Delicious Odors

I don't really sweat much at all. I usually stay inside, where the climate is controlled and I don't have to undergo physical activity. Therefore antiperspirant is not generally on the top of my considerations. It's just an occasional "oh yeah that" thing. Therefore, when I was packing for summer camp in June, the thought of deodorant did not even cross my mind.

Suddenly, summer happened: the weather was hot, and I was undergoing slightly more physical activity than usual. For obvious reasons, my roommates complained. When they went into the city one day to see a concert, they promised me that they would bring back some deodorant for me. And sure enough, they did. They got me Dove Revive Pomegranate and Lemon Verbena scented deodorant.

They also took it upon themselves to buy me a cologne.

They had purchased the cologne for $5 at a deli in Brewster. It was a Mexican cologne called Florida Water. It featured a naked woman on the front of the bottle, and was described as "an exquisite blend of cinnamon, orange, and spices." The ingredients were listed at the bottom of the label: water, "fragrances," alcohol, and dye. The label also described the cologne as "20% more free," the meaning of which eludes me to this day, because it was printed right on the bottle's label, so it clearly wasn't on sale, which leaves me to wonder what it was more free than. The cologne itself smelled like a vile mix between cinnamon and marijuana, and was simply generally unappealing.

So I started using the Pomegranate & Lemon Verbena deodorant, because it was better than nothing. The general consensus seemed to be that I smelled good, but like a lady. Regardless, I would rather smell like a lady than like sweat.

One day, my roommates went out again. They texted me from Walmart, asking me if I wanted anything. I asked them for some real deodorant, like maybe Axe or something. Soon enough, they returned:

Hollywood Playboy Body Spray. They paid a whopping $4 for this at Walmart. I opened it to see how it smelled, and it was shockingly delicious. It smelled like neither a lady nor cinnamon marijuana. It was like a seductive cologne. I guess when a company is that lucrative, they can afford to make good products. My new body spray smelled so good, in fact, that everyone in my room used it every day for the remainder of the summer. And it worked.

I deliberately left the cologne at camp for others to find next year, and accidentally left the lady-deodorant there as well, but I was quite sure to bring my body spray home. Currently my supply is low, but still present. I went to Target the other day, and they regrettably did not have any in stock, so I suppose I'll be checking Walmart in a little while. I strongly suggest that you, reader, make an investment in your future by purchasing this body spray. It is worth every one of those four dollars.

My Best Friend Regis

Regis Philbin lives locally. In fact, a fair number of people do: Terry Crews and Judge Judy, for example. I was bound to run into one eventually. So I was eating at a diner yesterday with about a dozen others, and sure enough, in walks Regis with three friends, and they sit at a table at the far corner of the diner.

Instantly, he became the topic of conversation at our table. One group of girls went to the bathroom just to get a closer look at him (after discussing for several minutes their plans to do so). My seat, I discovered, was the perfect vantage point for viewing him, so I stood up next to my seat and watched him for about twenty seconds. As soon as we made eye contact, I sat down hunched over my burger and and pretended I had never been standing.

Eventually, we all left. Everyone else drove home, but I don't have a license, so I was stuck sitting outside waiting for my mother to come pick me up. While I was waiting around, Regis walked out of the diner with two of his three friends. Moreover, he didn't leave - he was standing about four feet in front of me, checking out some newspapers.

Immediately, I started gesticulating at my friends across the street who were walking to their cars. After getting their attention, I pointed wildly at Regis, hoping  I was out of the line of sight of him and his friends. (I think one saw me, but if she did, she didn't say anything.)

After a minute, Regis's last friend came outside. Worrying that they were about to leave, I approached Regis and asked, "Um, excuse me, I know you must get this all the time, but may I have a picture?" This must have been pretty routine for him, because said sure somewhat offhandedly and lined himself up on the sidewalk. One of his friends who was crossing the street asked what his holdup was, and he said he was waiting for a picture.

So I tried to get my phone to turn on its camera. I pushed the camera button and walked toward his other friend, asking if he could please take our picture for me. His friend said, "Well, I don't even know who you are!" I apologized, introduced myself, and extended my hand for a shake, which he disregarded and tried to take my phone. I couldn't quite give it to him, though, because it wasn't in camera mode yet. He asked why I wasn't giving it to him; I explained that I was trying to turn on its camera. I took a step back and tried to fiddle around with it as I apologized profusely for holding Regis up, and if he had somewhere to go, then please, by all means, don't let me make him late; meanwhile, Regis's friends were asking what was taking so long. After at least a minute of this, Regis asked, "Son, have you ever taken a picture with this before?" I said, "Well, no, but I-" at which point Regis said, "All right, nevermind," and walked briskly on his way with his friends.

Shortly thereafter, I discovered that you had to hold down the camera button.

Man.

Making Deadlines 101

Last night I began doing the dishes at 11:20 PM. I often like to set "target times" for myself to make a game out of them; sorta like "if I finish this essay by 2:00 then I can play Sporcle," but more mundane and with no prize other than a sense of accomplishment. At first, I decided that I should be done with the dishes by 11:30; I reconsidered and decided that that was more time that I needed. However, because I intended to go straight to bed after doing the dishes, I could encourage myself not to dawdle online by challenging myself to be in bed at 11:30.

11:28, the dishes were done. I quickly removed my gloves and dashed upstairs to brush my teeth. I came to the executive decision that 11:30 would count as long as it was before 11:31 (going by my watch's time, of course); that is to say, it was valid right up until 11:30.59.

11:30.35, I finished brushing my teeth. I spat into the sink and quickly rinsed out , which for whatever reason took longer than usual. I threw away my paper cup, and glanced at my watch. 11:30.48. I had as good as lost.

