I have an addiction. I knew things had gotten bad when I received a text at 6:45 on a Wednesday morning. It was from my supplier. She wrote in all caps that if I wanted the good stuff I had 30 minutes – tops to get to our agreed upon location. If I was any later she threatened that all the good grass might be gone.
I hauled out of bed, threw on pants, shoved my feet into some flip-flops, and bolted for my car. I didn’t even slow down to change out of my pajama top or brush my teeth. There wasn’t time. I needed that grass and nothing was going to stop me. I made it there in 20 minutes and already there was a line. Just as my supplier had predicted several large crews had beat me to it.
Aargh!
I bided my time hoping that there would be enough grass left for me. Finally, I got my fix. 20 rolls of pristine, premium sod fresh from a grass farm were all mine.
This is the kind of sod that poetry is written about. It’s lush and fragrant. Even the soil underpinnings have a bouquet that conjures up images of a magical farm where unicorns are free ranging with Santa’s reindeers.
I had learned the hard way to steer clear of sod that look tired or wasn’t embracing a green aesthetic. No amount of water or fertilizer would ever bring back a piece of sod that resembled brown, weather-beaten shag carpet from the 70s. In fact, bad sod experiences that took me on a trip of frustration and despair are what fueled my quest for the perfect sod. It was two weeks ago when I knew true joy by discovering this holy grail of sod. It wasn’t easy. I had to become the landscape version of Sherlock Holmes.
If I saw a crew working on a lawn that had yard of the month potential I would stop and question the gardeners who were always willing to share intel unlike the homeowners. Homeowners, it seems, keep secrets especially about how to achieve the perfect vista of grass that shimmers like a field made of ceremonial grade matcha tea. But, I would not be deterred.
One day, purely my happenstance I assure you, I followed a secretive yard owner and discovered the hush, hush, lair of sod nirvana. People were lined up waiting for the sod delivery. After much prodding I found out that there was even a group text message about when the sod truck was coming. All I knew is that I desperately wanted in.
I attempted to make friends with the sod groupies standing in line thinking that this could be a foothold to achieving something that had been out of reach my entire suburban life – yard domination.
Sadly, this wasn’t an arena for wannabes. I was in the presence of hardened lawn professionals who had little time for a person who didn’t know her Blue Grass from her Fescue. As for the couple I had tailed to the sod location, well, let’s just say they totally ignored me but not before giving me some serious side eye.
I deduced the only way I was going to get into this group was to suck up to the sod purveyor. I threw myself on her mercy and confessed I was a yard idiot that needed her sweet, sweet, sod to save me. Fortunately, she took pity on me. Once she took down my cell phone number I knew I had penetrated the inner circle and it felt so good.
My yard is still a work in progress but I have high hopes and I’m now in the sod group text message so dreams really do come true.
Postscript: After this column was published in the Kansas City Star I was removed from the sod group text. I’m not going to lie – I got a little teary eyed over being dumped by the grass groupies.
Snarky in the Suburbs 