››You may find this hard to believe, but there was a time before poopy diapers, before sleep deprivation, and before the minivan when you ditched work and your pals to spend time alone with — her. Or him.
There was a time you made sure you had on clean clothes before you would pick up Pookums. And I don’t mean unstained, dirty clothes you spritzed with air freshner. I mean, you brushed your teeth so long they ached. You actually scrubbed crevices, with soap. I’m talking — love. Remember? If you’re like me, middle-aged and wondering how your teenager can have a closet packed with clothes she never wears, you have forgotten.
Here’s your chance, dude. You can burn away a couple of decades in just a few easy steps and relive the life you had before you ever knew a kid could squirt diarrhea into your shoe. Just do exactly as I say.
Monday 10:05 a.m.: Call your wife. Say this: “Hey (Babe, Pookie, Hummer Buns, or whatever). You and me are going to have some fun Saturday. Just us. I’ll pick you up at 2:45 p.m. Be ready. I love you (insert Punky’s pet name here).” Hang up.
If she texts you right back and asks if you’re having an affair/aneurism, disregard. Now for those of you sans Daddy’s little tax deduction, you’re barely getting over last night’s carousing at 2:45 p.m. If you’ve had your kid draw a Sharpie mustache on your face after falling asleep after dinner, this all makes perfect sense.
Monday 10:15 a.m.: Call the Florence Griffith Pottery Studio on Florence Street and Colfax Avenue in Original Aurora, 303-680-6389. Ask for Julia. Tell her you’ll be there Saturday at 3 p.m. for an hour of creation. That’s right, you and Hunny Bunny are going to play in the clay together. Don’t make that face. Sugar Toes is expecting you to take her to A) Sears, B) Ice Fishing, or C) to see the latest Bourne movie. Not this time, dude. You’re going to turn up the flame on the broiler of love and get those old nuptials sizzling. This artist studio, which is pretty damned cool all by itself, is open for public play if you call ahead. You and your woman are going to be messing in the mud, getting creative and forgetting the names of your kids. Julia, artist in residence, is on it. You can either throw clay on the wheel (very romantic and fun, think Swayze/Moore in “Ghost,”) or yuck it up building rolled out clay. This is going to set you back only $25 or so and includes souvenirs. Don’t worry, beer is in it for you later.
Monday night: Leave your phone on the counter, walk into the other room and let her discover that you’re not having an affair. When she pesters you about what’s up and demands details about the date, say this: “Butter Knuckles, remember when we first started going out?” (Try not to snort when she makes squinty eyes. Stay focused.) “You will.” Leave the room. Maybe grab the 409 bottle and wipe old boogers and crayon marks off the baseboards for extra points.
Tuesday: Call the sitter. If your kids are too old for a sitter, tell them to make themselves scarce on Saturday or threaten them with questions about homework or sweaters from Christmas past.
Wednesday: After work, take a few trash bags out to the Windstar and unload as much car crap as your bad back will tolerate. Repeat on Thursday, Friday and Saturday morning. Call Daniel’s of Paris, one of the best bakeries in the region, 303-751-6084, tell them to save you two palmiers for Saturday. All women love palmiers, it’s congenital.
Thursday: Go into your closet. Leave the door open so your wife knows you’re not having an affair. Look at your clothes. Not those, the clean ones hanging up. Now focus: What do you notice that you can envision your wife seeing you wear and saying, “You look nice.” If you just can’t imagine her ever saying that, disregard anything that looks comfortable or has “I Brake for Big Boobs” printed on the front of it.
Friday: Get a haircut. Don’t, under any circumstances, do it yourself. Women like it when you get a haircut. I know, it’s weird.
Saturday 8 a.m.: The big day. Look at your hands. Would you put those fingers in your mouth if they weren’t yours? Do something with a brush and clippers. I know it’s Saturday, but you’re shaving. Take the Windstar to Autowash at 2281 S. Havana St. It’s $13. If you’re there before 10 a.m., you get a discount. Tell them you want the full-service, and that you’ll tip extra to get someone to lure the old hot-wing bones out of the dash vent and scrape whatever’s sticky from the passenger’s door handle. On the way home, swing by Daniel’s, 12253 E. Iliff Ave. and pick up the palmiers. You’re going to go play in the mud, so when you get home, take your two favorite long-sleeve shirts, which are probably ruined with bacon-grease stains anyway, and put them in the back of the car.
2:20 p.m. Brush your teeth. Put on your clean clothes. Threaten the kids, and check for stray long hairs coming out of your ears, nose, eyebrows and other assorted visible body parts.
2:30 p.m. Showtime, dude. Say this: “Jiggle Beans, what’s for dinner?” (Kidding.) Collect your babe, open the car door for her and drive away before the kids escape from the duct tape. Tell her you’re on the way to the “studio.” You’re gonna get a lot of mileage out of the fact that she’s telling all her girlfriends you took her to a studio to make art. Yup. Put on the big shirts. Hand your phone to someone in the studio and take a picture of both of you making your masterpieces or showing them off. Post this to Facebook with the cutest, smarmiest title you can think of. WARNING: DO NOT, no matter how much you are tempted, smear clay on her face or clothes. Girls HATE this no matter how funny you think it is. This, too, is congenital. After about an hour, it’s time to go. You deserve a beer. Drive straight to The Royal Hilltop Taproom in the shopping center on the northeast corner of East Hampden Avenue and Tower Road, 303-690-7738.
It’s a quaint, comfortable Irish pub, the kind of place you would take a good friend. She can have wine, a cocktail or seven Flaming Fire Balls, if that’s what she wants. You get your choice of some of the best craft brews Coloradans concoct, or some of the most envied ales and lagers from across the planet. It’s happy hour until 6 p.m. For dinner, there’s steamed mussels, bangers and mash, fish-n-chips, burgers and friendly people to ogle your pretty wife, your goofy clay creations or the pictures you just took while making them. Use the napkin, dude. Again.
It’s about 6 p.m. now. You’re feeling the effect of the week, your life, the beer and the food. Time for coffee. Just across Tower Road is a Starbucks. Get Pickle Pants a latte and yourself an Americano. Just do it. If you were home, you’d be dozing on the couch by now. You need the juice to finish this. Now, drive a short ways northeast to Great Plains Park, 20100 E. Jewell Ave. Google it. It’s a six-minute drive. Park. Now if it’s too cold, you both get in the clean back seat of the car and leave the radio on. Try a Pandora Billy Swan station. If it’s warm enough, get out and go to a table. The park is awesome, even in the dusk, and looks out over the plains giving you the impression you’re on the edge of the Earth, or in Kansas. Take out the palmiers, pull one out of the box, break off a small piece (I said small) and offer it. Lattes and palmiers are to women what a brand new weed whacker and Tater Tots are to men — Nirvana, dude. It’s about 7 p.m. or so. Time to head home. Sigh for her and say, “Let’s do this again.” Take her hand and lead her back to the car. And the rest is up to you. It’s about 7:30 p.m., which means you’ve easily got 5 or 10 minutes for wild romance before you both pass out. n