Where's My Barley?

Today is Prince Charles' 60th birthday. The Globe article says he's still fresh, that he was often said to have a butterfly mind flitting from one thing to another but now that mind has coalesced, and that he's a poster boomer, an exemplar of his generation where 60 is the new 40.

Good on him. Across the pond here, I hope my mind coalesces some day. Right now, I can't be said to be blooming like Charlie. I'm kind of wilting.

A few weeks ago, I bought a bag of pearl barley and made some soup. I want to make the soup again. I've looked everywhere and cleaned out all my kitchen cupboards, but I can't find my bag of barley.

I sit in a chair to do my neck stretch exercises and The Boy thinks I've fallen a sleep. There's a bed upstairs if you are tire, mom, he said.

My head feels tight all the time because I put my hair up. I forget when I perch my reading glasses there. So I was pulling cushions out and throwing books in the air when The Boy asked what I was looking for. My glasses, I fumed. They're on your head, he said, then he crept away carefully as if I were contagious.

My knees hurt so much I can no longer kneel on them. I hate that I can hear my joints snap crackle and pop with every movement. That glucosamine I'm taking better kick in soon.

I look at the 18-, 19-year-old young men who pleased me so much last summer and say, Those are unkempt boys in need of a cuff on the ear. Where are their mothers?

I huddle on St. Clair with the old men who spit on the ground and swear at stray dogs. No I don't, not yet. But I feel like doing that sometimes. I know I'm whining. This is a whiny kind of day. I know I'll feel better if I can only find my barley and make my soup. I bought the mushrooms and carrots for it and all.