wrinkles. If I don't dab them up, ya never know where they'll come out. I've started referrin' to my wrinkles as tear canals. 

I got me a kitty cat today—found it when I took out the garbage. The problem with having my apartment at the rear of the cafe is that the garbage gets drug through it. There ain't no other way to the back alley. We didn't do a lot of plannin' when we redid the joint, or we might have seen that'd be a problem. Anywho, there he was, or she. I hadn't looked to see yet. I named the booger Paw-Paw. I hope he don't mind the reefers on occasion. I can grow him some catnip in my special garden, so he don't feel left out.

I damn near forgot what I wanted to say about that psychology girl—And, well, I just forgot again! Sometimes I wonder if people shouldn't live as old as I am. Honestly! You get where you can't remember squat. 

I'm gonna go now so I can check on Paw-Paw. Y'all have a good one. 

I send you my love.

Winnie C.

Jeepers

I'm so blasted tired tonight, I can't see straight. I barely could keep my eyes open watchin' that singin' show I told y'all about. This week, I got to watch them sing. I like that little feller who does the talkin' after they sing. Ryan Seacrest. I jotted down names this time so I could write me a better letter. And damn near the end of the show, that girl I like came on. Let's see—Kady Malloy. I wonder did her parents mean to misspell it like that? I didn't particularly like me that song she picked out, but anyway— Dadgumit I'm tired. At my age, my first thought is that I must be on my way out. Good Lord, I hope not. That's all I got to say 'bout that.
This afternoon, I looked up and saw Luciano on one knee looking up at Maxine. I screamed and hollered and ran over. Turns out he wudn't proposing, he was picking up some coins she dropped behind the counter.
Tomorrow, I'm goin' over to The Springs. I can't tell ya why I'm goin' because it would give away stuff that happened in Prairie Springs the book. Eller told me he didn't mind me writin' my computer letters, but not to give away anything that happened in his book.
All my love,
Winnie

Good grief

I can't be more than a decade from death, and y'all can't write an old lady a querstion? That won't stop me from keepin' ya up to date with what's going on around here. We ran out of coffee. Someone was so excited about her new television that she forgot to order it. At just after three o'clock, I boogied over to the Save All and bought some big cans of Folgers and one can of Maxwell House, because it comes in a pretty blue can. Maxine didn't get too upset with me, though. I hurried so quick, I don't think the customers ever knew we ran out. 

This evening, I called Anna over here. In case you forgot, she's the one who gave me the television. Anyway, I had spent the afternoon writing a story for the Houston newspaper, and I wanted her to come over and help me out with the grammar crap. That ain't ever been my strong point. She told me what I wrote was real good. I hope to the high heavens that they print it. It was all about that book about our town, the man who wrote it, and how the Johnny Carson show called me. If it does come out, they tell me it'll be on Thursday, and you can bet your bottom dollar, I'll snip it out and put it up here for the world to see. I ain't gotta clue how I plan on doin' it, but Luciano or Maxine can help me out. 

Well, the rumor was dead-on. They are opening a dollar store where the dime store used to be. I saw a group of men in there working away. The mayor's gonna have to put in some kind of sign law, or else we're gonna have big ol' neon signs on every store. I might make me a trip across the parking lot to the courthouse and have me a visit with him. He generally does what I tell him to do.

Speaking of signs, we got one taped near the register announcing a homosexual meeting group. This ain't the first time they've been here, but I hope to Jesus it's calmer than the last time when people broke windows and got their Fruit of the Looms in a wad. I cain't figure people out, gettin' all worked up over a little talk. Last time, I kept my shotgun in the back, but this time, I'm considerin' standin' in the doorway with it. We can't afford any more broken windows and such. I'll declare to my soul, with so much divorcin' going on, you'd think tryin' something new would be welcome. If I could let go of my fondness of male genitals, an issue that's ended in divorce more times than I care to admit, I was ponderin' battin' for the other team on my next go-round, but that's probably a tidbit I should've kept to myself.

