I admit, I am very particular about the ice we use at home. I’m not fond of ice from the fridge’s ice maker or from trays in the freezer. Those are too smooth and taste like refrigerator water – like someone literally squeezed water out of the fridge and made ice cubes from it. So instead, we buy bagged ice from the store. And it has to be the jagged broken pieces kind. No uniform cylinders or chicklet squares. (The jagged pieces taste best for whatever reason.) I know, I’m weird. But if there is an apocalypse and cylinder ice was all that’s available, then I’ll be fine with it. Geez, I’m not that finicky.

The downside to only using bagged ice is having to go out to get it. Transporting it home is very stressful for me. We’re fortunate to have two stores within a mile and a half from the house that carries our ice. But getting it home, especially in the summertime, that mile and a half feels like ten. It seems like everyone on the way home wants my ice to melt. A little neurotic? How about a lot neurotic. Here’s a glimpse of how my drive home will typically go…

My car’s a/c is on full-blast, all vents pointed down towards the bag of ice in the seat next to me. There is a Mr. Shopper pushing his cart down the middle of the parking aisle blocking my exit! I want to yell, See me! And move over! I’ve got ice! Then I’ll start drumming my thumbs impatiently on the steering wheel while he slowly maneuvers his cart over to the side, like excruciatingly slow. I wonder if I tap him lightly with my bumper he’d pick up the pace a little. I look over at the bag of ice. Hold on baby, we’re not even out of the parking lot yet. I give it a mental pat for comfort.

Once out of the parking lot, I get stuck at a light. You know people, you can turn right on red! It’s all clear! No one is coming! No one! I’ve got ice! I sing song to myself as my hand hovers over the horn as I consider honking. Just as I’m about to honk, oh, SO lucky, the light turns green so the effer in front of me finally turns. I glance at the bag and it appears to be glistening. Why didn’t I honk?

Driving down the last stretch of road, holy hell, why is now the time the dipshit in front of me decides to drive 5 mph under the speed limit? Don’t they know I have ice in the car?!? Come ooonnn, mooove it, mooove it!!!

Hooray! Dipshit is turning! OMG why is he the world’s slowest turner ever?!? Turn dammit it! Tuuurn!

I don’t know why I’m compelled to place this undue stress upon myself. But I do. It’s a good thing my husband will buy the ice whenever possible. Otherwise, one day I’ll have to tell a cop I ran someone off the road because my ice was melting. While it makes perfectly good sense to me, I don’t think they’d agree.