Great story. Unfortunately, it brings back a most unpleasant memory.
About 10 years ago I was househunting, but my search was made difficult by having to travel out of the country for my job quite frequently. I returned from Central America one Friday evening to find a message from the realtor about the perfect house. Well, hooray, except I'd only have early Saturday morning available for looking at the house. Anyway, I scheduled the Saturday morning viewing, unpacked my bags, et cetera.
At about 2 in the morning I awakened with horrible stomach cramps....eventually turned into nonstop diarrhea for about 2 or 3 hours. I finally was able to get back to sleep for a few hours, woke up feeling terribly queasy, but after a coffee (wrong move) decided that I'd be able to make my appointment. Several times during the 45 minute drive to the house, my stomach rumbled and heaved, and my colon threatened to emulate Mt Vesuvius at its finest moment. I almost decided to return home and just cancel the appointment, but I knew I'd be out of the country again for a few weeks, and didn't want to miss this chance to possibly find a house. Hindsight is always 20-20.
I met the realtor, we walked through the house (it really was the perfect house) and chatted for a bit. She then went out to her car to retrieve some paperwork. While she was outside my stomach rebelled. I headed for the stairs to use the upstairs bathroom as quickly as I could, all the while trying to clench my cheeks (but as y'all know, you cannot clench your cheeks while climbing stairs). I made it to the landing, just 5 measly feet from the bathroom, when my stomach went into full riot and blew out all stoppers.
I waddled into the bathroom almost in tears and tried to clean up as best as I could, but of course, there wasn't a scrap of toilet paper to be found. Yes, I know the house was vacant, but you'd think that a roll of toilet paper could have been left for poor souls such as myself. I dug around in my purse and found a packet of mini tissues that weren't much help, and used water to complete the task as best I could. Meanwhile, the realtor had returned and was calling for me. I cracked open the door, told her I'd be down shortly and returned to my clean up chores.
I then meekly and gingerly returned downstairs, just knowing that the smell was emanating in clouds around me like Pigpen in the Peanuts comic strip. The realtor decided that this was a good time for her to become a Chatty Cathy, so I had to get slightly rude with her and cut her perky conversation short. After promising to call her later that day, I literally ran to my car and peeled out of there doing almost 90. For some reason, I thought that the faster I drove away from the scene of the crime, the less I'd feel embarrassed.
Oh, I didn't get the house. Some other buyer anted up more money, but I wasn't too put out about that because I just didn't think I could live there anyway after what had happened.