Grass and Closets and Stuff

I was reminded of Greta Garbo"s "I vant to be a lawn" when the turf guys showed up at some gawd-awful hour yesterday morning. I tore myself free of the entwining sheets and blankets which I could hear - yes I could - softly begging me not to go. I promised to return ASAP. I then staggered over to RTGFKAR's side of the house and alerted him to the situation. He was the guy, after all, who had ordered the sod. I didn't wait to see if he got up, I just started timing the droop of my eyelids to be fully shut when I flopped down into my own bed. Welcome back it said and then I was gone for another couple of hours.

When I awoke for the second time there was a nice green, St.Augustine grass lawn looking laurel and hardy or is that hale and hearty, just off the patio. I was hoping for blue to match our house trim as there is no shortage of the color green around here, but apparently green is still the hot "in" shade when it comes to grass.
I have to say that it looks good as an outside decoration, but it is pretty deep and I wouldn't want to hit anything lower than a wedge or nine iron out of it unless I had a fluffy lie.

The second of the day's surprises came about a half hour after the turf guys departed. Our ibanista - I don't know if that is the correct spelling or even the correct word, but that's what we've been calling our cabinet maker - showed up in a taxi truck with two helpers and all the unassembled parts of RTGFKAR'S closet. He was a week late off his last prediction of dos semanas, two weeks, which really wouldn't be too bad if that hadn't been the third time he had told us dos semanas. A few hours later RTGFKAR was closeted which is a good thing because a man needs a place to hang his hat and, if your are, you know, that other kind of guy, a closet to come out of.

I spent most of the morning and early afternoon burning coffee blankety-blank bushes but crashed back down into my bed about three for a nap. There was another Denver Nugget game coming on the tube at nine that night and I wanted to be able to hang in there for it; a thing I was able to do for the entire first half before responding to the calls from the bed once again. Damn thing's getting to be a regular chatterbox.

Somewhere in the first paragraph I was going to write "sodding the lawn," but was stopped by the realization that all but one of the books I have read this year have been by British authors. Relevance you say, relevance? Well, to a Brit, sodding has a different connotation. Doing it to a lawn is either perverse or impossible.