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Personalized Solutions in an Impersonal World

If the deceased you reference is Claudia Griffin, also of Blakeslee, PA, then I’m compelled to extend my own condolences to her family as well. I very briefly crossed paths with her once, but based upon the impression I fancy her a saint. Up until two years ago, I’d never left my home state of New Jersey, and didn’t plan to, because it’s nice. But then I got wind that the American Historical Society commissioned a chopper to do a reenactment of the Fall of Saigon at the apex of the Space Needle, so off toward Seattle I drove to witness the spectacle (I don’t fly because my luck’s been so freakin’ good I don’t want to push it). All was going well until I pulled off I-80 in Blakeslee and into the Citgo. Being from NJ, I wasn’t aware that any legit petrol dispensary allowed customers to procure product from the pump without supervision. So I sat in my Elantra, and waited, hands at 10-and-2, window cracked open a bit so I could place my fuel order to a trusty Citgo employee. For three hours, I watched Pennsylvanian after Pennsylvanian top off their tanks, and I suspected all of them thieves. The Citgo attendant inside the convenience shop seemed not to care about the massive inventory loss, and looked jolly, yet let an honest and patiently waiting customer go without service. Some of the sweat in my armpits was balling up and descending. I stared at my low fuel indicator, in a barren town of marauding thugs, with no means to ever leave. The tears came. Then the wailing. Then up behind me pulled auntie Claudia. She was the only motorist willing to attend to the seal-like cries emanating from my driver’s side window. I heard, “Visiting from Jersey?” I looked up and saw a beautiful grin. I ceased wailing so I could nod. “One moment, sir.” Claudia entered the convenience shop, and after briefly conferring with the Citgo guy, he surrendered his Citgo-logo- and nametag-emblazoned vest to Claudia, and she strapped it on. She approached. My tears of duress had turned to tears of gratitude. “How may I help you?” she said with that grin. I finally took a few breaths, and said, “Fifteen dollars super, please.” “Cash or credit?” “Credit!” I cried in ecstasy, and then again twice. I’d never experienced such relief. I handed her my Discover, and signed the receipt, and then trekked on toward Seattle along breathtaking roads of America that I’d have no hopes of traversing without the intervention of a gas-pumping angel named Claudia.

Anyway, she’s dead. There are more pressing issues at hand.

Forgetting a woman’s birthday is an even bigger no-no than forgetting denominational or national holidays, and they go ape over those. Try going a Bastille Day without dropping a morning “bonjour.” You’ll be divorced by Boxing Day. A woman believes her birth far supersedes that of any republic. So let’s take care of Tanya.

Grab some flowers off the altar for your gal. Claudia won’t mind (she’s dead). There’ll be plenty of flowers to go around in heaven (plus stinger-less bees to pollenate them…). Tanya will care though. Her amorous juices will be promptly primed.

Grab a pen. Below the factory-printed “Sorry for your loss” phrase, append the phrase “of your youth,” and then “Happy Birthday” with a shit-ton of exclamation points and then some XOs.   A card’s a card. She’ll swoon.

We’ve got her gettin’ hot now. But no gift is a problem, and $13 won’t cut it for a classy broad like Tanya. If she opens the card and sees two fives stacked on top of three ones then she’ll be rebounding with a power forward by evening’s end. Grab the pen again and write out a check for $62 to cover the balance of what’s appropriately owed. As above, write “Happy Birthday” with several exclamation points on the note line of the check. Paper-clip it on top of the cash and toss it in the card.

As for the inevitable intercourse, remember it’s safety first. Make sure you do your part: Remind your girl to take the pill.