Differing Experiences

Going out to get coffee with my wife, Abigail, is always a trip because she used to be a barista, whereas my coffee expertise begins and ends at nothing.

We'll order our drinks and she'll intelligently critique them afterwards like some sort of coffee sommelier:

"So based on apparent acidity, I can tell they're using the Ecuadorian Midget blend, which is fine—but honestly, I'd prefer if they used Joker's Hernia, which is harvested in Cancún and hand-processed in Louisiana by affluent Southern widows with a devastating nose for the bean. Wouldn't you agree?"

Meanwhile, my analysis is just making sure whatever I got is decaf—because if I have caffeine, I will start freaking out and believing I'm going to die in twenty minutes.