The 15 Boyfriend's You Break Up With

Ive had a lot of boyfriends throughout my life. If I were Taylor Swift, some of my hits would be titled "We Were So Weird Together," "My Dad Can Stop Worrying About Paying For That Wedding" and, my personal favorite, "Everyone Just Thought You Were A Douche."

Marie Claire UK recently quoted Taylor with saying, "It's not my fault if someone gets into a relationship with me and then cheats and I write a song about it."

As a writer, I understand the need to express my thoughts creatively. Over the years, I have come up with some joking nicknames for my exes that I feel others might relate to. Please, help yourself.

Palm Pilot

This is the boyfriend I thought was the latest and greatest thing at the time, and I couldn't possibly imagine something better. But I'd look pretty stupid now if I were still walking around with it.

Cilantro

Everyone has an opinion on cilantro. They either love it or they hate it, but I've never met anyone who was indifferent to it. Moral of the story; I developed an aversion to cilantro.

The Goldfish

The boyfriend who always was there and I just took for granted. And one day, there he was, just floating lifeless at the top of my bowl, so I had to say goodbye.

O.J.'s Glove

Didn't fit.

The Knockoff

I had everyone convinced this was a very expensive article of clothing. But it was slowly unraveling underneath because it was never the quality of Chanel.

Britney

Oh man, so much potential here. But just ended up a disaster.

The Alcoholic

This is the boyfriend who was an alcoholic.

The Kentucky Cousin

Kind of felt like kissing my brother.

The Ben Affleck

Everyone thought he was a nothing special, so you left him. And now he's super successful and the perfect family man. Whoops.

The Mambo No. 5

Really fun at home in private, but you would never acknowledge it in public.

McDonald's Breakfast

It hit the spot like no other. But ultimately, it's just not healthy to be having that every day.

Rubik's Cube

I spent so much time trying to figure this one out it just became not fun anymore. So I gave up.

Old Yeller

He started off like the most loyal companion ever ... until I realized it was because he was [bleepin'] crazy. "No, Ma. I'll do it. He's my dog."

The Ricky Martin

He's a great dancer and super sensitive ... but he's gay.

The Cloud

I looked at him long enough that my perception made him into something he wasn't. And soon I realized he wasn't a bunny holding a hula hoop; he was just a cloud.

Ultimately, the goal is to have The Lemonade boyfriend. If it's not some imitation Crystal Light or packaged Country Time crap, I never don't want lemonade. I could have it all day, every day. It has nutritional value, it hydrates and it's sweet. I appreciate every little sip and I need a little sugar in my diet to make me happy.

Plus, I'm convinced anyone who doesn't like it is a communist.

Your Girlfriend's Not Your Cheerleader

I cannot wait for the Super Bowl, but not because I'm rooting for a particular team. As a matter of fact, I couldn't tell you which color jerseys are playing because I stopped paying attention once the Washington Redskins lost.

I am excited because, for at least another six months, I won't have to pretend to like football, just like Lennay Kekua did.

It's not that I'm a girly-girl. For whatever reason, I've just never been particularly interested in sports. Maybe it was the fact that I never understood how players changed their allegiance to teams so I didn't understand why I couldn't. Perhaps I didn't like the way that when a team would lose, it could make or break an evening. Or maybe it's because I'm usually so sloshed by halftime of anything I never experienced the excitement of a win.

On one particular birthday, my boyfriend at the time surprised me with tickets to the USC-Notre Dame game. I probably didn't need to preface that with "at the time" as we can all gather he is now in my Rolodex of exes. And the verb "surprised" is a euphemism. I felt cornered.

While it was a lovely gesture, it was clearly a "Homer giving Marge a bowling ball" birthday present. I wasn't expecting a Gucci purse or even a Red Lobster dinner. (Turn your nose up at cheddar bay biscuits and Sutter Home. I dare you.) From that day forward, I felt threatened by sports, as though they were another woman.

Over the years, I've felt certain pressures by guys to love their teams. Ashleymadison.com profiles tell me that men love a girl who can just "hang out in an old T-shirt on the couch and watch a game with me." I've been very forthcoming about my disinterest in that world, though I've made up for it by not going the complete opposite route and donning a pink jersey with pigtails and face paint, cheering whenever prompted.

