Last night Sara came over under the guise, the guise I tell you, of returning a bottle of wine that she and Jake had opened and weren't getting into. So she found out what I was making for dinner.

You probably didn't guess it.

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Chicken gizzards. Yes, my Southern roots are showing. Actually it's gizzards and hearts. Fried. One of my favorite comfort foods. Sometimes I just crave it. Add Trappey's Bull hot sauce and mmmm-mmm.

It goes from the gross-looking raw state you see above, then through the battering process.

Frying.

And after you've created a huge, oily mess ... voila!

Sara had fun chasing one of our cats around the house with the squeaky dolphin pen, and then I had fun chasing her around the house with a plate of fried gizzards.

Before I tormented her, though, I stole a really nice kiss. One of those that makes your clit feel like someone has taken it gently between forefinger and thumb and twisted it just a couple degrees to the left. You know what I mean? I love it when I get a charge like that just from a kiss.

Deb is on her way home from work early. She says she's feeling really, really crappy sick. Shoot. I never felt that bad with the cold I had. In fact, I think it might have just been allergies. I'm going to make her go to bed and stay there.

I went to the high school track this morning to meet up with a walking/exercise support group that's forming: the SpaGirls. Seems like it will be a fun group. These women have more definite goals than me, though. I just want to keep up my walking and getting into better shape slowly.

Some of these women are looking for real results.

The morning group, of which I'll be a part, is being led by a woman who's getting ready for her annual Appalachian Trail hiking vacation with her girlfriends (two pro river guides and an aerobics instructor). This woman is in fairly good shape, but not as buff as her friends, judging by their professions.

She says every summer she feels like her buds are trying to kill her, and she wants to be better prepared this year. I can understand that. Her goal is to do a three-mile power walk five days a week. If I really knuckle down, I can do that. It means I'll have to get to bed early, though. Wish me luck.

Oh, yeah. And I'm the official SpaGirl photographer.

Miguelito is playing Google Bingo. He's picked a pretty good card. I expect the competition to be tough.

My last two Google hits:

fuck sex masturbation
and diaryland masturbate started

Whatever.

Aren't you people interested in what my dungeon design looks like, how many women in bondage I've had there, or what to do when you've got a girl handcuffed?

And I can't believe "lesbian pancakes" isn't hitting on either me or Mig. Thank god tomorrow is bacon day.

I really enjoyed "Bring It On." In fact, I'll probably watch it again today. Eliza Dushku (Faith from "Buffy") is completely hot in this. I'd put this flick at about the same camp/entertainment level as "American Pie" but not nearly that raunchy. All the sex jokes in "Bring It On" are pretty superficial.

Two of my favorite quotes from the movie (that I can remember off the top of my head:

"Missy's the poo; take a whiff."

and

"Cheerleaders are dancers ...[brief pause] ... who have gone retarded."

I also need to clarify that I don't think Motherlode looks like Jeneane Garofalo. I think she has the cute/funny/smart thing going on that I associate with J.G.

SERIOUS WARNING: This last note is about something really horrible that I witnessed this morning. It's a bad, bad animal thing. Jake, do not read this. I just wanted to put it in here because I didn't want to talk about this to any of the girls. They don't need to hear about it. I'd advise almost anyone to skip it. But if you really want to know everything that happened today, go ahead and scroll down.

We have wild dog packs that run around our neighborhood and town. Not like in the Serengeti sense of wild dogs, but dogs that just roam free, eating trash, fighting and breeding.

This morning, as I was walking to the SpaGirls thing, I saw two dogs coming down the street toward me. One of them had a dead, bloodied, broken, full-grown cat in its mouth. A brown tabby, just like one of mine.

It was awful. Badbadbadbadawful to see. But it didn't shock me or frighten me or even horrify me. I felt disgusted, sad and sorry. But not even particularly angry. Or at least I haven't felt that way yet.

I'm very thankful that the cat was obviously dead. If it had been showing signs of life, I would have had to make the decision to let the dog have it, or to try to take it away from the wild dog (most likely not a very smart thing to do).

I am, however, keeping an eye out for those two dogs. If I see them, I will try to lure them into the fenced back yard of the empty house next door and call the pound to come take them away.

I hate to end on that note, but I wanted to give people a good way to skip this part.