Oh. Poop.

What is it, exactly that urges nearly every being that walks through my front door, to poop here? Is it the smell? Is there something...bowel moving about this home? I'd say perhaps, it was simply this place, except it's not: there was a good deal of gratuitous pooping going on out in Oakham too.

I swear. People are no sooner in this door - children and pets in particular - when The Urge Strikes.

I don't quite understand. There is nothing special about my guest baths, or powder rooms, if you'd so prefer. Has all the standard equipment. Plays host however, to guests great and small. I've not any special reading material, no magic views. It doesn't always follow coffee either - though that has been known to create a line - so a good part of my wonders just what it is that brings about this phenomenom.

Take today, for example. I'm dogsitting. Chloe. Only I call her Chlo-ee-o-ee-o. She's a slightly spastic, hyperactive totally adorable yellow lab, with a divit in her nose - we think her brother Clyde bit her. I take her this morning, and she's barely out of the car before it happens. Or rather, shit happens.

On my neighbors lawn. The one who hates me.

Oh sure, we chatted this morning, when she came running over to make sure I saw the dog do the little dancing trot, followed by the rapid hopping, from one back foot to another, while she (her words, not mine) voided her bowels. I came running out, aghast, (not that she pooped, clearly) but that she pooped there. I had the requisite baggie. I cleaned up.

Okay, so I'm a tad germophobic, and double bagged. Either way, I picked up the offending....poop.

But she didn't stop at one. Is she marking her territory? Perhaps. But then, when others, and I mean of the human variety, come over why do they, er, void at my place?

Oh, sure. I ascribe to the Never Take Home What You Can Leave Elsewhere Theory. This takes it a bit too far, if you ask me. Apparnetly, it's just my house too. I don't visit my friends and feel the need to bespoil their powder rooms. Even when served terribly strong coffee. I had a visitor this morning? Befouled the bath. Small children show up for playdates, and cannot do anything it seems prior to checking out the Shittablilty of My Toilet. Perhaps, it's the fluffy toilet paper, that just screams, Wipe You Ass With Me! Or the well thumbed reading material that lies in it's basket, next to markers, bits of paper, and some dinosaur figurines. Whatever it is, I'm surprised the paint is still on the wall.

What scares me though, is that while I've always wanted my house to feel warm, inviting, in a I Ate Too Much Dinner, I'll Cozy Up On The Couch and Loosen My Belt, or Slip Off My Shoes At The Door kind of way, I've never ascribed to have everyone, or anyone really, walk into my home and feel an overwhelming desire to poop.

I took it as a huge negative for a while, but I suppose? In the end? (pardon the pun) What it boils down to is a compliment:

Wow. I'm So At Home Here, I Could Just Shit.

And they do.

I live, therefore I am. Or something like that.

My vacuum has shit the bed.

As, has, my washer. I'm unclear as to whether or not I've actually mentioned this, but since I'd totally forgotten (yes, really, I had) that the damn vacuum had shit the bed, I went ahead, pulled it out, and spent the last 20 minutes or so, trying to figure out why it was simply pushing the dirt around, not actively sucking it up. I took off the hose; unattached it from the um, say, working end (I obviously use that term quite loosely) and shoved long items into the hose looking for anything to gum up the works.

Came up empty handed.

Or, mostly. I mean, I found a crumpled up business card, which shocks me, as this wasn't a terribly fabulous vac to start, so I'm amazed it got that up there in the first place. Plus some lint. And cat hair, from the previous owner - how long, by the way, does it take to remove all the flipping cat hair from one measley condo? More than a year apparnetly.

I moved on, to checking out the motor-like-thingie in the front; the power parts that should move the little brushie thing round and round, so it sucks stuff up. Nothing wrong on that end - not like I've any clue what exactly I'm looking for, but I'm addressing this whole issue with the elan that I do everything in life: I'll know the problem when I find it.

I can't find anything.

If I didn't know exactly what this instrument of elctrical bliss was supposed to do (pick up the crap on the floor so I don't have to either sweep, or get down there and lick it up) I'd have some serious questions about the inherent concept. It appears as though it should work. All the pieces seem to be attached.

Lastly, and, in my book, most importantly, it turns on.

Like that famous guy says, It makes noise, Therefore it does suck.

Which explains my theory on most men, but we're not discussing the male population in general. Nor, am I addressing anything specific: M is just fine. He had an attack on the Common Man on Saturday, and took to trying to behave as though his knuckles suddenly met the ground, and he ruled the world. He's thankfully, recovered. Completely. To being Just Lovely All Around.

Now, I'm left with a cheesy vac (my mother bought it, cheapskate) that doesn't do anything it's supposed to, and, the washer. Have I mentioned the washer? Currently, it's taken to leaving large, black tarry marks on all my clothes, particularily the white ones, from Lilly P, and I cannot fathon what Its issue is either. The water goes in. The soap discharges. There are no Icky Marks or Ugly Floaties left in it when it's finished, so these....marks....just randomly appear. Not every wash either - so just when I'm starting to trust it again, WHAM, I get Icky Black Marks.

I'm currently doing the math: if I bought a Dyson, which is the vac I'd want (not really the one I need, but those two concepts never really meet) I'd be dropping about $500. IF I got a cleaning lady, and she had her OWN vac, and she charged me $50 a visit, I could have five months of a twice monthly cleaning lady. However, since she's also doing the dusting, the mopping, the bathrooms and the stairs - windowns and sills! - the vac portion of that bill goes down considerably.

I rest my case.

Vacuums are rather expensive.

Cleaning ladies are a better value.

What I'm saving on the damn vacuum, I can invest in the washer. So I don't have to keep trying to convince M that my underpinnings do not go in the dryer.

If I'd known that a broken vac leads not to dirty floors but to cleaning ladies, I would've ruined it long before now.