I've always figured if I ever married, then 20 years in, I probably would cheer for the team my husband cheers for. But to expect me to get on the bandwagon right off the bat of whatever team the guy I'm dating loves has always seemed disingenuous. I don't like expectations.

However, I have seen the disappointment on the faces of boys I've dated, not just due to their teams losing, but also due to me not caring one way or another.

So this past football season I tried something different. I feigned interest in my boyfriend's team, the Redskins. I watched those games as if I were watching Miss Illinois aiming for Miss America and I found myself ... somewhat interested. I can't say I'm waiting on pins and needles for next football season, but that saying, "Fake it till you make it"? Well, I think I made some serious strides.

Just Say No To Meggings

"I'm sorry, did you say 'meggings'?"

This was my internal dialogue when I stumbled upon the headline "How 'meggings' are taking fashion by storm" on a British newspaper's website. I knew all too well what this meant. Meggings are leggings that are ... wait for it ... made for men.

I once had an experience with a boyfriend who hated my jeggings. These are leggings that look like jeans—or jeans that look like leggings, depending on whether you're a glass-half-full kind of person.

He didn't find either acceptable. My argument was comfort. This was the same argument women shot back with for more than a decade when the whole Uggs craze wore out its welcome and it no longer was acceptable to wear those Godforsaken things in bars.

If men do indeed find meggings comfortable, I would implore them to wear them in the comfort of their own homes and, even then, only if they already are married. I'm still convinced the only thing standing between me and a ring on my finger is my collection of Uggs I wear around the house.

My hope is these meggings will catch on slower than my grandma backing out of a parking space. I mean, whose bright idea was this?

We can't just blame Justin Bieber, who's been spotted in them. Someone had to have given him a pair. Is this some weird marketing ploy because of an overabundance of Lycra? What's the tagline? "Meggings: For the soprano in every man"? The only men I want to see in tights are those working on a Disney cruise ship and Mikhail Baryshnikov.

I know it's weird. I mean, since when do I have standards? But I gotta draw the line here. Meggings are about as good an idea as that old guy in "Jurassic Park" thinking bringing back velociraptors would draw in a crowd for a fun park.

This isn't just a British and Bieber thing. Fashion experts have meggings pegged as one of 2013's "must-haves" for the season, reputable news outlets are reporting.

I'd really prefer a balanced budget. The only reason I could see the meggings as a must-have would be to burn them so there's one less pair out there for a misguided soul to buy.

I'm not only scared that men in my wheelhouse will think this is an attractive look, I'm also terrified the Bieber generation of women won't know a Stetson from a beanie. What happened to Levi's and a nice button-down? I'll even take a ratty plaid shirt.

I've always found one of the sexiest images to be a man putting on cufflinks. I just can't imagine watching my dude slip into a pair of meggings or, for that matter, out of them. Furthermore, would I have to assist him? I don't want to live to see a day where I have a man begging me to take off his pants.

By the way, Selena Gomez called. She's dating someone who doesn't wear meggings.

Only Chicagoans Will Feel My Pain

It’s embarrassing when friends from out of town come to visit me and I have no idea where anything is. I’m not talking about my keys or my phone or my mind – that’s just embarrassing on a daily basis. I’m talking about specific locations.

If one more person tells me Chicago is “just a big grid”, I’m gonna give them a wedgie. Many a time I have made three right turns and not ended up in the same place. Elston, you bastard! Clybourne, you are a nincompoop. And what’s up with Ogden? Ogden is like that friend in high school who's a bad influence. Every time I run into her, I end up some place I shouldn't be.

When someone tries to explain the grid system to me, it strums up the same confusion I get when getting my cash back at the grocery store. Yes, I still pay in cash. And yes, my brain still goes into a tizzy when they try to count it back to me.

“And four, six, eight and twenty makes ten,” says the cashier as I stare at her, inanely confused, like a sorority girl who's just seen Avatar.

My hipster sister who now lives in California informed me there’s an area of town referred to as ‘Six Corners’. I ain’t no geometry wiz, but I’m pretty sure that grids involve squares and squares have 4 corners. Count ‘em. Four. While on the phone, she also decided to give me the ever annoying anecdote of, “You know what I love about California? You can drive two hours and be somewhere totally different”. I can drive for two hours in Chicago and be somewhere totally different too. I just might end up outlined in chalk.

