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blanket mountain to flip the switch by the bed.
    “Put on some clothes!” he barks. Flip.
    “I’m wearing half of my pajama drawer and you’re not even in here !” I bellow back, my teeth chattering audibly. Flip.
    Joe, giving me the stink-eye: Flip.
    Me, flashing a look of mock shock and flipping him a mental bird: Flip.
    Joe, both brows raised, torso puffed up like a pissed-off gorilla: Flip.
    Me, all Central Park crazy lady (the one with hot-pink lipstick smeared around the vicinity of her mouth who mutters to herself constantly): Flip, flip, eff you, flip, fuckity, flip, flip, FLIP.
    “You have a serious problem,” Joe grumbles, stalking back out of the room.
    “Yeah, you ,” I mutter in perfect crazy-lady fashion. When he’s gone I sigh in exasperated relief, tuck my head under the covers, and say a quick prayer to the slumber gods that I will be deep in my first REM cycle before he returns and flips the dreaded switch again.
    I’ll admit that being married to a human furnace occasionally has its advantages. When I underdress for an occasion—which you probably won’t be surprised to hear happens frequently—Joe never, ever complains about relinquishing his jacket. In movie theaters (where what in the name of the Holy Mother is up with the arctic freeze? It’s not like they’re selling winter coats or even hot panini sandwiches at the ridiculously overpriced concession stand, even though I’d be inclined to buy both), he’s been known to cavalierly wrap an index finger around the tip of my frozen nose. On ski lifts, he’ll graciously offer the toasty pocket of his nearest armpit for me to thaw out at least a few fingers. And in the rare instances when we crawl into bed at the same time, he invites me to press my icy ass cheeks into his sweltering thighs and wriggle my wintry feet between his toasty calves—a sensory thrill that lasts approximately thirty seconds before I feel like I’m suffocating in a Nigerian sauna. I know; the irony . Naturally he’s hurt and angry when I pull away from him.
    “I thought you were freezing ,” he says incredulously, with mock-whiny emphasis on the last offensive word.
    “I was before, but now I’m not,” I huff, shuffling around the bed looking for a sliver of coolness on the mattress, any tiny patch where his body heat hasn’t penetrated the eighteeninch foam and spread like, well, wildfire. I usually fall asleep on the tippy-edge of my side of the bed, where accidental bodily contact isn’t likely. Sometimes Joe will absentmindedly search for my form across the vast expanse of mattress between us in the middle of the night, tossing a huge, heavy, feverish hand (I call it the “hot paw”) protectively across my midsection when he locates me. It’s so sweet when he does this that I try to sound really tender and loving when I squirm away pleading with him to get his fucking hot paw off me .
    My salvation is our bedmate, Sheldon. No, we’re not that kind of kinky. Sheldon isn’t a Siamese or a Shih-Tzu, either; Sheldon is a deliciously lofty six-foot bag of feathers. You know, a body pillow. Sheldon is the perfect sleeping partner as he is climatically stable, totally malleable, and blissfully silent. He also has never once “accidentally” poked me in the backside with his boner, a courtesy I appreciate more than mere words can express. Joe, as you might imagine, is not a big fan of Sheldon. In fact, he gets downright jealous when he tries to snuggle up to me and finds me swaddling Sheldon like a slab of prosciutto wrapped around a tiger shrimp. Which is why I named him Sheldon.
    HARRY: With whom did you have this great sex?
    SALLY: I’m not going to tell you that.
    HARRY: Fine, don’t tell me.
    SALLY: Shel Gordon.
    HARRY: Shel? Sheldon? No, no, you did not have great sex with Sheldon.
    SALLY: I did too.
    HARRY: No, you didn’t. A Sheldon can do your income taxes; if you need a root canal, Sheldon’s your man . . . but humpin’ and pumpin’ is