Yesterday was Valentine’s day. The wife did not want flowers. Did not want stuffed bears. Did not want chocolates. She wanted the heart-shaped donut that was being advertised on TV at Dunkin’ Donuts. People, she wanted it. Back when we were new, we used to go to fondue events at winerys or exchange nice gifts on Valentine’s day. After seven years though, we’re finally pros at this. The plan was donuts.
Let me present a flow chart of Valentine’s days, from amateur to pro-level:
Winery fondue bullshit dates —> fancy seafood restaurant dinners —> psyche, it was Red Lobster —> the nice dinner at home year, roses on the table, wine —> The “eh, let’s just order pizza and watch TV” year —> the (slight dramatization) PREGNANT WIFE WANT DONUT NOW year
“Okay, okay, I’ll run out first thing Friday morning to get them,” I promised.
But then it snowed. And snowed. And snowed. We got over a foot. And no, this is not going to be a heroic story of how I trekked out into the snow anyway. Instead it is a heroic story of spending several hours digging out our two cars and half of our court, coated in sweat and a fine dusting of rock salt, while surviving what may have been the initial warning stages of a heart attack.
At this point, we’d been snowed in the house about thirty-six hours with five more inches of forecasted snow on the way. I thought the wife had completely forgotten about the donuts—or at the very least, abandoned all hopes of them. Besides, we’d baked snow-day cookies. And I’d bought her custom M&Ms with the dog’s face printed on them as her gift.
(They say “meow” because it’s the dog’s quirky sense of humor….oh, nevermind, we’re weird pet owners with weird inside jokes about the dog.)
Surely, the sugar-craving void had been filled by now.
But it wasn’t. And she hadn’t forgotten. Here’s the thing I’ve learned about these cravings: it has to be the exact thing. The EXACT VERY SPECIFIC THING. Not some other cookie, candy, pastry, or even some other donut in a slightly varying shape. It has to be a donut in a heart-shape from Dunkin Donuts, and only that. And maybe, just maybe, I could still run out Saturday morning and get those donuts.
“Not if it’s snowing again,” I said.
I don’t drive in the snow. I used to be one of those oh-pfft-snow-is-nothing-everyone-is-a-pansy-baby persons, but then one time my car gracefully skated a figure eight into oncoming traffic, and now I’m just like NOPE RATHER NOT DIE TODAY THANKS.
But Saturday morning came without snow. The wife woke up, looked out the window, and gleefully announced it wasn’t snowing. Yet Valentine’s day had already come and gone. Surely, they don’t still make the heart-shaped donuts on February 15.
“But they might!” she said.
“So what’s your back-up donut you want if they don’t have them?” I asked.
“My back-up donut is depression,” she said.
So I trekked out there. An expedition. It was actually sleeting, but no one else was awake/insane enough to be driving at 7am on a Saturday morning in a teeny-tiny ice storm. The normally mobbed Dunkin’ Donuts was empty except for me and the salt truck dude.
And they had them. The heart-shaped donuts were there, with a heavenly light and their own angelic choir emanating from them. There were three different kinds. Without missing a beat, I asked for one of each.
There’s Strawberry Frosted, Brownie Batter, and Deformed What The Hell, I Can’t Believe They Gave Me That Shit Donut. (Sometimes the wife’s hormone imbalances spread to me.)
She was thrilled. I have never seen her smile like the way she did when I came home with them. And she chose the deformed donut, which was actually Cookie Dough flavor. “At least, it better be cookie dough, or else I will kill you,” as she put it.
Ooookay. And I think I’ll spend the rest of the day in the basement.