Queer eye

On Sunday morning I woke at about nine o’clock. After a brief period of being pissed off that I didn’t sleep in when I could legitimately stay in bed until at least two in the afternoon, I got dressed and went off to morning Mass. As I was leaving I went to the bathroom that The Optimist and I share, there to find little smatterings of dry puke on the toilet seat and one of his shirts (also liberally slathered with the stuff) balled up in the corner. I shut the door and tried not to think of it, and left.

(Incidentally, I have yet to find a church around here that has comfortable seating. It is as if the designers of church pews had design parameters that demanded the seats be so uncomfortable as to prevent parishioners from falling asleep during homilies. Or, at the very least, uncomfortable enough that parishioners’ minds cannot wander because they are too busy trying to arrange themselves in such a way that their bums don’t fall asleep.)

When I arrived back home, at about midday, I went back up to the bathroom and this time discovered a book of The Optimist’s, soaked in a redish liquid and caked with little bits of pre-digested food. Stifling a laugh, I took a photo.

(Incidentally, I haven’t been taking my photos of the day over Easter with all the emotional and physical upheaval, but I have been doing so since the first of April.)

At lunchtime The Optimist and his brother emerged, looking decidedly seedy and hungover. I said hello and he grunted and told me this is the first time he has had a real hangover. I congratulated him and asked who had thrown up on the toilet last night, rather than in it. He shrugged and told me the last memory he has is walking into the common courtyard that the residence houses share, before apologising profusely. I told him I don’t care, I only mention it because I laughed when I saw it, and thanked them both for the entertainment value of the toilet, shirt and book combined. He told me he really liked that book too.

The next night, Monday night, The Optimist returned from the supermarket with a green bag full of groceries. He pulled out a bag of plan flour and told me that he is going to make pancakes with it, and marvelled that some people actually by pre-made pancake mix when all you have to do is add flour, milk and egg together in a bowl. Next he pulled out carpet deodoriser and informed me that someone (he didn’t remember if it was him or his brother) had puked on the carpet in his bedroom.

“That’s great, Optimist, but you can’t just chuck deodoriser on the carpet.” I said.
“Why not?” he asked, somewhat crestfallen.
“Well,” I explained, “you have to get the puke out of the carpet first, then you deodorise it. Otherwise you’re just putting it over the top and eventually the puke that is still firmly embedded in the carpet, will begin to smell again.”
“Oh…right…how do I get it out then?”
“Get a bucket of very hot water with a little bit of soap, dunk an old rag and then scrub the carpet,” I told him, “and then rinse the rag in the water and do it again until the stain is gone.”
He thought for a second. Then: “Would a saucepan do, do you think? We don’t have a bucket, that’s all.”
I shuddered. “I guess so, as long as you disinfect it before you use it to cook something.”
“Right.” Though he said the word with some measure of confidence, his face remained steeped in question marks.
“You want me to show you?”
“Yes please.”


After he had boiled some water in his saucepan, we went upstairs. I sat on his bed and watched as he dunked a tea towel in the soapy water, the steam from which carried the pungent stench of vomit, and scrubbed the carpet clean. After that he got the deodoriser and liberally sprayed it on the carpet and allowed it to sink in. With the job accomplished we went back to the kitchen where he promptly poured the brown water down the sink and sprayed the saucepan with disinfectant.

As I was directing him it occurred to me what a Queer eye for the straight guy relationship we have going.