Ow.

I am typing with one hand here. ("If a blonde types with one hand, does the writing still suck?") There was a one-woman rollerblading spill over the weekend (or to use my brand-new British racing term, I “came a cropper”) and I now have a beautifully sprained wrist. So typing isn't the most comfortable activity in the world.

It was a pretty impressive fall, I must say, complete with dorky windmilling and an audible thud on the concrete. The Daily Racing Form would have reported it thusly: “Checked, stumbled, lost rider.” There is, as always, a bright side-- absolutely no one was around to see me go ass over ponytail. I have been explaining all the scrapes by telling people that my pimp is slapping me around again.

Fortunately, though, you only need one hand to hold a sparkler, and on the 4th of July Flipper and I tore around like five-year-olds waving these things in the air and generally doing our very best to set the apartment complex on fire. These were some truly carefully crafted pyrotechnics; you could tell by the way they either shot flaming ash onto our clothes or fell off the stick and sat there fizzling on the ground. It's just sad that you can't buy a quality product at two dollars a dozen out of a tent in a Wal-Mart parking lot anymore.

comfort the gimp at blondechampagne@hotmail.com