Remember when I thought it perfectly

rational for two people to drive three vehicles

a hundred miles? Since I’m queen of

dumb ideas, you’ll find the most recent is

noteworthy.

As we planned a 1,900-mile trip across

the United States to see our kids, I had the

good – a relative term – idea to take our son

Premium Creamies, an ice cream treat on a

stick. My defense? He loves them and they

aren’t sold in the South. It would be work,

but a fun surprise for everyone so I didn’t

say a word except to Gar.

I had to come up with a complex plan

on how I could get two boxes of Creamies

from Wyoming to Florida without them becoming

soup, so I called the makers of this

ice cream for advice. The owner thought it

a fun idea and told me they had, only once,

sent them from the factory but the cost was

prohibitive. He said he’d investigate some

options for me, and a few hours later he

emailed me his ideas. My idea was, “We’ll

do all the work and overnight them to Florida

for free.” His was sadder. They didn’t

do this anymore for any price.

Being clueless, I wasn’t sure what to

do, but I figured the Creamies would have

to be put on dry ice or tied to the flaps of

the airplane, then remembered the airlines

were killjoys, so figured dry ice might be

my best shot. I called the airlines which,

sounding like they transport ice cream

every other day, assured me anything containing

dry ice with ice cream must be a

“carry-on.” How many people have tried

this? I then contacted Transportation Security

Administration. They, being the law

of the land, said anything with dry ice had

to go in “checked” luggage. Gee-man-eeze.

I planned to put the Creamies and dry ice

into a soft-sided lunch cooler, then into a

box and tape it shut. The TSA guy boldly

stated, “Do not tape it! The contents will

be thoroughly inspected. No exceptions.”

When I bought the Creamies, I’d hoped

to purchase a 5-pound chunk of dry ice,

which was the maximum allowed by officials,

but the store could only sell me

pieces adding up to that amount. This was

a blessing because as I began shoving,

cramming, and smashing two cartons of

Creamies and the dry ice into the cooler,

I found it was two sizes too small. With

sheer grit and much sailor verbiage, I got

it all in but couldn’t zip the top. When Gar

saw the problematic stuffing I was doing,

he mentioned I’d need a bigger box for the

whole shebang. I ignored his ridiculous

lack of confidence.

We drove to the motel and standing

outside in minus 17 temps, and with Gar

looking over my shoulder, I attempted to

smash the bulging cooler into a too-small

box. Gar, remaining quiet and thus keeping

himself safe, went inside to read, while

sipping a hot beverage.

I didn’t want to go inside for fear the ice

would dissipate, so I stood with my thigh

pressed against the box, which was perched

on the truck’s running board, and valiantly

continued to bulldoze a mountain into a

molehill. It was so cold the nicely folded,

heavy duty tin foil I’d brought to wrap

around everything didn’t want to unfold

without tearing. I went in search of a bigger

box while seething inwardly at Mr. Hot

Beverage Sipper, with unspoken yet clearly

expressive “I told you so” eyebrows.

Finding a bigger box, I coaxed the foil to

cooperate; I wasn’t above begging. Finally,

I accomplished my task, covered it all with

newspaper and shoved it behind our vehicle

tire, wondering if someone would steal it.

I’d track them down and do things to them

a Christian woman isn’t even supposed to

know about.

The next morning, we arrived at the

terminal and declared the contents of my

bag. The airline agent didn’t even open it

as she applied the label, “Dry Ice.” TSA

didn’t even pretend to look at it, not even a

glance. I could have taped it! No wonder I

have trouble talking without spewing filth.

Upon our arrival, our son kept the vehicle

curbside while our daughter picked us

up inside the terminal, along with the still

solidly frozen container. When she saw

the label on my luggage, she exclaimed,

“Oh great, the Creamies made it!” If looks

could kill, Gar would be sitting at the right

hand of the Father.