sweet midgets

Once again, the chore gnomes have let me down. I have been studiously leaving piles of leaves on the garden beds in the hopes that they'd sneak in under cover of night and rake/weed/mulch the dang things. They have not. Stupid, stupid gnomes.

Given that the weather is gorgeous and I have convinced myself to ignore student papers for another day, I must go start the process. Really, I'd just as soon take my knitting, a lawn chair and a mai tai and do what comes naturally. Instead, I will tidy. Woo.

A distraction, then, for you, my loyal reader: SF/F Awards we'd all like to see. (This may require registration of some sort.)

My fave is this one: The Tortured Syntax Award For Most Striking Architectural Accomplishment in Construction of Extremely Lengthy and Divergent Sentences—Complete With Asides and Discursions of Various Natures—to Have Been Published in Our Field in a Recognized Professional Market While Developing a Complex Interwoven Weltanschauung Amid the Thickets of the Parts of Speech the Point of Which Was Long Since Herein Lost

I know who I'd nominate.


I have leaves in my garden beds too. Only I call them "mulch." Under the leaves are old newspapers. I take lazy gardening to a new level.

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