Fleet Farm! Friday

When the uber-city girl Baroness was wee, one of her favorite stories was 'Charlotte's Web'.

Oh, how she loved her some Miss Fern, and Wilbur, the smartest pig on earth.

E.B. White, having already smitten her with 'Stuart Little' (a mouse who drives - how frickin' adorable is THAT??), now painted such a bucolic life with a girl and her pet pig, that the Baroness fully intended to spend her adult years away from the lure of the bright city lights, and knee-deep in mud and critter doo-doo.

The best-laid plans, they say - blah dee blah dee blah. Not too long after my burgeoning love affair with Wilbur, I spent a few icy cold winter days on my uncle's farm.

His pig farm.

As we sat around the dinner table on our first night, I -in my usual cloying precociousness- started in on how I had just read 'Charlotte's Web', and how lucky my uncle must have been to have a whole barnful of adorable pigs.

"So, you like pigs?", he queried.

"LOVE them!", I exuded.

"Have you ever even seen a pig before?" he furthered.

"Just Arnold Ziffel on Green Acres", I sheepishly admitted.

Smugly, he offered, "Why don't you come down to the barn with me after dinner, and I'll show you some real pigs?"

Oh.

My.

God.

I could barely finish my meal, and promptly burned off every calorie I ingested by the antsy-pantsies.

Off we tromped, into the freezing, starry night. Me and my uncle. If Norman Rockwell was there, he would have immediately painted a picture.

We got to the door, my heart pounding.

I could hear the squealing. Rather than it being cute and sweet, it sounded rather distressful. I started to feel a little anxious.

With a flourish, my uncle threw open the door.

As we stood, side by side, in sub-zero temperatures, something hit me.

Well, actually two things hit me.

One was this wave of heat.

Accompanied in short order by a tsunami of stink.

I thought I might barf.

As much out of disappointment as by sensory overload.

"You still like pigs?", my uncle guffawed and chortled.

Bastard.

Damn his and his folksy prairie wisdom.

But.

Flash forward eleventy-seven years to present day Minnesota.

Where we are visiting the Countess of Yik Yak and her hubby, the Count of Mancave.

On our extremely packed schedule of events is a trip to one Fleet Farm.

I am immediately intrigued.

For to me, the name "Fleet" is usually associated with some sort of enema.

To have a entire enema farm?

This I have to see.

In his always thoughtful manner, the Baron - knowing my past farm fiasco - offers to do some recon work with the Count.

When he comes back with this picture:

I don't know what I love more - the hypodermic on the label?
The lobster and the mutant fish - with a crown? Or the brand name - 'King Kooker'?
It's almost too much. (almost).

I know that, after all these years, it's back to barnyard for the Baroness.

For the next few Fridays, stop on by, pull up a tree stump to sit on, and let me show you my reawakening, thanks to the fine folks at Fleet Farm!