Thankfully, my “Porn Palace” had better bones: Styrofoam insulation, extra thick ceiling, and even tank heaters. I thought I was set. Temperatures were forecasted to hit –30°C, so I did all my checks: sewer hose leveled and wrapped with heat tape, heated water hose connected, trouble lights glowing under the rig and in the basement compartment, and taps trickling. I even bubble-wrapped my windows. It looked and felt like a fishbowl, but if it kept the heat in, fine by me.
That night, I slept cozy and smug. In the morning, I shuffled into the kitchen and went for the tap. Nothing. Not a drop. Jack Frost had struck, freezing my heated hose solid. Off to the city I went, cursing and $200 lighter for a replacement. I learned the hard way that you should never uncoil a frozen heated hose outside… crackle, snap. Lesson number one.
I finally had water running again, but the fun wasn’t over. My bathroom sink gurgled, and the shower started burping up water. Jack Frost wasn’t done, he had frozen my grey and black tanks.
In desperation, I tried everything: vinegar and baking soda fizz (nope), boiling water (bad idea, could rupture the tanks), and finally gallons upon gallons of plumbing antifreeze. Forty jugs later, (I may exaggerate slightly) things finally began to flow again. I swear I could hear Jack Frost snickering from the drains.
By spring, I waved the white flag and paid through the nose to get the whole rig hard-plumbed (straight PVC piping and even a residential toilet). No more Poopsicle Pete. No more Projectile Patty. And no more Jack Frost.
Poopsicle Pete, Projectile Patty, Jack Frost… don’t come around here no more.
Paradise, at last… found.
