It’s that time of year. The kid’s are out of school and the spouse is back from rehab. It’s time to for every red- blooded American family to pile in the car, drive 1000 miles to stand in long, sweaty lines to ride AmusementWorld’s new “Disorienter 3000!” (It’s SPAZ-tastic!)

As a kid, I only had one vacation goal. Don’t get car sick. Many times I made it to the end of the driveway. I had the internal stability of a lava lamp. Another contributing factor was my bargain hunting father. Big Joe purchased the last non-air conditioned car in America. Despite the fact that it would be years before Al Gore invented global warming, our back seat was like a sauna that swayed. Today, my dad would not be allowed to drive prisoners at Gitmo.

The one positive aspect of compulsory bonding time is that it reinforced our desire to avoid each other the remaining 11 1/2 months of the year. While most of my battles were with physical sickness, there was plenty of family mental illness for balance. My dad would always choose this opportunity for another failed attempt to break his 40 year chain-smoking habit. Day One, he was jittery. Day Two, he looked like Saddam Hussein jerked out of his spider hole.

My sister would cry for days because she had just met a boy, or just broken up with a boy, or just broken up with a boy she had just met. My mother would sit quietly and contemplate joining a convent. Or drinking. It was tough to tell with her.

Mrs. Malarkey and I don’t have kids due to a very restrictive zoning ordinance and a physical quirk I’d rather not discuss. But if you’re taking your clan for an extended trip we’d love to see the vacation photos. Just nothing too blurry, because those always make me kind of queasy.