When you're as old as I am, one thing that's a guarantee is that you'll lose most of your friends. The other guarantee is flatulence. Used to, I could sneeze without givin' it a second thought. Now, I have to be sittin' just so in order to squeeze. I call it 'squeeze n' sneeze.' It's a fuckin' talent is what it is, but every so often, especially if there's a damn cat around, one sneaks up on ya, and you can only hope the chair seat isn't made of wood. Today, Kyle came in and lit up a cigarette not a foot from my face. Smoke don't usually bother me, but today it hit my nose just right and—ah choo! poot! Sounded like I'd started my own band. I apologized. What else can ya do except hope it don't stink.

Ain't that something, I spent most of my time writin' about aging. This is exactly what happens when I don't get any friggin' questions to answer. I bet that Rosie woman got a question or two.

Love from Winnie in Prairie Springs. And remember, if you got pink eye, rinse with soft-contact saline solution. If you got crabs, get to the pharmacy Pronto. I got me some of them boogers once, and the vacuum cleaner don't do the trick. If you got arthritis, get you some golden raisins and a bottle of gin. Drink the gin and you won't have to worry 'bout eatin' the raisins. 

Don't go and judgin' me

I'm 91, but that don't mean I'm dead yet. The other day when I was writin', and I put that someone was at the door? Well, it scared the petunias outta me, but I ran and fetched my wig. While I was back yonder doin' a quick primp in the mirror, I also stuck my pistol in my jacket pocket—just in case—and went to see who was a bangin' on the door. Turns out it was Mr. ___. I can't say his name on here, 'cause several people from around town are readin' what I write. I opened the door and let him in, and we went back to my apartment.

I lit me up the wonder weed I keep tucked in my wig pouch to help with the arthritis pains. It's also good for overall relaxin', and, well, to put it delicately, we hit the sheets. It's been years, and it was as good as I remembered. Mr.___ was all the gentleman. He stayed with me for a little bit, and then I escorted him out.

Now, I wouldn't be sharin' this sort of intimate detail had I not written there was someone there in the first place. I ain't learned how to erase yet, so I had some explainin' to do.

Aside from that, this weekend in Prairie Springs was pretty dadgum dull. The coffee machine overflowed, and I know we at least broke three cups (I don't know how many Maxine and Luciano broke), and I got me a letter from Ivory Black in the paper mail. Why in the hell she wrote me, I do not know, but it was kind of her. She probably got wind that The Tonight Show had called and was hopin' I'd take her with me. Just between you and me, I don't see that happenin'. The last person I'd wanna take on a trip to Hollywood is Ivory Black. She'd steal the thunder from a rain cloud. Plus, she's got her life up in New York City now. "Eller" Williamson says he's got a whole book about her. Bless his heart, but I cain't figure out why he'd wanna give her her own book. I really shouldn't say that, she's gotta a good story: how she left her husband and went dream-chasing up in New York. Speaking of New York, I hear that the Prairie Springs book might soon be at some bookstore in Syracuse called Barn Snowball, or something like that. It was Constance spewing the gossip, and sometimes she's sloppy with the details.

I was lookin' out the window today as I worked the register and saw some man sittin' in his car over in the center parking lot. I said to myself, now aint' that a shame, some people spend their whole life sittin' in a fuckin' parking lot. Life's a car that was meant to be driven. You ain't never gonna find the right path if you don't go somewhere.

I guess Ivory Black ain't so bad after all, but judgin' from her letter, it looks like her path led her to a stop sign. Don't say you heard it here first, but I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she don't wind up back where she started.

New Question-Asked and Answered.

