Last week, guest columnist Tamara Paris thrilled the masses with tales
of her newly broken heart. This week, the divine Ms. Paris continues her mystical
journey toward self-sufficient singlehood, or something. Enjoy!

MONDAY, MAY 1 Schmader says I’m being a big baby about the smokejumper
who dumped me and that I need to get back up in that saddle and date a horse,
any old horse. I’m leery, but he locks the door and plays Liz Phair’s Exile
in Guyville over and over until I feel emboldened enough to burst from his
office and proposition the first man I see. “Uh, I’m currently married,” squeaks
the trembling writer I’ve pinned against the fax machine. The experiment is
a success! I do have the balls to get back up on the back of that beast!

Exhausted from the effort, I head home where I float in the tub, watching
the lack of gravity do flattering things to my breasts. I ignore the jangling
phone. Ever since my cry for help in last week’s column, sympathetic girlfriends
have been ringing incessantly, chirpily inviting me out for coffee “so we can
talk.” Wow, nothing like a feigned suicide attempt to make a girl feel desirable.
I’m so relaxed that only my nostrils are above water when the commotion commences.
I sit up and look at the ceiling. Grit and dust sift lazily down into my bath
water. The noise is unmistakable. Rodentia are fucking above me.


TUESDAY, MAY 2 The scent of warm dirt and lilacs drifts through my windows
and I awaken in a state of acute desire. I flip sleepily through my mental catalogue
of masturbatory images — Lieutenant Bud White bursting out of his undershirt
in L.A. Confidential; the deranged performance artist I briefly dated
(the one who actually purchased a pocket pussy); my abduction by many-tentacled
space aliens — but they’re all like gum with the flavor chewed out. I trot
the smokejumper out for a spin but find he’s devolved into an asexual blur.
New fodder is needed. I call my best friend Po-Po at work and ask him if he’ll
have sex with me. “For the thousandth time, no,” he says, and suggests I try
the personals. I haul out The Stranger and peruse the ads. What’s with
this “petite” obsession? I’ve been called many things in my day, but diminutive
is not among them. Appalled, I hurl the offending rag across the room. I stomp
into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee down my enormous throat. I’m so involved
with feeling self-righteous that when Mr. and Mrs. Mouse leap out of the sink
and scamper down my leg, it takes me a full 15 seconds to start screaming.

WEDNESDAY, MAY 3 I’m living with a dysfunctional rodent couple who fuck
and fight all day long. The sheer noise these two tiny creatures create is staggering.
Since Mr. and Mrs. Mouse have ignored my polite requests to pay rent, I resign
myself to evicting them. I call the building manager and tell him about my surly
squatters. “I haven’t seen you since I saved your life,” he says. So you
pulled my head out of the oven, big deal, I think to myself. Enough with
the messiah complex, already. After chatting my ear off for an hour, he
vows to call an exterminator. Relieved, I wander to Broadway. I walk behind
a foxy woman in red boots talking with another woman. Maybe I should be a
dyke again, I muse to myself while trying to move in close enough to eavesdrop.
“Are you going to spend Christmas with my parents this year?” “I spent Christmas
with yours last time!” Realizing that it is May, I conclude that I still do
not have what it takes to be a lesbian.

THURSDAY, MAY 4 I’m in my robe when the ruggedly handsome exterminator
unexpectedly knocks on the door. Despite the fact that this is a classic setup
for porn, he ignores me and my strategically loosened garment as he sets out
poison for my unwanted guests. Who needs him? I have more technologically advanced
fish to fry. I place a personal ad online in which I describe myself as petite.
“You’ve got mail,” my computer optimistically blurts every time I come near
it. I slog through hundreds and hundreds of hopeful missives before I crack
the code: Christians send photos of themselves standing in front of waterfalls,
while divorced men with mustaches prefer snapshots of themselves leaning against
tiny convertibles. I may be back in the saddle, but it seems just as slippery
as ever.

FRIDAY, MAY 5 Mr. and Mrs. Mouse are dead. My God, what have I done?


SATURDAY, MAY 6 I lurch out of bed to make coffee and that’s when I see
him. The rattus maximus stretched out dead on my living room carpet easily
measures 18 inches from tip to tail. My horror knows no bounds. Piercing screams
bounce crazily off the walls as I leap back under the covers. I dial my other
best guy-friend, Chris, and beg him to come over and help. Retching sympathetically,
he breaks the news: Only a man getting laid by a woman might feel compelled
to remove a carcass for her. I’d offer to fuck him, but his herbalist fiancée
would poison me with pennyroyal. I’m on my own. Trembling, I wrap enough paper
towels around my hands to absorb a toxic spill and reach down to grasp the rat.
He lifts his head and gazes into my eyes.

I remain curled in the fetal position in my closet long enough to aurally
hallucinate. I swear I hear Mr. Rat calling to me. “Pretty lady? Can you get
me a glass of water? I don’t feel so good.” My only option is to evacuate the
apartment, wait for him to die, and find a man to have sex with, right away.

SUNDAY, MAY 7 I wake up in the Ace Hotel next to an Alaskan fisherman.
Despite our recent intimacy, he claims the smelt are running and practically
bolts out the door when I ask him nicely to come take Mr. Rat away. Once again,
I’m forced to do a man’s job. I return to the apartment where Mr. Rat has indeed
expired in the night. I don oven mitts over which I wrap two bath towels. I
bend down and gingerly grasp the tip of his hairless tail. Weakly, he swivels
his head.

I pound on the building manager’s door for what seems like an eternity until
I realize my blows are being muffled by the towels. I tear them off, and he
opens up right away. He seems strangely glad to see me, considering it’s 6:00
a.m. and I’m crouched on his welcome mat grunting incomprehensibly. I remain,
tracing crude pictograms in the dirt while he races to my apartment and mercifully
ushers Mr. Rat to a better place. He returns and guides me gently inside, where
he elevates my feet and applies a cold compress to my forehead. Several hours,
one crab omelet, and a foot massage later, I have an almost religious epiphany.
Suddenly it seems crystal clear: The assholes may be sexy, but the nice ones
get shit done. And remember friends, if a wretched old sinner like me can be
saved, well — there may even be hope for you.

Once again, thank you, Tamara. Send Hot Tips to lastdays@thestranger.com or phone the 24-hour Hot Tip Hotline at 323-7101, ext. 3113.