Archive for July, 2008


It’s funny how fast things change! All of a sudden I can legitimately buy bridal magazines in public. (As opposed to secretly snatching one in my trenchcoat while at the airport, carefully discarding it in the women’s restroom outside security, so as not to be ratted out by a first date sifting through my coffeetable reading material.)

In all seriousness, thanks for all the e-mails, cards, phone calls and well-wishes. Your response has been overwhelming. Mr. Farmer and I think many of you are quite possibly as excited as we are — which is highly amusing, given that we were pretty sure the whole “wedding hype” thing was a farce. And it’s been a delight to hear from college friends that have happened onto my blog or Facebook profile.

Also, it’s become blatantly obvious that many of you were truly worried about my well being as an old maid. A number of people have expressed that they can now stop worrying about me. (Poor Mr. Farmer has his work cut out for him. You can thank him someday for taking me off your hands.)

Now, on to planning. If you have any ideas for a farm party, bring ’em on. (All I can say so far is that photographers are EXPENSIVE. Maybe I should go into business.)


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Nelly Newsflash

…or perhaps it’s “Nelly has flashy news”!

Yes, the rumors are true — on Friday night, Mr. Farmer asked me to marry him. And he got me good.

So, I’ll answer the most popular questions posed in the past few days:

Q: How did it happen?

A: A bit of backstory first. In April, Mr. Farmer and I stopped in a gallery about a block from my house, and after perusing the art for quite some time, Mr. Farmer became fond of a windmill ink drawing. I considered buying it for him for his birthday in May, but ended up getting something else. So a couple Sundays ago, he went for a walk when I was taking a nap, and when he got back he told me that he stopped in the gallery and bought the drawing. But the gallery owner (who is also the artist) had sold the original, so she was making another one.

Earlier this week, Mr. Farmer said he’d come downtown on Friday after work to get the picture (and me), and then we’d head back to his house en route to a wedding in Wisconsin. Practical Nelly suggested that it was silly for him to drive 45 miles in the opposite direction of the wedding — I could pick it up and bring it to him. But he insisted.

I also told him that I was going to leave work at 3 on Friday, since it was the first Friday all summer that I didn’t have a hoard of meetings.

He called me on his way downtown to see if he could pick me up at work, and due to traffic (and a meeting that popped up), I jumped in his truck later than planned (around 4:15) and we headed for my place to park the car, drop our stuff and walk over to the gallery before it closed.

As we were walking, I mentioned that my navy pants matched his shirt. He adamantly said they didn’t. So I stuck my knee up in front of him to prove the point, and he flinched like I was going to kick him in the nards. Come to find out, he was worried that I was going to kick the family jewel in his pocket.

A few minutes later we walked through the door to the small gallery, and my eye immediately went to the place where the windmill had been hanging. And I suddenly saw a framed proposal hanging on the wall above it.

I stopped dead in my tracks, about five paces inside the door. I started laughing hysterically (because he’d “got” me). Then Mr. Farmer (who was walking ahead of me) turned around, got on his knee, asked me to marry him, and produced a ring from his pocket.  I about fell over. (Still laughing. He’s glad I said yes immediately, or he would’ve been worried.)

The gallery owner (who had apparently been quite patient with Mr. Farmer as his plans had been modified over the past two weeks) excitedly congratulated us, then pulled out a bottle of champagne. For the next hour we chatted with her, and Mr. Farmer told me of asking Dad for permission on the combine, calling Mom a few days later, and consulting with Kim on ring style. He told me about his original plan of a crop art/helicopter proposal that just got too complicated to pull off, and of how he’d deliberated over round versus square.

Q: Did you cry?

A: Only after we got home. I got a little misty when he told me Dad got a little choked up when he asked for my hand. (But I’m not really sure if Dad was really torn up with emotion, or if it was fear of how to break it to Mr. Farmer that he was probably getting into more than he bargained for by legally binding himself to a wild woman.)

Q: What does the ring look like?

A: I couldn’t have picked something more perfect myself.

Q: When and where are you getting married?

A: We’re still working on the “when,” but the where is definitely in Kansas on the farm. Most likely next summer.

As an aside, the whole thing is still very new and strange. But also fun and exciting! We’re both really happy.

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Notes from the Peanut Gallery

I am feeling guilty for not writing. (Boohoo.)

So to get back in the saddle, I have a few observations about weddings, drawn mainly from the wedding I attended last weekend.

