Caution: Contains overuse of the word "awkward"

We have a three bedroom house, but only from the most generous viewpoint. Two rooms are great; accomodating, warmly colored, welcoming, nice floors.

The other, we've come to deem "the office," only because it has a filing cabinet we open about once a year to throw stuff in and an old computer we never use; not actually because we use the room for any office-related tasks.

It's an awkward, drafty, dark room that, should one insist on making it a bedroom, could hold a twin bed and a nightlight. As in the light that you plug in the wall. It's small. What makes the room more awkward, besides the ominous attic panel in the ceiling that centipedes crawl from and the bubbly carpet is the slanted ceiling/wall.

(Sidebar: I'm not sure how houses came to have these slanted ceiling/walls, but why. Seriously. Why. Could it save that much money? Did it come down to that wall, and construction workers were like "Guys, seriously. Let's call it a day. Just, here, lean that there and we'll plaster it all together. Let's go home. Cheese curds, anyone?" I want to know why.)

But, anyhow.

Cold room, slanted ceiling/wall, bubbly carpet. Now we're on the same page.

Step downstairs a moment and you'll notice a pile of CDs that Dave and I have accumulated (97 percent of which are his), which are getting pushed off the book shelf because of -- novel idea -- books (get it, novel idea? ha) (97 percent mine).

The CDs, ergo, must go upstairs. I put my foot down.

But, this awkward room doesn't leave a lot of space to put a shelf.

Enter Bob Villa. Bob, aka Husband Dave, will attempt to build -- yes, build, folks -- a shelf to run the length of the awkward, slanted ceiling/wall, using only his sheer craftsmanship, some screws and some wood. Or so he says. He's made shelves before. It's not hard. What's hard is the "get it straight," "this isn't shop class," and "mess this up, and that plaster will be dang unforgiving" parts.

Clearly, the awkward room is about to become more so, as I can only imagine the cursing, blood, sweat, tears and Elvis sing-alongs that'll come along with this task. If you need me, I'll be downstairs, pretending I don't hear a thing.