Guess what Anna brought me today? A television set for my little apartment here at the rear of the cafe. The last time I watched the boob-tube, I was at the Roadside Palace Motel. That was after I got kicked out of the old-coots home because they didn't like my gardening abilities. Seeing the lights were always on in the activities room, regardless of the inactivity, I planted some of my special 'can of bees' seeds, the same kind I use to make my 'can of butter.'  The plants were fuckin' gorgeous—I have a green thumb—but once they figured out what was growing, they kicked Humphrey (my boyfriend at the time) and me out onto the streets. So, we hightailed it up to the Roadside Palace where I talked the manager into a monthly rate. Well, it was there that we had a TV, but Humphrey was usually the one with the remote. Now, thanks to Anna—bless her cotton pickin' heart—I've got my own tube. She gave me the rabbit ears and all. The whole shebang.

This evenin', when the crowd commenced to scatter, I headed back to my apartment and am just now comin' out. I twisted the dial to an Austin station and there was a show on called American Idol. It's a talent show where people sing. I seen me a girl on there from Katy, Texas. That's down there by Houston, and Houston's only a couple of hours from Prairie Springs. She's got some pipes on her. I tell you what, though. There was only five minutes of show, and it took me a whole fuckin' hour to watch it. I've never seen so many commercials and needless chit-chat. I thought Dorcas was bad about not saying anything, but my Lord! With that said, I'm gonna find out when it comes on again. 

I've got me another question in my letter box. Oh my, this one comes from New York City. I wonder how long it took to get here? The question is: How do you keep your spunk? You might figure this question came from New York City. I don't generally save it. But I hear nowadays, some people are a-freeze'n it. I ain't got no need to keep it around, and honey, to be honest, at my age,  most of the men I'm with ain't got much spunk left. Humphrey, for example—God rest his soul—it was like his penis dry-heaved. 

This is what I like about them big-city folk. They ain't afraid to talk about things, even when it ain't their business. 

In other news, while Anna and Kyle were fixin' up my TV set, I hobbled over to the pharmacy for some corn pads. I slapped one of them little donuts on my corn and the pain eased. I reckon I should go shoe shoppin', but—

Oh sweet Jesus! There's someone at the door. It's late, and I'm here by myself. 

Guess Who's Here?

Well, he might not mean to much anyone else, but around Prairie Springs, he's still the talk of the town. Granted, we ain't got a whole lot to yack about, but I sure was glad to see him pop into the Theater Cafe today. I love him like he were my own boy, though I'm certainly old enough to be his grandmother. Yep, I was sittin' here, mindin' my own business, just fillin' up the sugar dispensers, and in walked L.R.Williamson, the man who made my name worth more than six letters. I usually call him Eller, 'cause that's what the initials sound like. He stopped in the other day, ya know, but today he had real good news about his book. I cain't figure out why y'all ain't snappin' this booger up. If I'm to ever get me on a television show, y'all better hurry'n make me famous. I ain't a fuckin' spring chicken!

I'm not just spattin' out a pretty line 'cause he's sittin' next to me, either. But I am gonna scoot over and let him tell y'all hello.

 

Hello Winnie fans! 

Winnie is apparently enjoying blogging. Maxine said she somewhat regrets getting her started, but I've never seen her so happy. 

I met Winnie seven years ago, when I started my work on Prairie Springs. Winnie brings a lot of happiness to everyone she meets, so I'm glad that happiness is being returned to her, even if it is in the anonymous cyber world.

Winnie mentioned that I had good news with the book, and that's true. It is now being reviewed by OutSmart, The Washington Blade, The Advocate, and The Pulpwood Queens Book Club, one of the biggest book clubs in the United States. It is not easy getting reviews, and now, I cross my fingers that they, like so many others, will enjoy it.

Since you guys know Winnie more than you know me, the reason I wrote Prairie Springs was to force the people to love their neighbors, or at the very least, tolerate them. And you will have the pleasure of escaping to this delicious town on a vicarious and hilarious journey. The residents I met, and introduce to the reader, are all special and unique in their own way. Hopefully, people everywhere will come to know them as well as I have, and be a part of their lives for the 339 pages that are the book. I see Winnie (or Maxine, probably) has put a link to the book on her page. You can also check out my page, though not as entertaining, at LRWilliamson.com.

