Whistle While You Carpet Clean
As I sit here, on my bed, we are having our carpet cleaned in the other room. The carpet cleaner, a man we will refer to as CeeCee, knocked on our door a little past 9 a.m. He has the mustache of either an evil villain or a silent-movie star or both. It is precisely the type of bushy, curly mustache my 4-year-old daughter has been begging me to grow ever since seeing “Peter Pan” and falling in love with good ol’ Captain Hook. “Mommies can’t grow mustaches,” I told her. “Yes-huh,” she countered. “Grandma has.” I’m just going to leave that one alone. Once we ...