At this very moment, Charlie’s in the living room doing the hardest job in finish carpentry. The only noise I hear is his work radio playing classical music. Once in a while I can hear him saying, “Okay, eleven. Eleven. Okay.“ His random number mumblings don’t have a hint of anger. I thought for sure he’d be swearing by now. It’s crown molding day.

Three days of dread, preparing for the hell that is crown molding, and he‘s not even swearing. The only aggression I hear comes from the bam! Bam! of the nail gun. We spent the last two nights at bookstores, looking at every trim and molding book available in the Metro area. Unlike his usual martyr self, Charlie bought two of these thrilling books the whole family will enjoy.

He certainly enjoyed them. He dog-eared pages intently until two in the morning while watching “The Daily Show“ and “House Hunters.” We watch “House Hunters“ like other people watch “Wheel of Fortune.”

“Pick the third house, the other two are crap,” we shout at the TV. It may be the buyers‘ potential residence, but it‘s our game show. “Don‘t go for the first one,” we say, “it‘s too much work and it doesn‘t have good bones.”

They never listen, except last night. The cool Florida House Hunter picked a fixer on the beach. After three months of subbing out work, it was far better than the other two. Always pick the fixer. You probably knew we’d have this bias towards fixers.

Charlie took the day off for today's crown molding holiday. If it’s a holiday, I’m going to enjoy it. What do you do on holidays? We went for a bike ride down to Peet’s. The sun took a holiday, too, and it’s not even sixty degrees. Perfect for pedaling. We didn’t need the caffeine after half an hour of biking up these hills.

As we were leaving, one of Charlie’s employees spotted us. “Hey, I thought you took the day off so you could work on your house,” he said.

“I did. I am. I will,” Charlie says. “Crown molding today. You need lots of caffeine for that.”

As soon as we get home, Cheyenneh has a list of girls’ names and addresses. “Someone needs to pick these people up and take us all to my ex-boyfriend’s house,” she says. “Now. Let’s go!” I leave Charlie to the crown and wonder who has the worse job.

Cheyenneh has a personality that can get even the laziest kid to work for her for hours. Hence the reason for her nickname, the General. And she’s only fifteen. Charlie says he’s learned a lot about living with me by living with her. He better have a nicer nickname for me.

I’m picking up her friends and driving without saying a word. “This is going to be so uncomfortable,” one of them says. “I know, you can be my friend from out of town,” Cheyenneh says.

The more girls we pick up, the more elaborate the story about how they know the out of town girl and why she’s here. I guess out of town means two blocks away to a high school girl, because that’s how far away she lives.

After about a half an hour of picking up high school girls and expanding on every angle of this out of town lie, we get to the ex-boyfriend’s house. They get out of the car, tugging their skirts and saying, “Why did I wear this skirt? You can see my butt, it’s so short. Omigosh!”

The General isn’t wearing a cute little skirt. She’s wearing baggy capris and a spaghetti-strap shirt. “I don’t know why I dressed like a slut,” she says.

I look over at her. It’s a defining point in my career as a good Mom. Do I tell her she looks cute? She looks adorable. Besides, I’m not going to tell her I’ve never seen a slut in capris.

Her shirt is pretty low in front. She’s got enough confidence for both of us, so I decide not to be the type of Mom who says, “Oh honey, you look fine. Besides, it’s what’s on the inside that counts.“ I haven’t been that kind of Mom yet, so why shake things up.

I say, “Yeah, you did dress like a slut. What‘d you wear that for?” She tugs her shirt up in front, trying to cover more. Her ex-boyfriend’s family is pretty conservative so I’m sure they’ll notice her spaghetti strapped shirt no matter how much she pulls it up. They know her already, so they’ve probably made their minds up about what they think of her. Her shirt isn’t that bad. It sure is fun to tease her about it, though.

She gets out of the car and watches me. I gesture like I’m pulling my up shirt in front, just to bug her a little more about wearing it. She rolls her eyes and leaves. She won’t bug me for a ride or money for the rest of the day.

Charlie’s gone to Home Depot, an inevitable occurrence on work days. He returns quickly since it‘s not a weekend when the lines take forever and there’s always a kid having a tantrum on the floor by the register, a gift from the customer in front of you.

Before I do anything, I have to pay the bills. I run upstairs, sit down at the computer, and I hear, “Can you come down here for a minute?”

I do, of course, and hold a length of crown as long as the longest wall in the house. There are longer rooms, but they’re downstairs and they don’t have walls. It’s just a big hole full of sawdust and a washer and dryer down there. Crown molding isn’t going to happen downstairs unless Charlie gets really high off the wood glue he’s using now.

Raising my arms to hold crown molding isn’t a good idea when you take a sweaty bike ride and haven’t yet showered. I’m holding it for so long I’m making myself nauseous. As soon as I’m done with this arm-raising job, I take a shower. I’ll be better at holding up crown molding if I don’t faint from my own odor.

“Hey, I need you again,” I hear as soon as I get dressed. My hair is dripping.

This time I hold crown molding over my head while standing on a chair. I hold it and hold it. When Charlie gets it into place, he secures it with a direct hit from the nail gun. This violence shakes loose all the sawdust previously coating the crown. It all seems to shake straight onto my just-washed hair.

When I’m excused, I return to the computer. I’ve got a nasty Visa bill to figure out.

“Really quick,” Charlie says. “Can you come down here and hold this?”

I jump onto the chair, hold the crown steady, and don’t even get bothered by the length of time in this position. I don’t like standing with my arms over my head. Something to do with being married to a Cop.

“Wow,” Charlie says. “I did something right. It fits perfectly.”

He looks around for his nail gun. It’s across the room. “I didn’t know I’d get it right the first time,” he says. “I thought I’d have to play with it for a while. Hold it a little longer while I get the nailer.”

I have a chance to look at all the corners he’s done so far. Charlie says of his talents, “I’d rather get it done wrong and fix it later. I’m good at covering my mistakes.“ He can’t say that about this job. It’s perfect. I’d say it’s well worth the $40 two-book investment.

This little game of me doing bills I don’t really want to do, getting interrupted right when I figure something out, then holding long things over my head while getting snowed on with sawdust continues all afternoon. I’m spending my raised-arms time looking at the finished crown molding, judging the corners as close as anyone will. Even this close, I can’t see the need to crack open the caulk.

When you’re working on something, you’re so focused you see every little spot, mark, and imperfection. You’re ready to rip it all out and start over just as soon as someone walks in and says, “It looks perfect.” This time, though, even Charlie isn’t complaining about imperfections.

“Can you come down here one more time?”

He’s on the very last piece on the very last wall. He’s switched the radio from classical to classic rock. Over the melody of Queen and Led Zeppelin, I learn how he’s coping corners instead of mitering them. You never know what you’ll learn with your arms raised listening to “The Houses of the Holy.“

I learned coping is a lot easier than mitering.  It’s not as important to mate the ends correctly when youcope. Mitering is fine if you like geometry. Charlie went to Florida schools so he learned geometry during accident reconstruction school. He’s more of a trial-and-error carpenter.

Coping is more of a trial-and-error method. It’s much less frustrating than mitering when you’re working with imperfect corners. We’ve pumped up the foundation on this Ranch more than once, so our corners are nowhere near square. Judging by the construction on the rest of the house, I’m guessing they never started out that way, either.

He's got an hour of work left and I'm already looking forward to Charlie’s next impossible project. Two nights in bookstores, morning bikerides and coffee houses, improvement in the living room; I can't think of a better way to spend a holiday.