A couple of weeks ago, Mister, Lentil, and I packed up the Jeep and headed to Point Reyes Station and on to Marshall and The Marshall Store to meet up with BaMa and co. for oysters. This was a major undertaking, as we had a time to be in Marshall to meet up with the BaMas and we wanted to bookend the trip with Lentil's naps.
I love the drive to Point Reyes. We travel across the bridge, snaking up 101 and then Sir Francis Drake through Marin. I'm not unusual in having a love-hate thing with Marin. It's bucolic, perfect for cycling, too white, too hot, wonderful, green, obnoxious. I wouldn't turn down a house, but I'm certain that Mister and I aren't cut out for Marin life. We don't have enough money, aren't old hippies, and he hates the heat.
Further up, though, is perfect for us. One day Mister and I would like to live in Point Reyes Station (or thereabouts). He proposed to me at Limantour Beach, using oysters from Hog Island Oyster Company to throw me off the scent. (He thinks I was surprised, which I was, despite my brief thought that his hand was in his pocket too long as we crossed the sand. Who crosses a beach with his hand in his pocket except someone who has a big fat diamond ring in it? But he'd told me three times he wasn't ready to propose so I snuffed the thought.)
The Marshall trip. Ah. Oysters that tasted as though they'd been pulled from the sea just for us. Mister and I, as usual, ordered too much. Maybe that was my fault. Mister was outside with Lentil, leaving me in charge of the menu. Crab sandwich? Yes, please. Ditto BBQ'd oysters (OH MY!!), fish tacos (spicy and delicious!), and clam chowder (I had to try it but would pass next time). BaMa's son declared an undying love for oysters (his first) and immediately set about planning his return trip to Marshalls.
The next morning, we were visited by the Footles and two portions of bacon, the last from their Bacon of the Month club stash (a present from Mister). Oysters and bacon in the same weekend. I love my life.
About three hours later, I said, "Heh, I'm feeling a little pukey." Thirty minutes later, so was Mister. We tagged teamed bathroom visits, vomiting more violently than I have in recent memory, which includes my so-called bachelorette party. Oy. What a bad idea.
Twelve hours or so later, we were both done puking but our innards were sore and we both felt like the Mojave Desert. It took a few more days before we felt back to normal. Initially I blamed sausages, but then Mrs. Footle came down with it. The BaMas were felled. Our friend Pacelet succombed. Others took ill. It wasn't food poisoning but a one day killer puke maker.
Lentil didn't get it, phew! But when you spend a lot of time on the bathroom floor, you have time to reflect on things like, say, the ants that are coming back from under the toilet. What do these things want? We get them in ones and twos, the little bastards. They tool around Lentil's room, and especially her bed. I hit the roof when I found a party going on at the foot of her crib. I think of us as being reasonably clean people. We change our sheets, wash our dishes, take out the trash. Ants make me feel dirty, like I've done something wicked and am paying for it with tiny moving spots. I get that ants are part of the cycle of life and we're doing our part to reduce our garbage, be kind to the earth, so on. But I'd pour poison straight into every ant hole and anthill on our property if I could.