You flaky fiancee

Years ago, when John and I were first engaged, I was working for his mother at her accounting office. The dress code there is basically that you wear jeans so as to not scare off the small-town clientele. Because I somehow never have more than two or (at most) three pairs of jeans, that meant that I was washing jeans a couple times a week. One night, the washer wasn't done by the time I went to bed, but John promised that he'd put the laundry in the dryer before he came to bed. The next morning, I opened the dryer to pull out my jeans and found... nothing. But there they were, still wet in the washer. John had gotten distracted and forgot to put the laundry in the dryer. So I went to work in my spare jeans-- you know the pair, we've all got at least one. They're the jeans that you only wear at home on the weekends, the ones you never want to be seen wearing in public. That afternoon, he sent flowers to the office. I rediscovered the accompanying card this weekend:

He later assured me that he meant to type "your" instead of "you." To this day, when John's head is in the clouds, I shake my head and say "you flaky fiancee."