Anyway, after going a few weeks, I no longer have to order. The ladies at the counter have my kolache, donut, dozen donut holes, and Pepsi ready to go when I get there. They have even kicked up the dozen to fourteen and fifteen and thrown in a free milk now and then, obviously at an attempt to nourish my soda-sharing, pastry-stuffing child. It's good to be a regular.
I like my donut ladies, but one of the reasons I keep going back to that particular place is my donut dudes. Every single morning, five retired men hang out there drinking coffee and shooting the shit. Every time I would walk in, one of the men would state, "she sure has her hands full" and they'd "mm-hmm" in unison and they'd nod in my direction and go back to their conversation. Over time they've begun talking with Adam, showing him the old nickel behind the ear trick, and taking him to see the fish tank. They coo at Elizabeth and take bets on what color her eyes and hair will be. They have included me as one of the guys. We have discussed the best Adam Sandler movies (The Wedding Singer), who should win the Heisman (Steve Slaton), and the weather, always the weather. If I'm a little late, they get concerned. If I have to miss one Tuesday, I guess I'll have to call to let them know. It really does mean a lot to me that they care. I heart my donut dudes.
It took me eight years, but I finally found my place here. Who knew it would be in a strip mall?