  • The couples who make out the most are the ones who have been dating the shortest amount of time. Yes, one of the couples at our table nuzzled each other incessantly through dinner. I told the guy next to me (a friend of theirs) that Mr. Farmer and I had a bet on how long they’d been dating. He replied, “I’d hardly call it dating yet.” (We decided that if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.)
  • The father of the bride can’t ever resist telling you how much the reception costs per person. Or reminding you to tell any man over 50 to have his prostate checked annually.
  • The girls with the biggest bums wear the shortest dresses.
  • If you’re at the back tables, you always get stuck with chocolate cake, which is a travesty for lovers of white cake like moi.
  • If you want to woo a cougar, send her a White Russian.

In all seriousness, this Cubs-themed wedding was impeccably executed — complete with the brass band that typically roams the stands at Wrigley, a hot dog/pretzel vendor, and Dorothy (the most committed fan known to man) in attendance. Two thumbs up.

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Off to Kansas

Yes, I’ve been out on the farm for two whole days now, and I’ve been overwhelmed with over 1,000 thousand emails asking why I haven’t posted anything yet. (OK, I might be exaggerating slightly. Maybe by 999.)

Basically I’ve been on KP and gopher duty, which has consisted of bringing Chinese food from the grocery store Chinese Kitchen to the field for lunch, and making sack lunches of roast beef sandwiches, Doritos and fresh veggies for dinner. And cookies for dessert both times, of course. I was also on hostess duty for my aunt, cousin and her four kids this afternoon. As I write this (Tuesday evening), I’m on my third trip “to town” today, but unlike the first (deposit checks) and second (get filters for the tractor at John Deere), this one is purely for fun. I am currently enjoying a glass of refreshing lemoney beer with my pal Mrs. Firewife.

During my several hours in the car, I was thinking about all the things that I’ve been wanting to blog about, and I figured I’d start at the beginning of the trip.

Mr. Farmer was at my house on Sunday to chauffer me to the airport, which proved to be a bit more complicated than normal, given the Pride Parade happening directly outside my window — and blocking cross-town traffic for a good mid-section of the city. In the 15-minute window before our designated departure time, not only did it start raining, but we had to coordinate a key exchange with my very astute cat sitter, who was hilariously chatty from being drunk off his ass from imbibing the festivities.

Finally we were out the door, and literaly as the door shut behind us, a young lady dropped her trousers on my bushes to take a pee. (Apparently she didn’t see the port-a-john four feet from her.)

Once we were out in the masses with my suitcase in tow, we crossed the parade street in front of some scantily clad entrants, and made it to the truck unscathed. Traffic however, was daunting — and luckily it took us only an hour, despite the traffic report saying it was 42 minutes to the airport once we would reach the highway.

Sigh.  A whole 70 minutes until my flight! I’m never this early. And there was no one in the security line.

So I let my very bad habit come to life. I bought a hundred magazines and books. I simply can’t decide what I want to read. So I buy a bunch of stuff, knowing that I’ll only be interested in 10% of it once I read the first 2 pages of it.

I’d already brought the following (which Mr. Farmer thought was excessive):

  • US Weekly
  • A biography of Darwin (purchased back in January)
  • “Veronica” by Mary Gaitskill — about two friends (a model and an office temp) in 1980s NY (purchased in the airport on a trip in April)
  • “Cheat and Charmer” by Elizabeth Frank — about a sister act in 1950s night clubs (purchased a year ago)

I proceeded to purchase…

  • Scientific American — it had an article about no-till farming
  • Forbes — Heidi Klum is on the cover
  • Self — because I need to exercise
  • The new Lauren Weisberger book, which you’re going to have to look up the title of yourself, or Mr. Farmer might think I’m hinting

Interestingly, Scientific American is the one that caught my interest on the flight. The article about no-till farming was quite engaging, as it told about the various revolutions in agriculture — talking about this one as a “silent” but big one. There were also articles about prehistoric migrations tracked by genetics (my aunt/uncle talked about this one at Christmas a couple years ago and had contributed a swab of their cheeks to the database), and the neuroscience of dancing. (Yes, I geeked out.)

After all that, I had to keep my sanity by reading about Jake Gyllenhall moving in with Reese Witherspoon in US.

And there it stopped. I’ve read six pages in the Lauren Weisberger book since then, and that’s it. I obviously have an addiction.

(Fast forward…) I’ve written this post in phases, and now it’s Wednesday afternoon. I had lunch with Mrs. Physical Therapy, which I managed to pull off only under the condition that I would bring lunch to the crew. Now I’m headed out to ride with Brother DIY while he plants soybeans, then over to Mom on the tractor/grain cart while I wait for Dad to make a round in the combine. We’re watching the clouds build in the west for a supposed thunderstorm tonight.

Then I’m off to Wichita to see Mrs. Marketing Director and her new baby, have dinner with my old creative director and pick-up Mr. Farmer, all in the hopes that he can see a sliver of harvest tonight before it storms.

Let’s hope the green Buick doesn’t overheat on the Interstate. It’s sitting with it’s hood open in the driveway.



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