I’m taking a minute to tell you about my newest kids’ book. It’s the third in my  Uh-oh, Cleo series, and it’s called, I Barfed On Mrs. Kenly.

I actually did barf on Mrs. Kenly, by the way; you might call this little book memoir-ish.

See, one Sunday morning in my childhood, I ate way too many pancakes, and then went to a birthday party, which involved riding downtown in a van stuffed with children and an unlucky lady named Mrs. Kenly.

Mrs. Kenly sat next to me, all squished in. She was wearing a beautiful mink coat, which at the time was not politically incorrect.

On the other side of me was Donna, who was chewing watermelon bubble gum, the fumes from which turned my stomach in the close quarters. Also, the temperature in the van must’ve been ninety, with all windows shut to keep out the Chicago chill, and Mr. Kling, the driver and dad of the birthday girl, was smoking a cigar.

So I was surrounded by barf-inducing elements.

Still, it took me by surprise when I violently threw up all over Mrs. Kenly’s lovely coat. (She was surprised too, of course, with a few other emotions mixed in.)  The humiliation was awful, made worse by the fact that Mrs. Kenly was a terribly nice person. If I’d barfed on, say, Mrs. Landon, who once laughed at me because I had toilet paper stuck to my shoe, I wouldn’t have minded so much

If you know any 7 or 8 year-olds who might be amused by this story, check out I Barfed On Mrs. Kenly. I mean, literally check it out, at the library, or just, you know, check it out out here.

I just heard on the radio that in the American Airlines Sky Mall catalogue, there’s a device for sale, a clock that only tells you what day it is.

Normally, when purchasing a clock, I look for one that has a few more bells and whilstles, one that tells you what time it is, for example. Of course, when I travel, my iPhone serves as my source of such information, plus anything else I might want to now, from the temperature in Dubai to John Mayer’s shoe size.

But last week I went to the Caribbean, and now I totally get it about  AA’s day clock: there is a land (and a state of mind) where the name of the day is all the temporal info you need.

We got to Nevis (in the West Indies) on Sunday. I was carrying three time-telling devices. Within hours, I’d shed my watch. By Monday, I’d shut down and stowed my laptop. By Tuesday, I was feeling hostile towards my iPhone: I clicked it off and threw it in my suitcase. That was it. I was time-less, as was the rest of my sun-stunned family, only guessing the hour by the length of the shadows cast by our hammocks.

The AA clock would have come in handy when we almost forgot to catch that plane home on New Years Day. But late one night (which the day clock would have told us was Thursday), we noticed revelers singing “Auld Lang Syne,” and we recalled our obligations and acknowledged that it was time to strap on our watches and pack our sandy bags.

We’re on the airplane now, revving up our various electronic things and preparing for re-entry. I think I’ll just leave my watch set for Nevis time, maybe put it away for a while and get one of those AA day clocks. Because it turns out that’s all you really need. Well, that and a hammock.