Ever heard of the Viagra triangle? The West Loop? The Ukranian Rhombus? Please don’t go googling the last one. I made it up to further prove my point. Unless it’s a colossal game of tic-tac-toe, shapes do not belong in a grid.

Here’s what I can’t quite comprehend. What is the difference between memorizing what numbered block a certain street is….and just memorizing the street? While we’re at it, why are we calling freeways by a number and a name? It’s like when Prince decided to change his name to a symbol just to mess with people. That’s what you’re doing Chicago – you’re messing with me!

Why not get a GPS you might ask? Because I wouldn’t want to rob my father of the joy of receiving my frustrated phone call so he can give me directions for thirty minutes, describing every intersection I’ll pass, every stop sign I’ll come to, and each bar he used to troll around with his buddy Carl back in the 80’s.

I mean if you’re gonna tell me that State St is 0 east-west and Madison is 0 north-south and I need to get to 1800….wait. I just figured it out. 

Dont Be a Jerk

One of my favorite types of people are the ones who say they just “tell it like it is” when trying to explain why people don’t like them.

For the record, I haven’t quite mastered the art of writing with sarcasm. So forgive me if you were turned off by the first sentence. On the flip side, if you agreed with the first sentence, I suppose you should forgive me for what you’re about to read.

I know plenty of people who tell it like it is and still are well-liked. Martin Luther King comes to mind. Well, I suppose there were some people who didn’t like him, but that had nothing to do with what he said.

One of my best friends, Kim, has this magical way of telling people to their face that she can’t stand them. She proceeds to rattle off her reasoning, yet they still want to hang out with her. The late and great Nora Ephron made a living and legacy of holding nothing back, and I think you’d be hard-pressed to find one person who knew her or knew of her who would dare say, “Yeah, I’m not a big Nora Ephron fan.”

While comparing my sorority sister to Martin Luther King might have punched a hole in my argument, the point I’m trying to make is that if people don’t like you, it’s probably not for the reason you think it is.

I’ve never been at a social gathering where someone has warned me to steer clear of another guest because they’re too honest. And I live for the day when someone says, “I’m not going to vote for him in the next election. He tells it like it is.”

This phrase has become an excuse for people to be just plain nasty. I know. I’ve used it. I’ll probably use it again. It’s a common phrase in our society, so common in fact that several titles of websites and blogs preface the saying with “I’m not a hater ...,”  “I’m not a jerk ...,” “I’m not a snitch…,” “I’m not a (rhymes with snitch) ...” and all end with “... I just tell it like it is.” Real classy.

While honesty should be revered, what happened to being diplomatic? The difference between the two is the sensitivity and effectiveness that comes with diplomacy that is often lacking in brutal honesty.

While there are some situations that call for a “snap-out-of-it” moment, that rarely is the case. To walk around saying whatever you feel whenever you feel it in whatever phrasing you choose to feel at that moment you feel it ... that’s just plain nasty. Don’t mask it under the guise of honesty. Just stop being a jerk.

I wanted to tell my boyfriend the other day how the Levi’s he wears make him look like he has grandpa butt, yet I chose to be ... whoops.

A fitting way to end this column would be to say “I’m just telling it like it is.” But that would be too easy. So I’ll end it with an equally annoying sentence that makes no sense to me and that I probably will write about at one point and no doubt use to end some argument in the near future.

It is what it is.

Dear Cliche

Dear Open Letter Writer,

I’ve been seeing a lot of you lately—on Facebook, in newspaper columns and even in spoken conversations. This banal form in which you choose to vent is not becoming—but has become—outdated, tiring and just plain unfunny.

There seems to be a lot of angst in our world, and prayers and upset are often, and simply, addressed through this method of expression quite frequently. While I appreciate you taking out your despondence in a peaceful and non-violent manner, I have to tell you—I’m just over it.

I can understand the letters that ask for a favor. “Dear weather, please behave on my wedding day.” Or “Dear Illinois Lottery, please let me be the Mega Millions winner.” These are hopeful, harmless pleas that would make your day that much better. However, you must realize you sound like an idiot, right? Can we just be old fashioned and go back to praying to God who, if he does exist, has a much better chance of making these things happen?

