If you look closely between the Gerber jars of Creamed Bananas and Turkey Rice, there's a small innocuous-looking container labeled Romantic Delusions. In minuscule print, under "Ingredients", "Unrealistic Exceptions"is listed first. Across the nation vacuum-sealed lids pop and unwitting parents spoon feed little girls fantastical fairytales, right after they move past smooshed peas and into solids. To ease future pain heaped on both sexes, I think it's time we start doing them a real solid, and forgo the saccharine, BS laden lines instilling princess complexes and images of white steeds bearing metal-clad men who risk life, limb and heat exhaustion to be with them.

You know the stuff--either you've expected it yourself or had it hit you upside the head in a storm of sobby, hard-to-understand wails from your girlfriend. The wheedling, cajoling, beggin'-on-one's-knees that young romantics' hearts are fed by. How many times had I myself hoped to spark such desire in another? The anguish of separation, too much to bear, leaving him besot and on his knees. A Shakespearean sonnet alive and thriving at my window pane, where a lovesick man-boy beseeches me to give him another chance. Or in this particular case, his CD back. You know, the one you borrowed on the road trip to Montana? Thank you, Romeo.

Most of my wild attempts to stir such emotional fervor ended with me storming through door, door slamming, me looking over shoulder in anticipation at door, waiting for said boyfriend to be hot on my heels in pursuit. He'd rush to me, I'd feign contempt. He'd profess his love, I'd turn my head. He'd beg me to forgive what ever menial slight he committed and I'd, of course as fairytales dictate, consent then wither into his strong embrace. Wave of magic wand. Sha-zam! Happily ever after, dammit.

The result of such high hopes always came to a culmination in...nothing. Except me waiting, eyes narrowed, neck craned forward, listening for any sign of progression towards to door. Maybe he tripped in haste. Or was crafting an "I'm sorry" heart of felt and tissue paper that he...er, just had laying around the house under his Playboy mags and five remotes.

What ever ridiculous misdemeanor he initially committed was aggravated to a felony in that two minute span. Equaling jail time in isolation. Because if there's one thing women are good at, it's closing up tighter than a gnat's ass stretched over a rain barrel. Isolation period to increase once boyfriend is spied inside through window, not crafting a Victorian-inspired love gift, but with video controller in hand, fiercely battling to reach level seven in a fantasy land of his own.

Netflix marketing minds have honed in on this unfulfilled desire to be fought for. "Come back to us" implores the first line of their customer retention email. And oh how my heart leaps. To be wanted! No, no Netflix...surely I can't. I turn my head from the browser window. "Please, please Rebecca" it begs. "Life in the vacuous consumer-driven world fueled by your pocketbook is profitless meaningless without you." How can I resist such sentiments? That AND their willingness to deliver Benny & Joon or any Meg Ryan movie my heart desires with nothing but enthusiasm and a sincere followup inquiring on my satisfaction. My satisfaction? Ye gods! I'm in love.

Boyfriends of the world, take note: Netflix is making you look bad.