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 beaten me to it.
I bided my time hoping that there would be enough grass left for me. Finally, I got my fix. Twenty 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 about achieving a vista of grass that shimmers like a field made of emeralds. But I would not be deterred.
One day, purely my happenstance I assure you, I followed an emerald-yard owner and discovered the lair of sod nirvana. People were lined up waiting for the sod delivery. After much prodding I discovered there was even a group text message about when the sod truck was coming. 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 bluegrass 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 who 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.
Reach Sherry Kuehl at snarkyinthesuburbs@ gmail.com, on Facebook at Snarky in the Suburbs, on Twitter at @snarkynsuburbs on Instagram @snarky.in.the.suburbs, and snarkyinthesuburbs.com.