Dear Readers: Late last week, my friend Tamara appeared in my office, sobbing
uncontrollably after getting dumped by her hunky smokejumper boyfriend. As she
was unable or unwilling to employ any of the tried-and-true “suddenly single”
remedies (have an affair with a librarian, order disposable sex mates over the
Internet), I instructed her to stay home, stay stoned, read nothing but crappy
magazines, and write this week’s column. Happily, she complied.

See you next week!

xox- David Schmader

MONDAY, APRIL 24 I’m not tempted to call him. I resolve to survive
getting dumped, this time with dignity. I begin by spending the fine spring
evening smoking pot with my best friend, Po-Po, while watching The Simpsons. Then I drive to a newsstand to buy Cosmopolitan, a scary thing
called Cosmo girl!, RealSimple, the Sports
Illustrated swimsuit issue, and the Xena–Warrior Princess digest.

“Do you have Woman’s Day or Family Circle?” I ask the girl behind
the counter, who looks at me like I’m stoned or something.

“Uh, we find those titles don’t do too well for us, actually,” she says.

At home I crawl under the blankets with enough distractions for a week, which
should be long enough to cure the worst of the heart-ache. I guess I lose track
of time, but I’m positive it’s past midnight when the building manager smells
gas, kicks down the door, and pulls my head out of the oven.

TUESDAY, APRIL 25 I take a Cosmopolitan test, “Are You Completely
Controlling?” I get seven points — “the domineering dater.” Why didn’t
I take this stupid thing before he gave me the axe? “You give girlfriends a
bad name by being controlling in the extreme.” That seems unduly harsh since
I missed being “the give-and-take girlfriend” by just one lousy point. “Even
though you seem strong, you’re really insecure.” Oh, my God, this is eerie!
Has Cosmo been reading my diary? “You’re afraid that you’ll never get
the love you really want. So you set rules for men to make yourself think
you’re loved.” Suddenly, I remember the time I told him not to wear gray sweatpants
with elastic ankles when we went out to dinner. Maybe I should call him to apologize?

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 26 Impulsively, I pull over to pick up three hitchhiking
teenage boys. They tumble in like puppies, clutching skateboards. They are
headed back to Bainbridge, where the skating sucks. One of them inexplicably
pulls out a lacy white brassiere and drapes it on his head. “It still smells
all girly and shit.” The cutest one, who appears to be the alpha male, apologizes
for his friend. “He’s always doing crazy stuff like that.” Bra-boy pipes up
from the back, “Once I got into the Lusty Lady with a fake ID that said I was
a ballistic-weapons specialist.” If this boy is not shot attempting to rob a
Radio Shack, I predict he will grow up to make many poor girls or boys very
miserable.

After I toss the boys out of the van, I come home and crack open the Sports
Illustrated swimsuit issue. Many of the photos are in
3-D. Grimly, I clamp the red-and-blue glasses to my head. Within moments, dizzy
and disoriented by countless sand-sprinkled breasts, I black out. When I come
to, I find I am holding the phone in my hand. I fear the worst.

THURSDAY, APRIL 27 RealSimple encourages me to “rid yourself
of excess mental baggage by creating a haven of calm and serenity.” In a feng-shui
frenzy, I carry three garbage bags full of clothing, papers, and knickknacks
out to the dumpster. Then I create a simple floral arrangement of a peony in
a jelly jar and light a ginger/ lemon-scented candle. Just as I begin to feel
the first hints of tranquility since he told me that he’d “like to be friends
that have casual sex,” I remember that I’m here housesitting for a friend.

FRIDAY, APRIL 28 I turn to the Xena digest for positive
visualization tools. It consists primarily of plot summaries and text along
the lines of, “Hercules, in Redemption, eventually destroys Dahak —
with help from Iolaus’ soul which is trapped in the vile essence of the corpse.”
Not very useful. But one paragraph strikes a chord. “In Episode Number 6, Xena
is tempted with her old warlike ways and breaks her bonds to pummel her captors
with horrible violence.” Xena, not unlike myself, appears to be a strong woman
who is somewhat misunderstood. I consider displaying the centerfold in which
she is wearing a pink leather bustier while wielding what I have learned is
called a chakram, but I’m concerned I might rip her where she’s stapled together.

SATURDAY, APRIL 29 I erase his number from my phone. I tape a sign over
the computer that reads, “Don’t call him.” I put a Post-It note on my rearview
mirror on which I’ve scribbled, “Turn the car around. Only a stalker makes surprise
visits.” Just to distract myself, I try to do as the Cosmo girl! article
suggests: “Double-dare yourself to try something new!” I call a few girlfriends
and invite them to a rhinestone party where we will glue pretty sparkles to
our old handbags or flip-flops. For some reason, everybody has other plans.
I try teaching myself the trick of tightly winding about an inch of my hair
around a metal dinner fork, spritzing it with hair spray (try Physique Styling
Spray, $4), and blasting it with high heat for five seconds. But the fork sears
my scalp and then I get really thirsty. So I pop into Kincora Pub, where he
usually has a beer after work. He’s sitting at the bar, talking with some girl,
and he looks a little startled to see me. When the girl gets up suddenly to
go to the bathroom, I ask him if he’d mind if I sucked his dick.

SUNDAY, APRIL 30 I used the rest of the money Schmader gave me for magazines
to buy a bottle of 120-proof Rumpleminze, so I’m still one magazine short for
my assignment. After I lean on his buzzer for a while, my friend Mr. Nathan
wakes up, comes down, and throws a 1949 copy of Better Homes and Gardens at me. Before long I’m loaded enough to stop fretting about my ex’s unwarranted
use of the phrases “sexual predator” and “restraining order” during the previous
evening’s misunderstanding, but still sober enough to stumble safely home, where
I wade through an article entitled “Birth — The Supreme Miracle of the Universe.”
I am stunned by these words, which swim like sea monkeys before my eyes. “In
a sense, all of this activity is like preparing a house — the uterus — for
an honored guest. If the guest — a fertilized ovum — does not arrive, all
the preparations have been in vain. Therefore, excess tissue breaks down and
is discarded.” Finally, I think to myself as oblivion claims me once again —
some helpful advice a girl can really use.

Thank you, Tamara. Hot Tippers: Send your stuff to lastdays@thestranger.com,
or phone the 24-hour Hot Tip Hotline at 323-7101 ext. 3113.

P.S. Pizzazz!, The Stranger‘s first annual, city-wide
talent show, takes place Thurs May 11, at Consolidated Works, 410 Terry Ave
N, and you’d be an absolute idiot to miss it. Hosted by me, Dave Schmader, with
a guest appearance by Dina Martina, Pizzazz! will feature celebrity judges,
fabulous prizes, and a staggering array of talent. Show is at 7, cover is 10
bucks. See you there!