Every Sunday and Monday night for the past six months, I’ve had a ritual of pushing my homework aside and planting my butt on the couch to watch a glorious series: Bravo’s “Real Housewives.” Whether these attention hungry, middle aged women are from New Jersey, Atlanta, or Beverly Hills, they somehow captivate me with their petty issues and mind-numbing fights over who’s filing for bankruptcy and whose Bentley is getting repoed. So thank you, “Real Housewives,” for supplying me with hours of guilty entertainment while also teaching me how not to be a mature woman.