I don't need to worry about Carisa, because she's doing enough worrying for the both of us -- neither she nor Sarah the carpenter are on the same page, Carisa fumes, so the room has "kind of slipped through my fingers a little bit." How so? Well, consider that rolling desk that was supposed to be the centerpiece of the room -- it's a big splotchy carnation mess. Also, the wood Sarah brought back from the hardware store is too heavy to implement Carisa's design, unless Carisa's design called for it to be cumbersome and teetering. Carisa handles this with the grace we've come to expect from her in our short time together: "This thing is a fucking mess." Since Michael has never met the effort of another person that he can't disparage, Carisa asks his thoughts on the giant carnation desk; get rid of it, he says. Carisa agrees that it needs to go and keeps repeating what a mess the desk turned out to be. Sarah apparently finds this as wearying as I do because as she's helping Carisa remove the desk, she gives it this sort of half-hearted shove so that the desk crashes to the ground, crumbling under its own weight. There -- now it really is a mess. Happy, Carisa? Strangely, she is not: "I feel like the most interesting piece of my design is not there. I hope I can stay because I'll never trust a carpenter again." Now, now, Carisa -- it's a poor designer who blames her carpenter. And you are blaming your carpenter. Therefore, by the transitive property... well, you see where I'm going with this.