The other day you wrote “Dear lady standing in front of me at Starbucks” and preceded to vent about your high level of annoyance at her inability to order drinks for her office in an efficient manner, thus making you late for your pedicure. I just don’t feel bad for you if that is the greatest discord you face throughout the day. By the way, do you suppose this was the same woman who cut you off in traffic right before you pulled out your iPhone while driving to let your social network know? Was she also the chick who grossed you out by breast-feeding in public. That broad is just ruining your life. Ugh.

I have to say though, some of my favorites have been your unsolicited advice you’ve doled out to celebrities. I’m pretty sure Lindsay had no idea she had a drug problem until you brought it to her attention, and I honestly thought Tori  might literally “go away” as you requested. I’m not sure where, but your letter gave us all hope. And I’m also sure Ryan Gosling keeps your note with the marriage proposal tucked under his pillow at night. It was, after all, quite moving.

My reason for writing you back is to beseech you to come up with more clever and unique ways to vent about the mundane, for lack of a better word, crap, that goes on in your life. Furthermore, your “thank yous” that follow sunny skies should not be directed toward me as I cannot take credit for them. I have forwarded them on to goodness and your lucky stars.

Sincerely,

The Weather

P.S. You can also stop using the term “WINNING!”

Back In Session

At some point in life, we are all a teachers.

As autumn is upon us, we are all brought back to the days of remembering that first day of going back to school. That first day of starting junior high, traveling back from summer break to college, or perhaps even the first day of kindergarten. We remember the anticipation of who would be in our class, would we get the ornery Mr. Farland or the ever loving Miss Schimtz? Would our best friends be in our class or would we be lab partners with Brock Hoffman? And what, oh what, would we wear entering those doors as an awakened human being from summer vacation?

I’ve never had children and I’ve never been in an educational field. I think I was a peer mentor in high school and I’ve trained people on a job but it wasn’t until this past summer that I started teaching.

I entered the acting class and observed the eyes that gazed upon me as though I could map out the path to their dreams and provide the concrete answer to “what will my future hold?”. There is a slight, who are we kidding, major difference between being a teacher to a class of unwilling high school wanna-be’s and obedient adults. Little did they know, as I entered that class, that I was looking for someone who could offer me the same life leading lessons and the same answer to what my future would hold.

As the weeks went on, I felt giddy with the delight as I saw them improve. They did their homework, committed to the tasks at hand, and became much more aware of their craft and what it entailed to achieve their goals. Six weeks in, however, we hit the ever-present roadblock of frustration. Everyone seemed as though they were struggling, not just with class, but with life in general; myself included. Lesson plan be damned, we had an old school, campfire pow-wow. Keep in mind it was an acting class; we're allowed to do that.

As we went around the room expressing our frustrations in life …a new job taking up our focus, a new baby taking up our nights, and the death of a parent swallowing our hearts…we came to Liz. With sympathetic eyes and a tale of being married for over 20 years, she shrugged her shoulders apologetically and said, “You know, I don't have a lot of problems. All I can say is that my life isn’t everything I hoped for….but it’s better than anything I could have imagined”.

It wasn’t a mantra or an e-greeting on facebook. It was an honest moment that answered the question of “what will my future hold?” What I had been brought there to teach, had been taught by the student. 

Life is not always about your next success, or how far you have come. It's also about what you’re able to observe and learn from those around you. School is always in session for adults. Who will your next lab partner be? Will you and your best friends always be in the same class? Will you have a good teacher or a bad one? Regardless, if you participate, your life will change. Without getting into too much "life is a journey not a destination" talk, there is something to be said for just embracing the moment. So relish in the good and embrace the pains, and look at that guy sitting next to you on the Metro. He might teach you a thing or two. That's how we grow.

Whether You Like the Weather Or Not

There is not a coffee shop in New York, cafe in Europe or seedy bar in L.A. where someone hasn’t commented, “I love Chicago!” the minute I tell them my hometown. They then proceed to tell me two things: 1) how much they loooove the people and 2) how they could never live here because they haaaaate the weather.

I’ve been living in Chicago for a couple of months now after having lived in L.A. for a number of years, and I can honestly say I don’t regret the decision one bit. When I tell this to my friends in L.A., their response is, “Just wait. You haven’t hit the nasty weather yet.” I’ve always felt it was the nasty weather that helped me to appreciate and enjoy the favorable weather that much more. Although my friend Gus always counters with, “Well, would you cut off one arm just so you could enjoy your other arm?”

