Red is the color of love

I've fallen for another woman.

Her name is Tori and she's red.

Before y'all beme unglued, thinking I dumped Wife for the first hussy to come along, let me say Wife supports this relationship entirely, and even urged me to pursue Tori. In fact, Wife was with me yesterday to meet Tori and was the one who said I should bring her home ... to stay.

Tori and I had our first date today after I came home from the prison work camp. We just walked around the Back 40 at the Melissa Compound, getting to know each other while basking in the pleasant Arizona sun (gotta enjoy it while I can before the asphalt starts stir frying us everyday from May to September). There were few words exchanged between us, but there was definite chemistry. And it didn't take much in the way of beverages to get her moving. A 20-ounce bottle of 30-weight oil and a couple gallons of unleaded gas and she was putty in my hands. She purred with each step. I can't remember the last time I made any female purr. Hell, our cats won't even purr for me, even when I offer them a cat nip joint and a bath tub full of tuna. Then Tori and I took a bath together, and I dried her off before taking her to her new room - the shed.

That's right, Tori is a lawn mower and has captured my heart. Our last lawn mower was a cranky, scarlet and gray monster named Helga. I'd open the shed door for our Saturday date and she'd scream back: "Close that door if you don't know what's good for ya." If I insisted, she'd do her best to make my Saturday morning mowing session the most miserable 2 to 3 hours of the weekend (save those Lifetime channel movies Wife forces me to watch because "I don't get enough culture," and in her mind Lifetime programming our generation's Picasso) she'd buck, stall and spit shit back at me in defiance of being pushed around the Back 40 in 113-degree weather. Helga was an adopted child, a "gift" from the previous home owner, who said she was a loyal work horse who would mow down the Amazon if we asked her. My ass! I asked her mow down a thatch of mangy foxtails and she told me to strap the grass bag on my ass and cut the shit myself. No wonder the previous owner left her with us, she was an unruly hag and he'd had enough.

Well, I guess Helga finally had enough, too. I took her out of the shed Sunday, filled her up with some gas and yanked away on her string to fire her up for the first time this year. It doesn't take the old girl much to get going, a couple of pulls and she's off, spitting deadly shards of pine cones and decorative rocks at my shins and bucking mid cut when she encounters a patch of grass no deeper than a putting green. This Sunday she gave up. The old girl - scarlet and gray Helga - said to hell with you and quit. I yanked and yanked and yanked, and she gave me nothing but sputtering gasps of laughter. Frustrated with her lack of heart, I gave one final pull - her death pull - and the starter rope broke free, leaving me flat on my ass from the force holding nothing but a starter handle and enough string to hang myself from the grapefruit tree. Somewhere in the 75-degree Arizona afternoon, I could hear her laughing. "Put that in your pipe and smoke it, lawn boy," I heard her say and then the laughter trailed off with the breeze.

The damage wasn't unfixable, but my theory was, why pay some schmoe $100 and plus another $50 for the part (not to mention Helga needed a tune up, the drive train needed adjusting and she needed a new belt) when I could buy a new girl for an extra $150. Like Internet dating, I searched for just the right girl on the Web to spend Saturday summer mornings with, and that's how I landed Tori. She's a 6.5-horsepower work horse that walks along at your pace and can be started with a key. I'll say that again. It can be started with KEY! A key! A turn to the right and she's purring like I just scratched her blade in just the right spot. No getting stuck in a tough patch and having to yank the string while the sun is kicking me in the nuts with every passing minute. She fires back up and makes that patch of grass her bitch.

Tori loves me too. I can tell. She knows what's important to me, getting done quick so I can catch the start of the Dodger game or the race. Those two-and-a-half hour marathon mows in the dead of summer will be cut by an hour I bet, giving me time for a scrub and a tug before settling in for some red-blooded sports.

The only I'm not sure about is how to tell Wife I want to sleep with Tori out in the shed.