Winnie's becoming antsy, so I'll give her back the keyboard. I'm going to go visit with Stacy Stewart, the mayor's wife, who's hiding behind a self-help book. Both she and her husband were very kind as I wrote Prairie Springs.

Cheers!

L.R.Williamson

I didn't know he was gonna write all of that. Now, I gotta go back to work. The dirty coffee mugs are stackin' up and Maxine's busy at the register—And she still ain't got a fuckin' ring on her finger. They say these Latins cain't tell time, but I'm about to tell him times a tickin'...at least on my clock.

Love to everybody,

Winnie C.

 

I Done Asked

I'm tickled pink. I mentioned Tuesdays are slow around here and Maxine's been teachin' me some tricks on the machine. She made some movies start playing on this Rosie woman's screen. I ain't got nothin' that fancy. I watched her with some dolphin critters, and she likes to paint. Got a big ol' messy room to do it in. Some kid was havin' fun makin' Christmas cookies. Maxine showed me one movie of some woman who sounds like she's from around here...talkin' about P is for Petunia. I couldn't quite figure her out, but there's a lot of crazies in the South. I ain't too far from crazy myself, but I like to think of it as unique. Then, I asked her a question. I'll let y'all know if I hear from her.

It's right nice what two women can get done nowadays. It looks like they got a family and a nice house together anyway. I love me a homosexual. We got a couple here in Prairie Springs that I'm quite fond of. The only lesbians I knew died last year. That's the problem with getting old. My little black book's only got a page or two left.

After Maxine finished showing me Rosie's screen, we went to a place called somethingtube. You can see a whole bunch of short movies about nothing. I tried to go back to it later, but I couldn't remember what it was called. I just typed an 'x' and then tube. I was thinkin' these computers were smart, but it took me to a place full of smut. Now, I'm all for smut, but not with children around. I stood up in front of the screen and hollered at Maxine to come shut it off. I'll be checkin' it out again on one of my sleepless nights. 

Now, y'all ain't gonna believe what's happening in Prairie Springs, right here on the Town Square. Today, Katy Taylor was over taking down the For Sale sign on a building. It looks like we're getting a Dollar Store. Ironically, it's a-goin' in where the dime store was. Inflation is gettin' outta hand! But I don't want to stir my spoon in politics. My daddy always called it 'pile of ticks.' 

Well, I've been nibblin' on some of the leftover brownies, so hopefully I'll be able to sleep tonight. 

Sweet dreams, 

Winnie Collins

P.S. Y'all send me some more querstions. I'm havin' too much fun, and I think all this typin' is doin' good for my arthritis. It's either that, the cod liver oil, or the gin and raisins, but—oh, maybe it's the brownies. 

Arm-and-get-on!

I got me a querstion 'bout the end of the world. I've heard people talkin' 'bout this arm-and-get-on business since as long as I could remember. Them preachers are always scarin' you by tellin' you Jesus is comin' tomorrow, hopin' they'll scare the coins outta your pocket. 

Now we've got us a crazy satellite floating 'round up in the sky, at least that's what Luciano was spoutin' about the other day. I tell you, we ain't got no business makin' stars. Just yesterday I was thinkin' how we're always goin' and messin' with nature. I went down to the feed store and saw birds in cages. What's sadder than a bird in a fuckin' cage? I was talkin' with Dorcas, who stopped by for three muffins and something we call a 'frap'—coffee we throw in the blender and charge double for, and she said, a bird in a cage was like cuttin' the legs off a dog. It ain't probably a good idea! Sendin' satellite dishes into the sky to make our own stars might've sounded like a good idea to the city folk who ain't got any stars, but we've got plenty out here in Prairie Springs. Now, accordin' to Luciano, it's a-fallin' down and they're gonne shoot it up. That's probably where they got the phrase 'arm-and-get-on.' 