It’s not as though I didn’t live in this city for 23 years of my life before I moved to the West Coast. I feel as if I’m pretty prepared for the impending weather that should be hitting us soon. I remember cold and agree that 50 degrees is not pleasant ... that’s cold, right? I realize that the sky can change faster than the number of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s offspring, but that’s what sick days are for. And yes, I am well aware that the summers can bring on some pretty mind-blowing humidity, but I hear frizzy hair is in.

I miss the coziness of blizzards in December and the fear of tornadoes June. I also refer to movies such as “Twister” and “Deep Impact” as feel-good flicks, so my judgment might be a little off here. But I do think a part of the reason Chicagoans are so cool and tough is because they have to endure real danger. It’s one of the only cities where you can die in the summer because it’s too hot and die in the winter because it’s too cold. I actually had a friend pass away last spring. What a namby-pamby.

Studies show that violent crime increases when the humidity is high. So not only do we have the fear of natural disasters and the lurking possibility of natural death, the weather might actually make us kill EACH OTHER!!! This city’s awesome!

I hold a belief that there’s no such thing as bad weather—just bad clothing. While this can sometimes require less fashionable attire, I would prefer to have a guy show up for a date dressed in a snowsuit like the little brother in “A Christmas Story” than all pimped out, Justin Timberlake-style. No offense, J.T. You’re super cute, but I can’t date a guy who’s more fashionable than me. Any and all attraction I have goes out the fedora when I see brand names on a dude.

So bring on your worst, Chi-town! I’m ready for some favorable people.

A Toast

My sister, Bridget, is getting married Saturday and I am co maid of honor with my little sister, Maggie. I still haven’t written my speech.

 

To add to my stress level, Maggie is a drunk savant and will probably say something so disgustingly charming that I will come off looking like the idiot sava … er … drunk.

 

In my panic a couple of days ago, I thought I had come up with a brilliant idea to reference the three sisters being like a shamrock and Brad, the groom, making us a complete four-leaf clover. Maggie, thankfully, told me this was lame. I then looked into hiring a Kenny Rogers impersonator, Bridget’s celebrity crush, but he was busy. And cost five grand.  So I started YouTubing “maid of honor speeches” to help get my creative juices flowing.

 

There I sat, bawling like I was watching a marathon of “Extreme Makeover: The Biggest Loser Edition, Brought To You By Oprah.” My sobfest was interrupted by some terribly corny jokes and obvious attempts to appear on “The Today Show” (was anyone else aware of the trend to rap the bride and groom’s life stories to the tune of “The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air”? )but overall, the speeches were genuine, albeit a bit formulaic.  And they make sure to set themselves apart by all captioning their video “Best. Speech. Ever.”

 

Maid of honor speeches have a general blueprint. They always start with a “for those of you who don’t know me” intro. This makes the speaker look humble even though she knows damn well everyone knows who she is or that they can look in the program where it clearly states “College friend/Sister /Insecure cousin who would throw an adult temper tantrum if she wasn’t asked”. And if nothing else, it's safe to say everyone can surmise the bride asked her maid of honor to give a speech and not Aunt Judith fromPoughkeepsie who she hasn’t seen since she was 6. She then shares an embarrassing story from childhood that guests politely laugh at while inconspicuously checking their phones. Insert slightly crude statement regarding an inside joke (e.g., “… and you and I both know what happens when you don’t wear clean underwear, don’t we?”) and end with some tear-jerky sentiment of how happy they are for the couple.

 

So why was I actually moved by watching the videos of these speeches? Because regardless of how cheesy or poorly read or incredibly bland they were, I was watching the bride and in every clip, she was looking on as though she was watching the Best. Speech. Ever.

 

So I am just going introduce myself, tell an embarrassing blurb with a semi-crude joke, and probably cry as I look on at mybeautiful big sister celebrating the biggest day of her life. And if ends up being the worst toast of the night, at least I was able to use a highly circulated newspaper to publically wish them the Best. Life. Ever.

 

Top that, Maggie.

Hookers Make the World Go Round

When my friend Jonathan changed his profile picture to a shot of a three-year-old dressed up like Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman, thigh high boots and all, I laughed. Hysterically.  Laughter also tends to be my initial reaction when someone bites it on a slippery floor so it’s asking a bit much to expect me not to do the same when I was faced with this spectacle.  For those of you who have better things to do than keep up with Toddlers and Tiaras (the world would be a better place if we all did) the TLC show is being bashed for showcasing a child dressed like Julia’s character during a modeling portion of the competition. Without going into the obvious indecency of the situation, I wonder if it is possible that the mother was simply unaware that Pretty Woman is a story about a prostitute.

