There's something about jumping on those machines that strikes to the core of the male heart and soul. Why? Women don't grab their vacuum cleaners and lose contact with reality, although I have been known to suck up an occasional drapery while day-dreaming about Caribbean cruises. But we don't "pilot" them -- we just use them and put them back in the closet.

 Men, however, ride their lawn mowers like space shuttles, only NASA's not as meticulous about their rockets as ordinary, grass-mowing husbands are of their riding machines.  For us it's the only possession rating the royal treatment -- everything else gets put off until some really important sporting event, like the Third-World Dodge Ball Tournament, is finished.

  "The garbage disposal's spitting food back at me."

 "I'll look at it as soon as they make this touchdown conversion."

 "What looks like a boa constrictor just swallowed a rake and one of the cats."

 "I'll take care of that when Carolina calls a time-out."

 "I think I severed my femoral artery fighting off that ax murderer."

 "Keep the tourniquet tight until this next pit stop."

 "The riding mower won't start."

 "Augh! Why didn't you tell me sooner! Where's my poor baby? Quick, grab the money we've saved for the kids' college educations -- this is an emergency!"

 Yes, he loves that machine, despite the fact we own about six square inches of grass, thanks to a mostly-wooded yard, a fetish for concrete and a recently-discovered penchant for flower beds. So he makes good use of it by riding across a couple of neighbors' yards. To the neighborhood teens, the man's a god.

 And that's why the following story is so enjoyable for me to report. It concerns a friend of ours and the story is third-hand, which is why the culprit remains anonymous. It seems our friend bought himself a really nice new riding lawn mower and was cruising around his backyard when he cut a little too close to the in-ground swimming pool. You guessed it. Right into the drink he went, lawn mower and all. The lawn mower floated, according to witnesses. Seems the "big fat" tires kept it from sinking.

 A neighbor pulled both the friend and his soggy machine out and the mower was eventually restored to working order. But the poor fellow who owns it may never be the same. The tale has gone before him: one wag at his church printed and distributed flyers advertising his "Lawn Mower Cleaning Service" at 1-888-I ALL WET.

 But it says a lot about the way men view their riding mowers when you consider that not one man who heard this story asked if the rider was ok. But all of them wanted to know if the mower would still run.