Anna and the Sergeant: Dreams are made of eucalyptus

A head cold is an admittedly odd reason to feel some gratitude for a long-ago, tongue-pierced suitor, but when said date was the one to inform you of eucalyptus oil’s powerfully curative properties, even the boob job he’d bought his “ex” (in an ill-fated effort to boost her self-esteem, or so he claimed) becomes the sort of endearing quirk that makes you sigh, “Ah, Sargie,” laugh and shake your head. (Yes, that sentence weighed in at 71 words, thank you.)

Sargie wasn’t really his name, of course — in fact, he had a such unusual one, I still sometimes wish I weren’t committed to pseudonyms — but somehow or other, a similarly shortened version of St. Ex-cessories’ real name had previously wound up on my shoulder, in a short-term tattoo scratched with eye pencil for my Halloween guise of stripper one year. (Ironically, that costume predated the early-20s bender of secular dating I went on, in a sort of rebound from being so shattered by Married Man’s being, well, married. Yes, you can get more back-story in the book.)

And when I met Sarge at the bar one night in grad school, he talked well enough that I chose to overlook his tongue ring, highly tricked out Jeep (all of which accessories he swore were vital to its optimal operation) … and the various other details that moved from being eccentricities to deal breakers in a matter of three dates.

Maybe the fact that I’d once gone around a party with a nickname version of his name writ as evidence of some prior, ill-fated “fling” had something to do with it. Or maybe I sensed that behind the avid first-impression conversation (which he later claimed was like running his brain in the “red zone,” a place he’d rather our physical contact went), was the sort of valuable homeopathic insight that would one day take on the sinus scourge of my second trip to India.

I don’t remember how it came up, except that I think I got sick the month of our dates. So one night Sgt. Ex-cessories helpfully mentioned that his dad used to have him put eucalyptus oil up his nose during head colds, which he claimed promptly caused all germs, junk and who knows what other fluids to promptly eject themselves from said stuffed-up orifice. Charming, no?

But charming or not, in an hour of desperation in Mumbai — either shortly before or after my equally desperate visit to an ayurvedic doctor who performed acupressure, some treatment with a heat lamp and played an unsettling meditation chant from an elephant plug-in — I remembered Sargie and the oil.

My head had been putting me through such misery that the needle-like pains in my temples sometimes drew spontaneous tears, an experience that was into its second or third day since my departure for Mumbai. Our first treatment had been tracking down the Indian black-market version of Sudafed — made with the real stuff, not the nearly impotent phenyl-whatever — and had taken us three or four chemists to find (the local version of a corner drugstore).

This worked quite nicely at first, but less than 24 hours into the treatment, the more capricious, black-market side of the pill introduced itself — as if it perched there beside me in bed, fearlessly gulping unboiled local water, and laughed when I pointed to my temple ordering, “Sinuses, NOW!”

“What, you think my work is clinically proven or something? I’m just a pill in foil packets that some unknown pilot or flight attendant dropped by the chemist for God knows what reward.” Wink, wink. That’s probably when I remembered the claim that oil of eucalyptus might cause, well, a disgusting flow of discharge, but one that just might open my sinuses, stop the pain, and allow me to sort of enjoy my vacation. In short, it might be a miracle cure.


Did I find it? Did it work? Did I manage to live in sinus happiness ever after? Check back next week for the thrilling conclusion to Anna and the Sergeant: Dreams are made of eucalyptus.

Reader Guest Blog: First-date bike mayhem

From time to time, a funny email hits my inbox that’s worth a broader hearing. So this week I am happy to bring you the following story of a disastrous first date, from reader Sam Edgar.

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I went on a first date last week.

He called and suggested that we bike to this funky little restaurant.

Biking. I am new to bike riding. I mean, I have a bike, a new one that I really love with a basket and a bell and this little computer thing that tells me how far I’ve gone, but for right now I can only figure out how to get it to tell the time. I was very clear about my novice bike riding and I told him this. Several times. However, I said that I would bike with him provided we take the easiest route. I mean, c’mon, I didn’t want to be the sedentary girl.

The thing is, at the moment, I have a bit of a rocky relationship with hills. The hills are there, no denying this, however, I can’t seem to get up them. I try, but am rarely successful. Rarely. When I do, it is with much heavy breathing, excessive sweating and all the symptoms of an imminent heart attack.

Despite my misgivings I had agreed, however, I was nothing if not clear about my skills, or lack there of.

This was a first date though, and I wanted to look cute. I didn’t want to look ‘athletic’, because this would be a complete misrepresentation of myself, but I needed something that I could bike in that wouldn’t make my ass look fat. So I wore yoga capri pants and a t-shirt. He showed up dressed in I-Am-Ready-For-The-Tour-De-France gear. I was clearly out of my league.

We started biking towards the restaurant. There were some hills, but I made it up them… with extreme effort. Thankfully there was zero conversation at this point, as there was absolutely no way that I could have formed words or sentences as I was concentrating on not breathing loudly.

We arrived at the restaurant, and he did this fancy dismount thing. I know, and when I say I know, I KNOW, that for me attempting this would end up with me in a heap on the ground. So I stopped my bike and climbed off of it, similar to the action someone getting in and out of a hammock. I am nothing if not graceful.

We locked up our bikes. Or I should say, he locked up his bike. I attempted to lock up my bike, but my lock wouldn’t lock. It has worked every single time, however, when I least need to look like an idiot it acts up.

I removed my helmet and suspected that the less than stellar haircut I had received earlier in the day had not been improved upon by helmet head. I didn’t want to seem high maintenance, so I casually excused myself to the restroom, where much to my surprise my short pixie cut hadn’t done too badly, however there was a red band from my helmet running the width of my forehead. I applied some lipgloss and hoped that the shine from my lips would distract him from the hair and what I hoped would not be a permanent red indent in my forehead.

We had great conversation, good beer and good food. He had some sort of meat sandwich and I had the edamame.

By now it was dark and after we had paid our bill it was clearly time to head towards home. We unlocked our bikes, fortunately mine unlocked because I’m not sure I could've balanced the whole way home on his handelbars. We biked besides one another, chatting, obviously the road was flat at this point. And then, there it was. Before me. Looming. The Biggest Hill Ever. My own personal Gray Skull.

There was absolutely no way that I was going to be able to do this. I had had alcohol. It was 11:30pm at night. I was tired and had bad hair. I told him, in what I hoped was a confident tone, that he shouldn’t wait for me and that I would meet him at the top. He rode up the hill like a gazelle, he didn’t even have to slow down. I got off my bike and pushed it up the hill like a tractor-trailer approaching the summit. It was a big hill and even walking up it made me pant and wipe my brow. He was at the top of the hill riding in circles waiting for me. I was cursing all hills known to man. At the top of the hill I got back on my bike and apologized for my sub-par biking skills. He didn’t deny this, but instead said that it was fine.

We biked the two, relatively flat, blocks to my house, at which point he told me that he didn’t think there was a lot of chemistry, but that the conversation had been great, and maybe we could hang out again.

Absolutely, I said, in full agreement. Secretly vowing never to bike on a first date again.

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Have a funny story of your own you’d like to share? Email your submissions for a future guest blog.