Hookers are everywhere!

I’ve seen numerous talent shows where little girls sing “I Dreamed A Dream” from Les Miserables. The character, Fantine ,that sings that song? Hooker. I once competed in a pageant and warbled a song by the hooker, Kim, in Miss Saigon. Maybe that’s why I didn’t win. I also paraded around a stage in my bathing suit in an effort to win “scholarship money”. I wouldn’t doubt that there are some who would consider that hooking.  And I know I wasn’t the only girl to hang up a black and white Breakfast at Tiffany’s poster of Audrey Hepburn in my dorm room. That’s right. Holly Golightly was, indeed, a hooker.

Ever belt out Roxanne by The Police in the shower? You were singing about a hooker. You may think you’re innocently tuning in to Bravo TV when you’re watching the Real Housewives of Orange County, but aside from the one blonde lady who runs her own insurance business, aren’t they all kind of hookers? Kim Kardashian isn’t famous for doing nothing. She famous for doing someone. Jodie Foster, Kim Basinger, Charlize Theron – that’s just a small sampling of the women who have won or been nominated for an Academy Award and not for playing nuns. Susan Sarandon in Dead Man Walking? Total hooker.

As we speak, women all over the nation are planning their Halloween costumes. A holiday that was once centered around ghouls and ghost stories has become an excuse for girls to dress up as slutty versions of anything from Little Bo Peep to her actual sheep. Alright, I’ve never actually witnessed a slutty sheep costume but I wouldn’t be shocked.

So do I think the Toddlers and Tiaras mom really meant harm? No. Do I think she might be an idiot and by being so inflicts harm to her daughter on a daily basis?  Hm. Do I think there’s a little bit of hooker in all of us? Well, I live with my boyfriend and I don’t contribute to the mortgage. I buy “groceries”. You do the math. I just want world peace.

Being Average Is The New Failure

I’m terrified of having kids. Not so much in an “I’m terrified I’ll lose them like I lose my keys” kind of way, though that is a valid fear. I’m terrified that they won’t grow up in a world where it’s OK to just be a good human being with some character. You know, an average Joe Schmollacky.

The competition begins at birth as mothers compare what percentile their kids fit into in terms of height and weight. Bet that game wouldn’t be so fun if the mommies tried it out on each other.

My girlfriend Becky tried to convince me the other day that her 6-month-old went to the bathroom on the potty by himself.  Did he also excuse himself from the table and announce he was “going to the loo”?

No, he didn't, Becky.

Recently, I found out about a preschool called Crème de le Crème. What's next? All That And A Bag of Chips Prep? Don’t You Know Who I Am High School? What happens when DYKWIA North loses to DYKWIA South in the homecoming game? Is it only then that they realize that nobody cares who they are? And seeing as only one can attend I’m The Best University, will the rest have to settle for But Mumsy Always Told Me I Was Special Community College?

Cream of the Crop. That’s right smarties, I speak French too. Maybe these sweet little cherubs will know more about the stock market than I ever will by the time they’re 4, but I’d bet ya dollars to donuts that a kid from Bottom of the Barrel Institute would rob them blind in a game of three-card monte.

My parents afforded me opportunities others didn’t have. I remember doing it for the experience and not the pressure to be the best. Is it no longer OK to just be … average? Because, statistically speaking, we’re all average.

I’m thinking of opening my own school and calling it C’est La Vie. We’ll teach lessons on how to hurry the hell up when someone else is waiting for your parking space and appropriate hygiene on an airplane. Books read before naptime will be “The Little Waitress That Couldn’t” and “Bernie Madoff’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.”  And we’ll end every day with a song called, “For The Love of Allah, Zeus, Ra, Justin Bieber or Whatever God or Lack Thereof You Pray To, Fight About It When You’re Dead.”

I’m sure I’ve offended plenty of family and friends who don’t agree with my educational stylings. Fortunately, I graduated from the University of Call It Like I See It with a B.A. in Self-Righteousness so I’m prepared to respond. C’est la vie.