You ask the waiter what the restaurant's core competencies are.
You decide to re-org your family into a 'team- based organization.'
You refer to dating as test marketing.
You can spell 'paradigm.'
You actually know what a paradigm is.
You understand your airline's fare structure.
You write executive summaries on your love letters.
You think it is actually efficient to write a ten-page paper with six other people you do not know.
You believe you never have any problems in your life, just 'issues' and 'improvement opportunities.'
You calculate your own personal cost of capital.
You refer to your previous life as 'my sunk costs.'
Your three meals a day are a 'morning consumption function', a 'noontime consumption function', and an 'even consumption function.'
You start to feel sorry for Dilbert's boss.
You refer to divorce as 'divestiture.'
Your favorite artist is the one who does the dot drawings for the Wall Street Journal.
None of your favorite publications have cartoons.
You account for your tuition as a capital expenditure instead of an expense.
You insist that you do some more market research before you and your spouse produce another child.
At your last family reunion, you wanted to have an emergency meeting about their brand equity.
You decided the only way to afford a house is to call your fellow alumni and offer to name a room after them if they help with the down payment.
Your 'deliverable' for Sunday evening is clean laundry and paid bills.
You use the term 'value-added' without falling down laughing.