Jonathan and I were only together a year before we decided to get married. We both knew it was soon, but it just felt so right. We fell madly and passionately in love. We moved into a little house in the hills, where I could work from home and he could write. Everything was perfect. However, three months ago something strange happened. While Jonathan and I were on our way back from a Runyon hike, we stopped for coffee. We usually prefer to go to ma and pa coffee shops, but he suggested we go to Starbucks since it was closest. Skeptically, I followed. When we arrived he browsed the menu, and then ordered a Pumpkin Spice Latte. I let out a huge gasp, and the whole place went silent.

“What?” he asked.

“It just doesn’t seem like you, Jonathan. You usually order a Japanese-style Slow Drip, or even a Stumptown Cold Brew.”

He summed up his coffee decision to “wanting to try something new.”

I have always been one to support my husband but I believe that this is when everything started to take a turn for the worse. Almost immediately Jonathan started shortening all of his words, and periodically using phrases like “totes” or “amaze” and most despicably “hashtag.” I started to notice all of Jonathan’s Chelsea Boots being subbed out for Uggs. He started listening to top 20 stations, and when I asked him why, he told me it was because he just really loved T. Swift. His Instagram stream, which used to consist of artsy scenic photos, turned into inaccurate Marilyn Monroe quotes and Kardashians. Things really escalated when he traded his 1964 Mustang for a powder blue Volkswagen Bug. All the while I was finding more and more yoga pants and empty Pumpkin Spice cups that were decorated with his name spelled incorrectly on them.

One night, I decided I’d take him out to his favorite underground whisky bar. I wanted to remind him about what he really loved; exclusive places that most people don’t know about and a drink you have to trick yourself into liking because it’s trendy. I ordered two Old Fashion’s with Bullet Rye, but before I could finish our orders he stopped me and said that he wanted a mojito. At this point I had enough.

I stormed out of the bar, and Ubered down to Starbucks to demand an answer.

“What did you put in those Pumpkin Spice Lattes?!” I screamed at the barista as two men held me back. “WHAT DID YOU PUT IN THEM?!”

The barista looked frightened, “Uhm. Sugar? A lot of sugar? And pumkin flavor?”

“Tell me what I want to hear, I know you know!”

“Okay!” she cracked, “There’s a place he can go.”

She handed me a pamphlet that read “The Los Angeles Basic Bitch Rehabilitation Center.”
 As I read the words I fell to the ground and sobbed onto my Jeffrey Campbells while some of my turquoise jewelry clanked on the cold tile floor.

The hardest part of getting Jonathan to rehab was to interrupt his 24-hour Sex and the City marathon. I knew I had to trick him, so I told him we were going to brunch with bottomless mimosas. I knew I was making the right choice as I listened to him talk about how much he loved fall and mention “how much of a Carrie” he was. When we arrived he was a little bit off kilter as he was expecting a breakfast-themed-lunch filled with booze. But the rehab was used to this kind of behavior and had cleverly designed the outside of the building to look like a Victoria Secret which distracted him momentarily before they caged him like an animal and dragged him inside. I stood there motionless as I watched his so-last-season ombre hair dance in the wind.

Jonathan stayed in Basic Bitch Rehab for three weeks, and made huge progress. He is officially off Pumpkin Spice Lattes for good and back on black, concentrated, slow drip coffee.

So take this as a warning, NEVER drink Pumpkin Spice or even use a red holiday cup at Starbucks…. or else you could get infected with the Basic Bitch Disease, and this heartbreaking story could be yours.

Yay! You made it to the end! If you liked this you can catch me saying funny things in 140 characters or less on twitter @CaitlinGwynne. Thanks for reading!