I ran into my room and turned the light on. I realized that my parameter was if I was in bed at 11:30, not if I was lying down and ready to sleep at 11:30; therefore if I got into my bed in time and got into pajamas without setting foot out of the bed, I was still in the clear. I leapt and bounded into my bed, and checked my watch. 11:30.56. I was safe, but I hadn't won yet.

Fortunately, changing into pajamas was quick and painless. I threw my dirty clothes across the room into the hamper, thinking I was about to taste sweet victory, until I made a horrible realization: the lights were on.

So, to recap:

• I was sitting in my bed
• I had to get across the room and back
• I was not permitted to touch the floor.

That's right.

The floor was lava.

Now, allow me to provide you with a diagram of my room:

After a minute of planning, my route was decided, and I set out on my journey. I made my way over to the foot of my bed and leaned over to pull out the bottom drawer of the dresser nearest me. I then crouched on my bed and, holding onto the bedpost, reached my foot over into the drawer. I transferred over, and was somewhat stably across the first gap.

The second transfer was easier: I pulled my hamper a little closer to me, and set foot atop my clothes. My foot sank as the air space between my clothes was crushed, but I was ultimately standing in my last week's worth of filth.

The third "move" wasn't so much of a move as it was a maneuver. I turned around so I was facing the wall, and grabbed onto the bookshelf portion of the next dresser. (It's like a combo thing, where there are drawers on bottom and a bookshelf on top. You know.) I shifted my weight over, putting one foot into my pants drawer in the dresser, and reached over to turn the lights off. I climbed back into my hamper, across the first dresser, bridged the gap, and lay in my bed, victorious.

I am 17 years old and entering college in nine weeks, where I am expected to be a mature adult.

Have at me, world.

The Cheerful Charlies

So yesterday, I was picked up from school by my buddychum Henry's stepmom Jennie. We were going to Friendly's for his nine-year-old stepbrother Sam's birthday. We picked Sam up from his school and went on our way.

Shortly after picking Sam up, Jennie asked, "Would this technically qualify as a meeting of the Cheerful Charlies?" Henry and Sam were both unsure. I asked what a Cheerful Charlie was; Jennie told me to hold on for a minute while she got on the phone with the Grand Poobah.

We called the Grand Poobah (using a hands-free wireless device) and put him on speaker. He turned out to be Jennie's father. Jennie asked whether this would count as a meeting of the Cheerful Charlies even though it's not a Friday, and if so, could Greg be initiated, and if so, would you like to come by and initiate him, and if not, can you talk to him and give him a brief explanation of what this is all about. Thus came the Grand Poobah's response:

"Now, the Cheerful Charlies typically only meet on Fridays. That is in the bylaws. However, a Lodge Meeting may be held if there is some sort of special occasion, and as today is Sam's birthday, there is reason enough to hold a Lodge Meeting. The Grand Poobah of a Lodge is not needed for initiation, so you as the senior member would be in charge of initiating him, but really, anyone can. Now, put me on with him." (Clearly not recognizing that he was on speakerphone.)

After a brief introduction, the Grand Poobah continued: "The Cheerful Charlies are a society dedicated to the consumption of Friendly's ice cream. We are a non-denominational, multi-generational, multi... multi-everything group. The Greenwich Lodge is very small, but there is a Lodge over in Boston that's relatively active. Lodge Meetings only occur on Fridays or particularly special occasions. There is no limit to how much ice cream you eat, so long as you enjoy it. This is a very low-commitment group, and I wish you the best of luck with it."

We chatted a little, and he wished Sam a happy birthday and promised to sing to him later (much to Sam's dismay, as the Grand Poobah apparently sings a somewhat morbid rendition of the birthday song). One breath-holding contest later, we found ourselves at Friendly's.

Since it was still early in the day, we made the executive decision that we would be having lunch in addition to our ice cream. Upon sitting down and beginning an inevitable game of crayon-placemat-hangman, I was told that it was time to begin my initiation.

Jennie held up one of those tiny containers of half-and-half you get with your coffee, and told me that in order to be initiated, I had to create butter simply by turning my tiny half-and-half container over and back in my hand.

I worked steadily through my soft-pretzel bacon-burger (in related news don't attend Friendly's if you are at risk of heart disease), churning my milk all the while. I had it explained to me that active non-members of the Cheerful Charlies are called Grumpy Gretas - that is to say, those who are offered initiation but choose not to join. At one point, Sam, who had been bouncing around next to me throughout the entire meal (literally bouncing, because that would push my side of the booth upward and send me flying a little) bit into another half-and-half that he just wanted to drink, sending milk flying all over my face and jacket. I received official word from the standing senior Lodge member Jennie that this was the first time that that had ever happened during initiation.

By the end of the meal, I was coming to question whether this milk was actually churnable, or whether the entire initiation was but a playful ruse. I didn't want to open my container yet because it still sounded very liquidy, but Jennie gave it a shake, and officially decreed that I was making good progress and that I had the special situation of being milked upon, and that therefore my initiation was complete: I was a Cheerful Charlie.

I later returned to their house for some gaming, and discovered that my churning was ultimately successful. I had a healthy wad of half-and-half butter sitting in my tiny milk container.

Now, the year is just about over, and Friendly's is a bit of a hike from my house, but I just so happen to be going to college about fifteen miles from Boston, where there is reputedly an active Lodge of Cheerful Charlies. I plan on finding their Grand Poobah and requesting membership; moreover, I encourage all those reading this post to seek out a local Lodge, or if none exists, to create one , and thus be your own local Grand Poobah.