By Jill Pertler
I am a hot mama — although not in the way you might be thinking. I am hot, but I’m not referring to a trendy or hip sort of fashion which, ironically, might also be thought of as cool. I am hot as in Hades hot; temperature hot. My husband is not. (Hot in a temperature sort of way, that is.)
It didn’t used to be like this. In our early years of marriage, I suffered from chilled-to-the-bone syndrome. Brrrr was practically my middle name, especially at night. I wore winter pajamas — the kind with the feet built right in. I piled on thick quilts and comforters — the more the merrier.