by Cindy Burch

Created on: June 18, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

The best advice my mother ever gave (that I've actually followed) is to always have air sickness bags handy. I keep them in my car. If someone else is driving, I bring one or two. Another piece of advice is if you're going to actually use one, HAVE GOOD AIM!
I just thought of something horrible. Will they be the next thing the airlines will charge extra for? What if you're sick and you don't have the right change? Maybe the person stuffed in the next seat will be willing to chip in Geeze, "Fly the trendy skies and B.Y.O.B.B."

I could do a whole story on the merits of these bags (I won't say "barf bags" cause I don't want to offend anyone.) but this is about nightmare vacations. This incident involves my "little" brother who is now fifty. I was always the one who would get carsick. It was just expected of me. It wasn't what I necessarily wanted to be known for but it was. That's what made this all the more fun.

When we lived in Illinois, we usually went somewhere within driving distance for vacations. It doesn't matter where we were going. The car incident was all I remember. Just think of the money my parents could have saved on vacations if they had only known that all we would remember would be the puke stories. My brother and I were seated in the third seat of the station wagon facing backwards. The tailgate window was always slightly opened so the others in the car who were seated front to back based on age: the older you were, the closer to the front you were could get ventilation. The open rear window allowed just enough emissions to render one weaker than myself unconscious. The sounds of the smacking and the smell of Juicy Fruit Gum was already making me woosy. I was thinking of starting a fight with my brother when I noticed his skin was a new weird color. I opened a bag "just in case" (which was one of my mother's staple phrases). He accepted this gesture gratefully by filling the bag. I was actually strangely happy that it wasn't me and the attention would be on him this time. We were experts at folding the bags and bending the tabs so the warm contents wouldn't leak out. Apparently the smell had reached my father in the vast distance of the driver's seat. H e was poised and waiting for the coast to be clear. When he sensed the exact right moment was near, he yelled, "NOW!" and the rear window went down. We knew that it meant "hurl" the bag out fast. Luckily it went pretty far. Who says girls can't throw? Then the coolest thing happened. (Remember we were around nine and six years old.) The sealed bag landed hard on a large rock and exploded! My brother and I were witnesses to an explosion not unlike a beige firework! We watched in awe and then couldn't stop laughing. It bonded us for life. Well over forty years later we still bring up the exploding throw-up bag story when the other one needs cheering up.

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