I, myself, ain't too concerned with the world endin' next year or in a hunderd more. Since it's been around for thousands of years anyway, I figure it'll stay that way. Where they mess with y'alls heads is confusin' ya in history classes. Why, you'd think the world didn't start until Columbus hit the shores of North America! Them Indians were livin' right pretty before Columbus got here. The United States ain't old at all. There're trees older than this country is. 

I'm gettin' away from myself. Anyway, if arm-and-get-on happened tomorrow, I've had me a good life. That's why you gotta live every minute for yourself and not worry 'bout what other folks is doin'. Some people, 'specially 'round these parts, are so anxious to see God, they try and play his part. I call this wastin' time. As I sit here wonderin' what to write next, the names Ted Swaggart and Jimmy Haggart come to mind. Or do I have those reversed? 

This lesbian woman, Rosie, looks like some folks just call her Ro, she seems like she's a nice woman. Got a colorful place on the computer screen, anyway. She gets a lot more questions that I get, but my answers are longer. I guess there's nothin' wrong with a little competition. Maxine says you can send anything in an email. I've been holdin' up that book about my town to the screen until my arm gets tired, but it hadn't taken it yet. Maybe Maxine'll knows where to stick it in. There's a skinny slot here in the front, but the book won't fit in there unless I stick the pages in one by one. I dunno what to do. 

Speakin' of Maxine, she's still without a ring on her finger and Luciano's off today. Tuesday is always a slow day here, for some reason. We need another bus load of geriatrics to stop in. The person who asked about the end of the world was also concerned about my bunion. That's real sweet of ya, but I forgot I had one until you mentioned it. Wait a minute—I didn't mean to write bunion. I ain't got a bunion. I got a corn. I guess there's a reason I didn't go into medicine and become a pedophilatrist. 

Thanks for writin'. Y'all don't know how happy you make this old woman. 

My love,

Winnie

The F Word

Well, hell. I guess I should be excited that I have a fan. The same person who wrote me askin' for marriage advice now wants to know where the F-word was invented. My answer is: I don't have a fuckin' clue. Marie, my Catholic friend, is always giving the F word up for lint. You should hear her after Easter, cussin' like a sailor. 

Hold on...Maxine's readin' over my shoulder. 

She tells me the word is Lent. I think it's lint. Who would name a Jesus day after split peas? Now that I'm thinking, I reckon that makes more sense than naming it after dryer fuzz or clothes dander. 

Anyhoo, I ain't got a clue 'bout where words come from except for them days of the week I mentioned. Daddy wudn't as bright as he played, but as a kid, you take what's given to ya and don't ask too many querstions. 

Gettin' on with other business. Today I found me a place called Google where you can type something in and it gives you a list. If you click on the list, it takes you to somewheres else. I'm still tryin' to figure out how to use the damn thing, but it seems right handy. I typed me in that Rosie O'Donnell lesbian lady's name and a whole bunch of stuff came up. Where have I been? You can ask her a question, too. I ain't done it yet, but I'm fixin' to. I'm gonna read some of her writin' before I ask her somethin'.

Well, kiddos, after not gettin' much shut-eye last night, I'm a-pooped tonight. Sorry I ain't much fun, but I did want to say 'hi ya.' Keep writin' to me. Y'all don't know what a nicely written letter does to an old woman's soul.

All my love, 

Winnie from Prairie Springs

Aw doohickey!

The cafe's closed. I done went to bed, couldn't sleep, so I came into the computer area to check my mailbox. (For those of y'all who don't know, I live at the back of the cafe in an apartment behind the pivoting hutch.) Now, I hope nobody drives by and sees me sittin' in here without my wig on. 

This evening, I made me a fresh batch of my special can of butter. I guess they call it that because you keep it in a can, at least I do. I use one of them baking-soda cans. I got me an invitation for dinner, so I like to take my brownies to ease the tension. Some people are just too uptight for their own good! And, well, you can't make no special brownies without special butter. And don't go askin' me for the recipe, 'cause that's the one thing I ain't givin' out. 

