“I am at a loss,” Donna said. “This poor baby won’t stop crying and I don’t know what to do to get him to shut up. I’m at my wits’ end.”
“Sometimes you have to just take a deep breath, pause for a few minutes, and try to figure out what’s causing the upset,” Donna’s best friend, Anita, said in a supporting way.
“Peace and quiet since this baby was born have been so elusive, Donna said. “Do you think I’m suffering from postpartum depression, Anita?”
“Think of it as a character-building experience, Donna,” Anita said. “It’s a phase all babies go through. Don’t let it faze you, and always remember what they say: this, too, shall pass.”
Written for these daily prompts: Jibber Jabber (loss), The Daily Spur (baby), Ragtag Daily Prompt (pause), Word of the Day Challenge (supporting), Your Daily Word Prompt (elusive), Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (character).
When I was in the fifth grade, I dared to be different. Most of the other kids in my class were using ballpoint pens. Not me though. My choice of writing instrument was a fountain pen. A classy Parker fountain pen.
It was one of those fountain pens where you inserted a small, frosted plastic tube filled with ink (aka, the cartridge) into the barrel of the pen, and then screwed the nib onto the barrel. The inside end of the nib would penetrate the cartridge so that the ink in the cartridge’s reservoir would flow down to the nib’s point when pressed onto the paper. It was a magnificent piece of engineering.
And to further differentiate myself, I used turquoise ink. Not blue, not black. Turquoise!
My homework and my in-class papers were easily recognizable because of the color of the ink I used. No one else in my class used turquoise ink. No one else dared used turquoise ink.
I was a weird kid in the fifth grade. Fortunately, I had grown out of my turquoise fountain pen phase by the time I entered the sixth grade.
Written for today’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt from Linda G. Hill. The challenge this week was to write a post using the word “ink.”
When I saw today’s one-word prompt, “orange,” I was sorely tempted to write a post about the orangutan who currently occupies the Oval Office.
But then I remembered that the first new car I bought was a Day-Glo orange 1967 Chevy Camaro.
- Not mine, but essentially the same car
The Camaro was Chevy’s answer to the Ford Mustang and I actually liked the looks of the Camaro better than the Mustang’s. And, for some reason, when I walked into the showroom of my local Chevy dealership and saw that bright orange model, I was awestruck.
I had managed to save up around $2,000 and when I learned that the base model Camaro with a three-speed, floor-mounted manual transmission and vinyl seats could be had for only $2,200, I hit up my parents for the difference and within a few days, I proudly drove out of the dealer’s lot in my brand new orange Camaro.
I loved my Day-Glo orange Camaro, which was visible from miles away, even on cloudy, gray days. My buddies and I drove all around town showing off my ostentation new car.
My orange Camaro phase lasted about three years until I entered my British roadster phase, sold the Camaro for slightly more than I paid for it (yay!), and bought a used, 1963 Sunbeam Alpine.