"One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got in my pajamas, I don't know." - Groucho Marx, Animal Crackers

The New Boy on Valentine's Day, weeping into his bear after he was stood up by the toddler next door.

The Mrs. has no illusions of the way I am. None. Consequently, she’s found that the best way to be happy in our relationship is to have no expectations of me.

I think it started when we were dating. I would show up at her place, and demand that she go and kill a goose just to make a nice pâté for me out of its liver. I would then yell that I hated pâté, ask why she made it, and storm out in a rage.

Oh, wait, that was just a movie I saw once.

Actually, I try to avoid overt hostility – my general rule is that I need to be more polite to The Mrs. than a random person, since The Mrs. will hit me if I’m not. So, it’s not that. I just have HADD. That’s Husband Attention Deficit Disorder. It’s not unusual to have HADD, mainly I think it just means you’re a guy.

What are some symptoms of HADD?

• Going to the store for milk for The Boy and coming home with beer for me and no milk.
• Forgetting to take out the trash after being asked six times.
• Forgetting to change The New Boy for a day or so (those diapers only hold a few pounds!) after promising to do so within then next few minutes.
• Neglecting to bring enough wood up to the house to heat a Pop-Tart™ and putting that as the first task of the new day for a freezing The Mrs.
• Leaving a trail of socks on the front room floor like Hansel and Gretel left bread crumbs in the forest.

So, as a HADD sufferer, The Mrs. has to make concessions. First on the list is expecting that I’ll remember things like St. Valentine’s Day, or that I left the children alone at the supermarket. Don’t sneer, it’s not like that hasn’t happened to you. Besides, they found their way home after a day or two.

The Mrs. feels that HADD is a wiring problem. Women have this great big Hubble Space Telescope to detect how others are feeling. They even seem to care. Don’t ask me why. She says that men, by comparison, have squinty glasses that are the wrong prescription to detect how others are feeling.

I did, however, remember this St. Valentine’s Day. I actually remembered a day or two before, after being reminded a dozen or so times by people who understand I’m afflicted with HADD. I did something very out of character for me – I went shopping the day before.

Now, I didn’t buy the flowers the day before. I live in Alaska, where am I going to put them so they aren’t flowersicles? No, day-of purchasing of the last batch of wilting roses on the shelf is the way to go. I also figured that there would be at least one card left in the supermarket, so, even if it were written in Russian and had a picture of a goat on it, I could pretend that specific card expressed exactly what I felt.

No, I got smart.

I bought The Mrs. pajamas.

See, after being married to The Mrs. for nigh on a decade, I finally got a clue. It happened one night in the kitchen. I brought the mail home from the post office, and in it was a catalog from Cabela’s. Cabela’s is the Armani of Alaska, the Dior of Denali, and the Prada of Prudhoe Bay all rolled into one. When The Mrs. and I were fighting over the catalog, it finally hit me.

I

FINALLY

GOT

A

CLUE

The Mrs. didn’t like frilly, lacy, sheer things. She liked lined jeans and sweat pants and t-shirts that are a size or two too big. Makeup? I think she wore some for her high school senior picture. Dresses? Well, to church. The last great clothing find she bought was a pair of flannel lined jeans and some Sorel boots.

So, I could purchase every single one of Victoria’s Secrets (does the NSA know what that secret is???) but still not get The Mrs. what she was looking for.

Which was: a flannel set of pajamas. That was it. A decade of searching, and it was flannel jammies. I think she enjoyed those as well as any St. Valentine’s Day present she’s gotten.

If I can conquer HADD, so can . . . what was I saying?