When you're as old as I am, you realize things don't matter like they did when you were younger. For heaven's sake, I remember when I worried so much 'bout what everyone thought I couldn't live my own life. Now, peoples askin' me for advice, so apparently I've done somethin' right. Let me tell ya, it ain't easy bein' different here in Prairie Springs, a town that looks like the good Lord just sat on the fuckin' copy button of the Xerox machine, but I ain't got nobody to please but Jesus, and I think I've done that. I ain't never shot anybody. I've shot at people, but never hit them. I love everybody, even though they don't care much for me, and I go visit sick people in the hospital while them holier-than-thou's are warmin' the pews. So, I don't see no harm in cookin' up some fancy brownies to take the edge off, now and again.

For cryin' out loud! I almost forgot to tell y'all who stopped by the cafe this afternoon. I almost didn't recognize him since he went and grew a mustache. He was standin' at the counter casually orderin' a coffee when I realized who it was. L.R. Williamson, that guy who wrote the Prairie Springs book. I told him all about The Tonight Show callin' and writin', and I told him about that woman who does Oprah's nails. Poor thing, he spent so long writin' the book, he ain't got a pot left to piss in. I didn't charge him for the coffee, bless his little cotton-pickin' heart. He and I visited for a nice while.

If you haven't bought yourself the book, what the fuck are ya waitin' for? It's as funny as all get-out, and who'd've known so much was happenin' right here in Prairie Springs. If you get a copy before I get on the television, he might autograph it the next time he comes through. 

In other news, I've got me a fuckin' bunion. Nothin' fun about them. I'm sittin' here writin' with naked feet. There's nothin' more disgusting that the feet of a ninety-one-year-old woman, but since cain't nobody see me...

Well, folks. I ain't got no mail and nothin' else to talk about. Maxine told me to check out some person called Rosie O'Donnell. I don't know who the hell she is, but she left me a button to click to go to her page. I don't really know what "page" means, but I'll try and figure it out. I'll write more when I can. My two-cents for the day, "If life's a highway, get off the fuckin' frontage road."

Love, Winnie

Saturday

My daddy always told me they called Saturday 'Saturday' because a long time ago at church on Sunday, people'd ask what you did yesterday, and they'd respond, "I sat fur a day." Over the years, it got shortened to Saturday. Monday came about from people moanin' about goin' back to work, so they just called it moan day. Well, today's Saturday and I'm doin' anything but sittin' down. I'm as busy as a whore on dollar night. A bus load of young people stopped in—To me they're young, probably in their sixties. They're on a tour of town squares in Texas. Dudn't sound too excitin' to me, since they all look pretty much the same, but my motto is, "If it floats your boat, don't shoot a hole in it." 

Luciano's been helpin' out, and the old ladies love him. It's always a good day 'round here when nobody falls down the three steps that go into the seatin' area. Ivory Black took a stumble there one day and bruised her rear end, but this bus load of retired folks were careful steppers. Luciano helped a few with their drinks so they could hold on to the banister. 

Anyhoo, they're all safely in their seats now and I got me a querstion. Finally! 

Esmatu in Africa wants to know my bank account number so she can wire me some money. Esmatu says I have an unclaimed inheritance. While I'm new to this machine writin' thing, I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday. So Esmatu, dear, I don't have a bank account, but I do have me a loaded shotgun under the counter. Would you like to come for some coffee?

Oprah's fingernails

We don't get much action 'round these parts, which is why Constance, the reporter at The Herald who only wears turquoise, is so desperate to invent news when there ain't any. But every once in a while, somethin'll happen that gets everybody talkin'. Of course, last year was full of stuff goin' on. The scandal at the Third Baptist Church, the mayor and his mid-life crisis...and I had me a couple of car wrecks that made front-page news. But nothin' compares to what Katy Taylor came in this mornin' braggin' about.

