Me in '23

This blows

May 27, 2023

About a year ago, we bought a cordless leaf blower. A Ryobi 40V Jet Fan model, to be exact. No more extension cords to trip over. No gas. It was the best thing since sliced bread. Until it wasn’t.

I loved that Ryobi like a sister from another mister. So much so, that my beloved partner, Rebecca, often felt I spent more quality time with that machine than her, the dog or Mustang Sal. (So not true.)

“It’s like she’s become your new BFF,” I’d hear whenever “Ry” and I hung out.

OK, people, I named my leaf blower, which I am not proud of. (It rhymes with he, but it’s a she.)

I fondly remember spending quiet afternoons together on the patio, front porch or in the garage, particularly after our maple trees bloomed and those tiny helicopter seed things appeared in every nook and cranny. Ry blew them away in record time.

Her colorful style and sleek design were fit for Vogue. Her compact power – rechargeable, no less! – was exhilarating. Alas, our partnership wasn’t meant to last.

It pains me to type this (you have no idea, dear reader), but I’m done with Ry. She’s going back on the shelf. Indefinitely. I don’t care if she ever blows again.

As it turns out, the real Ry is imbalanced, unsteady and hazardous to my health. A danger to those around her, and by that, I mean me.

I remember the final time we hung out as if it were yesterday, because it was last Tuesday, and today is only Saturday.

We were in the garage, formerly “our happy place.” There were gobs of dust bunny fuzzies from the trees, so I figured why not a quickie cleanup before dinner?

I set Ry down on Mustang Sal’s hood for a hot minute while I turned around to adjust a rug. Ry teetered, wobbled and suddenly flipped off the car with the force of a freakin’ Jedi.

I saw stars. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I didn’t know what hit me. Until I looked down and saw a bloody skin flap the size of a deck of cards that used to be attached to my right leg. This was bad.

I ran from the garage into the kitchen using more curse words than I ever knew I knew, trying not to vomit from excruciating pain. “Get me a bowl!”

Rebecca – who cannot stand the sight of her own blood but thankfully tolerates sopping up mine – calmed me down and wrapped my delicate limb in a towel with an ice pack to stave off the bleeding. (“True love,” she said later. “Remember this day.”)

The poor thing had no idea what happened, despite my attempt to explain in monosyllabic code: “Blower. Fell. Sal. Rug. Bad.”

“You and that stupid leaf blower again, am I right?” Rebecca said.

I swear, sometimes she’s a witch.

In no time at all, the professionals at Troy’s Beaumont Urgent Care had me lie down on my stomach, probably so I couldn’t watch them amputate my leg.

“Ohhh,” said the medical tech, hovering over me like a teen-age drone as she flushed out the wound.

“Says here you got bit, I mean hit, by a leaf blower. Was it a Ryobi? Probably cordless,” she added.

Rebecca nodded. “Yeah, she loves that thing more than life itself.”

Then the Turkish doctor who numbed me with at least a dozen lidocaine injections chimed in.

“Leaf blowers are dangerous,” he said. “Next time you should just hire some Mexicans.”

“What did you say?” I replied indignantly into an uncased plastic pillow.

“What? They do good work,” the talkative Turk added without a smidge of embarrassment.

Then, in what seemed like hours, this masked xenophobe with a needle and thread made one continuous stitch on either side of a 5-inch, upside-down V-shaped gash just above my Achilles tendon. Thank goodness.

Thirty-two stitches in all! OMG.

Truth be told, I look as if some drunken cowboy from the “Yellowstone” TV series branded me with a wishbone zipper. I’m not gonna lie. The entire ordeal brought out my inner Beth Dutton. (Look her up.)

As a former copy editor, I prefer to think of my flipped “V” as a large carrot-like proofreading mark meaning “insert here.” I’ll say I was ambushed by an overzealous group of grammarians protesting my misuse of the Oxford comma.

Not sure I’ll ever forgive Ry, my former BFF, for slicing my calf like a piece of Jarlsberg. Who knew that wench was so edgy?

I have a feeling we’ll both be better off. Longer battery life for her, more quality time with my girls (all three) for me.

It’s time to turn over a new leaf. I’m sticking with a broom.

Retired print journalist and blogger.❤️🐾

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