Bottom Line: I'll be Queen with or without you.

Recently, I’ve been throwing around the word “accidentally” too often. I accidentally gave a guy my number. I accidentally went on a date with him. I accidentally told him I was a lesbian. It was an accident.

Okay, the last one was really just my fault, because sometimes I try to play along with movie references I don’t get because I don’t want to admit that I don’t get them and then four days later I realize that I told him I was gay and I mean, how do you bounce back from something like that? You don't, that's how.

But seriously, the first two are a direct result of the communication breakdown between boys and girls of the 21^st century. The girls are embracing the challenges and structures of romantic confrontation, and the boys, well, the boys just want to "kick it."

It usually goes something like this:

There's no honor in it anymore. It's all "whatever" and "I don't care" and "I'll text you" and no one is getting chased by the campus police for illegally singing, "Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You" with the entire marching band during soccer practice. Not to mention that Smarmy Pete never even slightly resembles Heath Ledger, but that's almost irrelevant at this point.

And I think I know how guys and girls got so far off. For my fellow ladies, I like to call it "Disney Princess Propaganda." From the early, impressionable ages of my youth, I was bombarded with fairytales and love stories, subliminal suggestions and heightened, unrealistic expectations. Sleeping Beauty falls in love with the first guy that kisses her and they're soulmates fo' life. Ariel gets her man without saying a single word. (Maybe that's my problem.) Even when I was six, all I remember thinking is, yeah, but I mean, boys can fall in love with the really annoying seagull-type, too, right? And Jasmine. Fucking Jasmine. Jasmine falls in love with a broke, homeless guy who pretends to be rich, lies to her, and then ends up getting to be King of Agrabah anyway. I mean, what the hell kind of life lesson is that? But they were all happy. So by the time I was seven, I wanted to be Queen of the United States, and I was planning on marrying into it. I didn't have much patience for governmental logistics.

Then I graduated to PG-13 movies. I grew up enough to realize that the US wasn't going to make me queen, but I still had the terrible notion of true love swimming treacherously through my mind. I just knew that Justin Timberlake was going to stand outside my house with a boombox above his head, declaring his undying love for me, and then we would dance to "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer in my backyard with outdoor string lights and I could say that line about not being a hooker. I was in love with my conceptual theory on love - it's rules and protocols. I wanted all of it. I'm 23 years old, I still want all of it. I'm just much more pessimistic about the entire practice now.

Because while my I was watching "Runaway Bride" for the 30th time, daydreaming about all the ways Brian, the adorable drummer from fifth period Geometry could prove to be my very own Richard Gere, the boys of my generation were playing baseball, stealing cars and running over pedestrians in Grand Theft Auto, and shooting each other with bottle rockets.

Translation: They were doing everything humanly possible to avoid learning the rules of dating.

Consequence: "wanna hang out?"
Answer: No. Pass. Super pass.

Why? Because it's wrong. You got it all wrong. Try again. I do not want to hang out. I want you to talk me out of jumping off the side of the Titanic into the Atlantic Ocean and then take me dancing with a bunch of drunk irish people. I want you to use the word "date." Don't try to be smooth and elusive, because that's how I accidentally end up on a third maybe-date wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do with my hands when we get to the driver-side door of my Scion.

It's a wonder anyone gets together these days. I swear, I walk around and see "couples" and I wonder how long they've just been "hanging out." The Victorian Era had it right. There should be a courting process. It should involve fancy clothes, hard-soled shoes, flowers and love letters sealed with wax. I honestly don't think I'd care one bit if the only reason a gentleman caller was interested in me was because he wanted to usurp my father's reign and be King of France, just so long as he holds the door for me and takes off his top hat when I walk in the room. Even in my fantasy life, my standards and lowered and realistic, because really, King of France? Can you say 'under-achiever?' All I want is a little definition. A little effort. A little...commitment to the cause. Am I demanding a ring before you kiss me? No. Although a ring would be necessary if you want those goats my father talked about. Actually, in my case, I think the dowry would be cattle. Or barrels of unrefined oil. You know, cause of Texas and whatever. Just man up, say what you mean, and under no circumstance should you shrug at any point during the conversation.


I know that the male population won't change, so I'm sure I'll continue to "hang out." But I'm not happy about it. And don't get mad at me when I don't know we've been dating for three months. Getting my Facebook status to change from "Single" to "In A Relationship" takes a blatant simple sentence, or two.

...and "Tuesday" presents.