For those of you who ain't from here, Katy Taylor is the town's realtor. For years, she and her husband dined on canned beans. I ran into her once at the Save-All and her cart was full of 3/$1 pintos.  But now that folks are movin' to town, the houses that have been on the market for years are starting to sell, and she's startin' to live the good life. Last week, she and her husband went up to The Windy City. Low and behold if she didn't pop into a spa and have her nails done by Oprah's manicurist. Well, being from Prairie Springs, she of course had a copy of the book that's all the rage 'round here. She reached into her purse and gave her copy to the manicure woman. I'm no psychic, but I know the good Lord works in fuckin' mysterious ways. I'll bet your bottom dollar that Oprah's gonna be readin' that book. I just hope she does it while I can still get around. I don't wanna be using no cane if she invites me on her show!

Luciano, that Argentinean boy that Maxine's courtin', has been carryin' around a ring in his pocket for the past week just a-waitin' for the right time to pop the question. Every time he gets near her, my heart starts beatin' fast. I don't know what he's waitin' for. Nobody 'round here's gettin' any younger. 

Since I don't got any querstions, I 'spect I'll keep on entertainin' myself. I've 'bout decided to get on over to Henna's Hair Salon and have my wig re-curled. It's a fuckin' mess. If I go on The Tonight Show, I'd hate to be lookin' like a fool. But if they ain't interested, I don't wanna spend the money. There's nobody in this town I need to impress.

Dadgumit! Katy Taylor just went and spilled her coffee. That's all for today. Now I gotta go fetch a rag and some vinegar. That'll get a coffee stain right out. 

Love from Prairie Springs, Texas.

Winnie 

The Tonight Show

I got me a mail today from The Tonight Show. I didn't even know it was still on the air. I'm usually three sheets to the wind by the time that late stuff comes on. It was a short, two-line letter, and I hadn't got hide nor hair's idea what to with it. They didn't ask me for any advice, so I'll spout some out anyway since that annoying Carter boy finally got off the computer machine. I done told Maxine we need to put a sign with a time limit. I don't know how she 'spects me to do this advice column if I cain't use the machine.

This morning I was skimmin' the newspaper and saw that sad people spend more money. Made all kinds of news! Then they printed, and I think I would have left this part out, the study was done on 33 people. Now, what kind of mad scientist only studies 33 people and then spits it out as fact. It's like the day before, I read me a story about the sweetener in Diet Coke caused hunger in rats. I don't know about you, but I ain't seen me a lot of rodents drinkin' soda-water. 

So my advice for you women out there is to get you a good vibratin' pleasure stick to stay chipper. What you save by being happy, you can spend on rechargeables and then work ya out a savings plan. And as far as the other news, make sure you drink all the Diet Coke from the can so there ain't none left for the rodents. 

I'll be right back. Constance, that's our newspaper reporter at The Herald, just came through the door and she's madder than a wet hen...

If that woman had a heart, she'd take it out and step on it. All she wants—ever—is the scoop. Last year I saved her life. Is she grateful? No. She comes in here, "Give me the scoop! The scoop, Winnie." I told her this wasn't no Baskin-Robbins, but politely offered her a coffee, since that's what we sell. I didn't know what'n the world she was talkin' about.

 "The Tonight Show!" she barked.

Now, the only person I told about that letter I received was Maxine. Well, she done went and blabbed to Luciano, her Argentine beef, who told Robert, his Mexican friend at the gas station, who told Trisha, the checker at the Save-All, only minutes before—who else?—Constance shows up with a bag of spaghetti noodles asking if she'd heard any gossip. 

Fuck me silly, but I ain't even decided why they wrote me, and Constance wants to do a "spread" in The Herald. The last thing I need is to be spread across cheap paper.

What'll I do, folks? I can usually stir my own batter, but this has got me into a tizzy. 

