Now A Grass Man

I've never admired lawns. I suppose this is because I have better things to do with my time, or so I'd like to think.
Earlier this week, I mentioned to Stephen that I might like to learn grass...species. Types. Whatever. Actual names. Know them well enough to pinpoint one over another while strolling through a well-kept park, or a lush neighborhood.
"Beautiful lawn you have, Dave. St. Augustine Grass. A very prominent species. That would be a...warm season family, if I'm not mistaken. Perhaps I should have grown Augustine myself, rather than the Sideoats, but you know what they say: The grass is always greener!" (Followed by obnoxious ha ha-ing.)
This trivialty is not, unlike most, a ploy to impress women. Hortoculture is not a turn on.
However, it may impress guys. And, since I have no idea how to build a bookshelf, and no one would ever trust me with a drill press, that might be important. Help me get that big promotion I've been hankering for.
Ironically, a few days after said conversation, I end up with family friends in Brampton. Brampton lacks charm apart from the brickyard. That's not the ironic bit.
The house is very large and very beautiful.
But the lawn, dear Lord. Never before have I felt this way about a lawn.
You'd have to run your hand over it to understand. It's so soft. It's like petting a chinchilla, this grass.