Get off my fancy new bed, Virgil. 

Kendrick is freezing.

This makes no sense, because our house is not, but apparently our internal thermostats are set to Opposite. All I want is a nice, gentle gust of fresh air, but it turns out that what I think of as "a refreshing cross-breeze" translates to "arctic blast" in Kendrick-speak. In the summer, what this means is that I sleep with no covers and six fans pointed in my direction while he huddles under the coverlet to guard against the 80-degree evening chill. In the winter, we are at an impasse. Because fiiiiine, I'll close the windows and shut down the whole spectacularly lovely, breezy situation that our bedroom has the potential to enjoy, but even with the windows closed and a comforter on our bed, I routinely wake up to discover that my husband has pulled two or three extra blankets out of the linen closet and is ensconced underneath them as if he's preparing for a new Ice Age.