Pissin' Success

I'll be gosh-danged. I had me a batch of free minutes, and I wasted them sittin' down here to find ain't nobody else wrote me. Let them querstions flow. Speaking of Flo, I ran into her at the 36 Diner the other day. Lordy, that woman can wait a table like nobody's business. There's talk of her taking over the joint. We'd like for her to come to work here, but we cain't afford her, plus she'd be bored as a dog without a bone. 

Well, folks. No use a wastin' the movement I have left in my fingers on this plastic typewriter if nobody's gonna read what I write. Send me a message, if only to make an old woman smile. Speaking of smiling, I'd better go fetch my teeth. Some people's reserved a big table for a book readin' meetin'. 

Hiya

Now I done and went I forgot that I wrote this, but Maxine came to me a'shoutin', "Winnie! Winnie! Someone wants your advice." I'm glad to know someone around here's gotta full deck. Lord knows it ain't me.
Here goes nothing—

Withamandeggs said...

Dear Winnie, I am married to a great guy. The problem is, things are on a fast, downhill slide. We never talk, I feel lonely, and I can't seem to get through to him. Add to that the fact that I am young, but about to dry right up, if you know what I mean; my eyes are starting to roam. I need a man, preferably mine. What do I do???

Well, honey. Sounds like you've got yourself in a pickle. Speaking of pickles, makes me think of cucumbers. And, cucumbers make me think of vibrators. I'm not right sure how come, but you gotta remember I'm 91. Getcha some good rechargeable batteries and have a ball. Balls remind me of cherry tomatoes. I guess you could get real fuckin' fancy and design your own play toys, or you could just make a salad. Some carrots'd be good for them roaming eyes. Ain't nothin' wrong with a little look-see, long as you don't go moochin' off of someone else's plate at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Lord, I'm hungry! I ain't gotta fuckin' clue what that's supposed to mean. Maybe you can figure it out.

Now about that no talking bullshit. One of my husbands was like that. Probably done went out and married you a gawldarn Scorpio. They usually ain't got nothin' to say that means much. But the best way to get someone to talk to you is to ask them a querstion. If they don't answer, ask 'em why they ain't answering ya. Sometimes to get someone to talk, you gotta make'em. And, you gotta shut your trap and listen. Now I ain't no psychologist, so my advice ain't worth a grain of salt. Speakin' of salt, good luck spicin' up your love life. I gotta customer snoopin' over my shoulder, so I'll leave ya with that.

Ask Me a Question, Dammit!

Okay folks! Now I don't know much what I'm doin', but we got these blasted computer machines at the Theater Cafe—that's where I work—and I'm tryin' to do my best. So far, all I've been able to do is send a knee mail. Maxine, that's my business partner who owns the cafe with me, ran around all fuckin' week since we got these machines saying, "Winnie, send a knee mail! Did you send a knee mail yet?" I told her to hold her horses, but she's impatient sometimes. Now that she's getting her some Argentinean beef from the boy she's courting, Luciano, she's come out of her shell. But I shouldn't talk bad about her, since she's the one who figured out this page for me to write. 

Let me tell you a little bit about myself. My real name is Edwina. I got the nickname 'Winnie' when I danced with the Rockettes back—oh, Lord! Way back when. I live in Prairie Springs, Texas. I've been married on several occasions, and at 91 y.o., I'm swearing off testosterone. Anything with testicles can go marchin' the other direction. They're nothing but heartache, I tell ya. 

I've got me a cute little apartment at the rear of the cafe. It's supposed to be a secret, but I think most in town have figured out I live there. They've seen me comin' and goin' from behind the swiveling hutch on one occasion or another. Now, I wrote up above that I work here. Really, I own half of it with Maxine. She's a savvy business woman, picking a 91 y.o. as her partner. She's bound to have known I wouldn't be around much longer. 

I'm going to have to wrap this letter up. The arthritis in my left hand gets the best of me, but don't y'all worry. Ask me a question about anything, and I'll give ya' an answer. 

Well, fuck me silly. The mayor's wife just walked through the door. I'd better get from here and greet her. Small-town royalty! Ain't it a shame!