“Can I have that bed? Huh? Can I? Puh-leeese?” I begged my mother, pointing desperately to the sleeping compartment above the cab of our rented Winnebago RV. Permission was granted, and I could hardly contain my excitement.

Much like today, economic times were tough for my middle-class parents in the summer of 1979. My father believed renting an RV would make for a cost-effective family vacation, and would enable my older brother, a rising senior in high school, to visit a few colleges along the way.

My mother was hesitant due to motion sickness, but after assurances of a smooth ride from my father, she envisioned herself a traveling June Cleaver, serving cold cuts and Shasta in the spiffy mobile kitchen. My brother was concerned about the outdated 8-track tape player, until one of his buddies lent him a mixtape for the trip. I’d spent years playing with my Barbie Country Camper — although I had to pretend Barbie suffered a grizzly attack after my brother ripped the tent off the side — so for me, this trip was a dream come true.

After packing our belongings into the appropriate compartments, we were off.

My father hadn’t fully backed out of the driveway when my mother grabbed the countertop to steady herself and yelled, “Stop! I feel sick!” Despite Mom’s vision of serving us lunch over a game of Parcheesi on the convertible table, she spent the rest of the drive firmly planted in the passenger’s seat where she could watch the road.

From my perch above the cab, I had a panoramic view, climbing down occasionally for a cold can of Tab from the refrigerator. My brother played cards at the table and sang along with mixtape hits like “Devil Went Down to Georgia” and “Ring My Bell.” My parents settled in, and our golden retriever found a comfortable spot to nap. We were all beginning to enjoy the RV lifestyle.

Three days later, we were in pure hell.

We’d discovered that the slightest turn of the wheel caused the refrigerator to fly open, leaving pickle jars and soda cans rolling on the cabin floor. The constantly-looping eight-track tape was like an enhanced interrogation technique, especially during the high notes of “You Can Ring My Bell.” Also, we learned that the air conditioner was not adequate to cool the cabin, making the living areas muggy at best, and my upper hideout a veritable sauna.

Camping stops were not exactly idyllic. In an Annapolis KOA campground while visiting the Naval Academy, my father endured the buggy gnat-infested heat to complete the complicated series of RV hookups, only to unhook it all so we could go out for seafood. At another scorching campground near Duke University, the water and lights in the shower house shut down promptly at 8 p.m., to the surprise of my father and brother, who had just lathered up. Another night, I whined incessantly about the heat when the cabin’s finicky AC unit finally gave up the ghost, prompting nearby campers to yell, “Can’t you keep her quiet?!”

After paying exorbitant prices at a Maryland gas station, my father inadvertently backed into the pump, ripping the spare tire cover. My brother tore a 6-inch hole in the vinyl interior upholstery when he forgot about a screwdriver in his back pocket. The piece de resistance happened while in the searing heat of North Carolina, when my brother left a bag of fish he caught in a compartment under one of the seats, which wasn’t discovered until we located the source of the pungent aroma two days later.

By the time we headed home from our summer vacation, our top-of-the-line RV looked more like a rolling ghetto careening down I-95, reeking of dead fish, with curtains flying out open windows, food rolling around the cabin floor and the ripped tire cover and dog’s tongue flapping in the wind.

On a dirt road somewhere outside of Cumberland, W.V., we kept a lookout while Dad illegally emptied the septic tank into a ditch. From my sweltering lookout, I decided right then and there that my Barbie Country Camper would soon be taking a trip — straight to the Goodwill.

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com