This one is for Call Me Maybe. This one is for the best pop song to come along since Britney apologized because oops, she did it again. I truly believe that Call Me Maybe is the most brilliant song I’ve heard in years. Can I get an Amen? Seriously, this song is more infectious than the zombie plague. It instantly makes you want to sing along, dance a-fool, and put on repeat when you’re at home getting ready for a night out (oh don’t roll your eyes, you’ve done it, too). This song is hypnotic. It essentially has the same effect as a tequila shot when you’re already a couple of drinks in. It makes you shake your inhibitions, look at a person in the corner of the bar and do something you wouldn’t do without a little liquid courage. So you think what the hell. You grab a bar napkin or tear off the bottom of a receipt, borrow a pen from a friend, and quote the most inspiring poet since Shakespeare.

Hey, I just met you,
And this is crazy,
But here’s my number,
(Insert 10-digit phone number here)
Call me maybe?

For all you doubters out there, I want to assure you that I have seen this happen. Some of my best friends pull the Call Me Maybe, and I promise you they are not usually this forward. We are the type of girls who go out and wait until we are presented the opportunity to flirt with a guy and hand out our numbers at the end of the night. And some nights it never happens. But that’s all changed thanks to Miss Carly Rae Jepsen. We no longer have to sit on the sidelines of dating until we are asked to dance. We can get up and shell our digits on our own accord, without having to feel bashful about it. And it’s all because of a #1 hit. So here’s to you Carly Rae and the song that inspires us all.

I’ve been on a lot of first dates. I’m not sure the number will phase many of you – over 35 – but that’s in just 3 years with a few mini-relationships here and there. And the sad thing is, after a while, all these dates start to blur together. Sometimes I can’t tell apart the JP Morgans from the Morgan Stanleys. The Adams from the Davids. The Murray Hill boys from the Upper East Siders. Everyone loves their family, football, movies, and a good Sunday brunch. They frequent bars on the Lower East Side and watch The Office and Parks and Rec. And beer. All guys love their beer.

To be fair, I’m sure guys who date a lot would say the same about the female dating pool. I bet we all have similar names, work in media, marketing, or fashion, and live in Murray Hill or the East Village. And wait, don’t tell me. We all like sushi. Right?

This my friends, is what I call Groundhog’s Date. It’s just like the movie, except no guy is ever as funny as Bill Murray, and instead of “I’ve Got You Babe” all I have in my head is “Call Me Maybe.” 75% of the time the first date goes something like this. We meet at a bar at agreed time/date. The conversation starts off with the basics: our jobs, where we live, where we are from. I order a vodka soda with lime. We share our stories about how we landed in NYC. We order a second round of drinks. Discuss the fun topics like movies/TV, vacation plans, hobbies, yada, yada, yada. Then the check comes. I offer to pay my share, but he politely declines. We say goodnight and part ways…

Guy after guy, date after date, it all ends up becoming a hazy memory. When I go on a sequence of first dates it’s like I’m operating in autopilot, knowing exactly what to expect, what to say, which outfit to wear. But every once in awhile, I’ll find myself on a date halfway through my first drink and I suddenly realize I’m waking up. Maybe I’m laughing, smiling, flipping my hair. And hell, I might even be having fun. And maybe, at least for a little while, it feels like I’m not stuck in Groundhog’s Day.

I don’t like Jack Johnson. Wait, that’s putting it lightly. I hate Jack Johnson (except for maybe two songs, but I hate those most of the time too). Personally, I think his music is so lame and lacks real grit. It’s hippy dippy. Melodic to the point of boredom. And really, what’s with him not wearing shoes? He’s a grown man. Contrary to popular belief, “No shirt, no shoes, no problem,” is not the rule of thumb outside of beach resorts and Senor Frogs.

I know I sound very content in my disdain for Jack. But trust me, I’m not. My hate waivers the second I start falling for a guy. Seriously, why does every guy I date love Jack? Every time I pitch my argument against Jack to a new guy, I am met with this response, “Who hates Jack Johnson?” Good question, I ponder. And before you know it, he has Jack streaming from his iPod while we hang out and I’m humming that God-awful song, “Banana Pancakes.” Instantly, my loathing vanishes into a warm tingly feeling, and I am transfixed by the acoustic melodies of my boy Jack. And then he serenades me singing, “Maybe we can sleep in. I’ll make you banana pancakes. Pretend like it’s the weekend now.” That’s it. I’m a goner. Did I mention I don’t even eat banana pancakes?

