Addicted to Grass

I have a problem. I hide things from my husband.

I don’t hide anything dramatic or something that calls out for a two-part docu-series on the Investigation Discovery channel. I don’t even hide my feelings because, well, I love expressing my feelings and I’m really good at it. For example, if I’m in a bad mood I’ll tell you why and have been known to use color coded charts to fully explain my current disposition.

I’m aware that a lot of people hide purchases from their significant others. My mother was the queen of the covert shopping spree. Her theory was that my dad didn’t need to see all the purchases at once and she was doing him a gentle kindness by slowly revealing what she had bought.

I fear I may have inherited my mom’s propensity for the consumer cover up. For hiding in my car is a 50-pound bag of sweet, sweet,  premium fescue grass seed. I’m very aware that this is, perhaps, a strange thing to be keeping from your spouse.

Some of you may be thinking, “Hmm, a designer handbag I can understand being sneaky about but grass seed – no.”

Well, you see the seed is an issue because I promised my husband I would quit buying it. I may have gone a tad overboard in the last month with my yard remediation program. In my defense it wasn’t entirely my fault.

I was seduced, yes completely seduced, by a siren song disguised as a YouTube video I watched on saving your yard. It spoke to me and stirred my very soul. I felt that now was my time to join forces with the mighty fescue and launch “Operation Over seed.” 

What I didn’t know at that time was that grass seed isn’t cheap. Holy freaking moly it’s expensive. At one point I told the guy at the landscape store that I wanted to clarify that I needed grass seed for my yard not gold.

This expense is why my husband was all about putting a kibosh on any more seed purchases. I agreed and yet I knew deep down in my heart that I needed one more 50-pound bag to complete “Operation Over seed.” The issue then became hiding my seed purchase from my spouse until I could dump it on the yard without him noticing.

 It’s not like it’s all easy peasy to stow a bag of seed that big so I asked my son to hide it in his car for me. This is when I discovered what child would really be there for me when times get rough. My son, come to find out, is not that child.

His response was curt, forceful and not in my favor when he announced, “I will not be a party to your sick seed subterfuge.”

I was left speechless and yearning for my daughter because you know what a daughter would have done? A daughter would have said, “Yeah, just throw it in my car, no problem.”

After I recovered from my son’s basest betrayal of me I said, “Well, I guess if I ever need to hide a body you’re not the kid to call?”

“Seed or body – count me out Mom. I’m not an enabler to bad behavior.”

Oh, how dare he throw back the very words I have used on my children for years. “Not an enabler to bad behavior” was my parenting calling card. The nerve! 

I finally had to come clean with my husband and admit I had purchased another bag of seed. I did solemnly swear that this would be the last one. But just between us that’s only because it’s getting a little late in the season to do anymore over seeding.

 

I’m High On Grass

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.