While sucking on a cancer stick on my porch Sunday night, I concocted a genius plan that involved a neighborhood traffic light: It would behoove the hood to migrate the light one block south.
To keep a tangent-laden story short (I’ll spare details, feel free to inquire*), my strategy would remedy pedestrian misfortunes, avert dangerous mishaps and eliminate the most useless stoplight in all of the 303. (A claim substantiated by Agent Orange and Big House White.)
After storming my brain for far too long, I concluded I’d get a City Council member on the horn. I’ll be proactive. I’ll get involved in community. I’ll potentially save a life. I’ll cross the Rubicon, as they say. (No they don’t.)
I glanced at my phone. It was 7:30 p.m. I was in my pajamas.
I may have been crushing a bladder of grapes, but the situation was clear. Instead of whiskey-shot pre-gaming before whiskey-shot bar-gaming, I was city planning. As Tom Brady was riding his pine (not Gisele), my granny panties were twisting over a useless light that, if moved, could potentially save lives, energy and resources.
This is ridiculous. Who put this mom in Fantz skin?
I won’t lose sleep over a lack of partying. I have a child. But I may lose sleep over a lack of juvenile priorities.
Years(ish) ago, a main concern of mine was making it home to Denver after finishing the late shift at the Colorado Daily. It’s 11:53 p.m. Can I haul ass 1.3 miles uphill on a single-speed cruiser to make the midnight — and last — bus?
If so, I can hit last call at the Whiskey Bar.
After missing the bus, I had decisions on my sweaty hands. I could:
• Make a Liquor Mart purchase, cruise back to the office, wrap myself in old Colorado Daily T-shirts and sleep under the managing editor’s desk.
• Nap on my sister’s dorm floor.
• Bar it in Boulder for two hours and hopefully meet a nice, upstanding young couch.
• Lollygag until the next bus arrives at 6 a.m.
Note: There was no U.S. 36 Bikeway back then. (Back then = none of your business.) Note deux: Even if there was, like I’d bike 22 miles. (Be quiet, Boulder.)
Thanks to the more frequent-running Flatiron Flyer, this decision would be easier nowadays. (But also, thanks for nothing, RTD. I’ll be probably be dead in 2042 when the light rail finally plows through town.)
Dated transportation aside, I gawked at the broad I’ve become. I think my uterus bitchslapped my wisdom. Mortgage takes precedence over bar tabs. College gameday breaks for “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse” at halftime. The bar doesn’t even call me anymore.
Maybe when I call Sir(ette) City Council, I’ll also suggest that they put back the alley Dumpsters they removed in August. Denver may be trying to curb illegal dumping, but the late receptacles were solid spots to tinkle while stumbling home from the neighborhood bar.
Two birds, one stone. I’m so adult.
*You’d like to know where I live, you feisty little mushrooms.