Frozen Pipes= Frozen Productivity
Cleaning mirrors? Absolutely not. Sweeping the floor? Don’t be ridiculous.
I don’t have water. Well… I do have water. Just not in the bathroom. And the hot water is frozen solid, which feels personal.
This whole saga began when a wild animal crawled under my house and tore out the insulation like it was auditioning for a home‑renovation show called Extreme Makeover: Rodent Edition.
Then my washer sprang a leak. I didn’t notice until the carpet and the cheap particle‑board floor under the dresser had turned into oatmeal. When I pulled the carpet back, the floor had melted away. I could see the ground under my house.
That is not a “feature.” That is a horror movie.
I called Rick, my handyman. He said he’d get to me soon.
Not wanting a critter to stroll into my bedroom like it pays rent, I slapped a board over the hole and laid the carpet back down. Problem temporarily ignored.
Then Rick fell out of a loft and cracked eight ribs.
Eight.
Which is extremely inconsiderate timing, though I forgave him because eight ribs and days in the hospital... he is not a good patient, but that is another story.
With no repair in sight, I did what I do best: improvised badly.
I built a pillow fort for my foundation.
Yes. A pillow fort.
I took old slobber‑soaked pillows destined for the trash, sealed them in garbage bags, and shoved them into the hole with duct tape and prayer. I hoped they’d keep the pipes from freezing.
They did not.
The pipes froze in the laundry room and bathroom. No hot water. I still had water in the kitchen and the guest bathroom, so it wasn’t exactly pioneer hardship. I wasn’t hauling water from a creek or flushing the toilet with a five‑gallon bucket.
Still, the inconvenience was emotionally devastating.
I hobbled around the house like a woman with multiple imaginary injuries, unable to function.
Then I decided to “fix” it.
To reach the hole, I had to move a bookcase.
To move the bookcase, I had to remove all the books.
I dragged the empty bookcase into the middle of the room and stacked the books on top of it. I had to move the plastic drawers I use as an end table, which meant clearing that off. I moved all the miscellaneous objects that exist solely to be knocked off in the night.
My bedroom became a booby‑trapped maze of furniture, books, drawers, and tables. One wrong move and you lose.
I put an electric heater in the hole, on top of the pillow fort, with a board under it, and prayed it wouldn’t shut off due to the 47 safety features modern heaters have.
Saturday: no hot water.
Sunday: still no hot water.
The entire state was frozen. Oklahoma was hanging by a thread.
Monday, I was sitting at my desk playing a game when I heard a sound.
A roaring sound.
A glorious sound.
Water.
I shot back in my chair to shut it off, the chair hit the bookcase. The bookcase tipped into the stacked drawers. The drawers hit the bedside table. The bedside table fell over, launching every nighttime item I own into the air like a clearance‑aisle fireworks show.
Books, notebooks, pens, papers, Kleenex, clock radio, lamp, lotion, cough drops, phone chargers — all airborne. Meanwhile, the faucet is blasting water like it’s celebrating its release from captivity.
Miraculously, my imaginary broken limbs healed instantly.
Water shut off.
Mess cleaned up.
How much junk do I really need on my night stand?
Then Tuesday happened.
The electricity went out.
I had water, but no power. Once again, I was completely incapacitated. The silence was deafening.
A friend suggested I watch TV on my computer.
Laughing.
No.
No electricity means no computer and no Wi‑Fi. This is not a futuristic home. This is a “candles and acceptance” household.
And that’s when I learned the truth:
My ability to function is directly tied to modern utilities.
Without them, I become a dramatic Victorian child who must lie down.
Until civilization is restored
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