This has been passed around the internet a lot. Until February 2005, I thought the author was "Phil Milwood", since that was the attribution on the web page I took it from. But it isn't true. I'm shocked, shocked, to find that something on the web turned out not to be correct!

In Feb. 2005, Phil Millwood....or at least, someone claiming to be Phil Millwood ;)... sent me an email that said: "While I don't know precisely how you came to get http://www.creekcats.com/pnprice/chalant.html , I can now say with certainty that I did not write it. When someone first forwarded it on to me several years ago, listing myself as author, I thought it was possible that I had written such a thing, but had no recollection whatever of doing so. I began to research it and found that 'How I Met My Wife' was written by Jack Winter and published 25 July 1994 in The New Yorker."

So there you have it. Sorry, Jack Winter, for propagating an error on someone's web site and thus depriving you of your rightful credit for this nice little piece.

Oh, and I'm also sorry that, at the same time I was incorrectly crediting "Phil Milwood", I wasn't even spelling his name right!

It had been a rough day, so when I walked into the party I was very chalant, despite my efforts to appear gruntled and consolate. I was furling my wieldy umbrella for the coat check when I saw her standing alone in a corner. She was a descript person, a woman in a state of total array. Her hair was kempt, her clothing shevelled, and she moved in a gainly way. I wanted desperately to meet her, but I knew I'd have to make bones about it since I was travelling cognito. Beknownst to me, the hostess, whom I could see both hide and hair of, was very proper, so it would be skin off my nose if anything bad happened. And even though I had only swerving loyalty to her, my manners couldn't be peccable. Only toward and heard-of behavior would do.

Fortunately, the embarrassment that my maculate appearance might cause was evitable. There were two ways about it, but the chances that someone as flappable as I would be ept enough to become persona grata or a sung hero were slim. I was, after all, something to sneeze at, someone you could easily hold a candle to, someone who usually aroused bridled passion. So I decided not to risk it.

But then, all at once, for some apparent reason, she looked in my direction and smiled in a way that I could make heads or tails of. I was plussed. It was concerting to see that she was communicado, and it nerved me that she was interested in a pareil like me, sight seen. Normally, I had a domitable spirit, but, being corrigible, I felt capacitated--as if this were something I was great shakes at--and forgot that I had succeeded in situations like this only a told number of times.

So, after a terminable delay, I acted with mitigated gall and made my way through the ruly crowd with strong givings. Nevertheless, since this was all new hat to me and I had no time to prepare a promptu speech, I was petuous. Wanting to make only called-for remarks, I started talking about the hors d'oeuvres, trying to abuse her of the notion that I was sipid, and perhaps even bunk a few myths about myself. She responded well, and I was mayed that she considered me a savory character who was up to some good. She told me who she was. "What a perfect nomer," I said, advertently. The conversation become more and more choate, and we spoke at length to much avail. But I was defatigable, so I had to leave at a godly hour. I asked if she wanted to come with me. To my delight, she was committal. We left the party together and have been together ever since. I have given her my love, and she has requited it.