Fast forward to the end of the relationship. Jack suddenly pops up on my iPhone (because I, of course, added him back onto my playlist at this point) and I find myself riding the subway and tearing up to “Sitting, Wishing, Waiting.” And if you can believe it, I hate Jack even more than I did to begin with.

Jack, if you’re listening, it’s really not your fault (even though your music sucks). It’s the fact that love has this way of making little things we usually don’t like – or, in this case, hate – seem absolutely wonderful. In my last relationship, I ate new foods, rooted for football teams I had no previous association with, and even liked his cat when I’m a total dog person. And not to mention, I gave into Sir Jack. I have to ask, why must all 20-something guys in NYC love Jack? And can someone please tell me, why do I keep falling for them?

There is no greater freedom than the kind you return to at the end of a mercifully short first (and last) date that in no way, shape, or form matched your pre-conceived notions of what she’d be like.

What’s the recipe for letting these pre-conceived notions bamboozle you yet again?  Mix one part of her phone voice and reasonably flattering isolated moment in time her pic captured, with the subconscious essences of women you were drawn to in the past you’re thinking this total stranger looks and sounds like, simmer for a day or two and voila – your goose is cooked!

Why do I keep running for the football, expecting “Lucy” not to grab it away this time?  I’m done with cooked goose.  From now on, I’m Mr. Chicken.

Picking the place to eat is a sensitive game. Never, ever pick a place that you like. This is for several reasons. First, if you like a place, then the staff there might recognize you and end up saying really stupid things to you on a first date like “Hey, why pants all of a sudden?” or “Your girlfriend has put on some weight.” Second, because a date can be a very anxiety-filled experience, you don’t want to have to be nervous when enjoying your favorite food. Third, if you take a girl to a place you like, she will know of this secret place too, and you will always be nervous that she will be there in the future when you just want to gorge yourself alone.

Also, always suggest a place where she wants to go, even if you’re violently allergic to the food. Suggest a place close to her home as well, because, while it’s nice of you to ask to pick her up for a first date, she will never say ‘yes’ because she’s never met you before. If she’s indecisive, which she will be, just tell her to let you know when she decides. Put the food ball in her restaurant court. Now, the burden is off you in terms of venue and it’s off of you to be the person to initiate the next call.

Now, all you have to do is sit back and wait for her to eventually not want to see you again. If you’re pessimistic like me, postpone the date as much as possible. In this way, you can not only delay inevitable heartbreak, but you will also come off as cool and not quite as desperate. Rejection has a silver lining. It makes you not as eager to put yourself out there, thus projecting a nonchalant disposition, when, really, you just need some time to recover.

Right now, the best part of my day is the one-and-a-half hours after my shower, but before bed. This doesn’t have anything to do with the post, but this is about to happen, and I’m not about to stop it.

I believe there’s one cardinal rule when it comes to dating: Whatever you think she’s thinking, she’s thinking something else.

It’s why you wonder why they’re mad. It’s why you wonder why they sent you a Dear John email after you thought they had a great time. I had an inkling it was coming when My AOL mailman cheerily announced: “You got dumped!” Yeah, I’m still on AOL. At this rate, I’ll be getting my first smart phone when a phone is actually smart enough to tell me why Anderson Cooper has nine jobs.

Relationships may be about sharing, but wavelengths are about not sharing. I tried to share her wavelength. Turns out I had the wrong wavelength. It was my wavelength. If she’d tried to share my wavelength, maybe she would’ve understood what I’m talking about here.

She doesn’t even need to share my wavelength. What good’s it doing me? She can have it all to herself.

When a guy courts a woman on his best behavior, he’s running for office.

After she agrees to start seeing him, he’s secured the nomination.

After he suggests sitting home and watching a movie in lieu of going out, he’s begun easing off of his earlier campaign rhetoric. (He’s also moved to the center… of the couch.)

As for moving in together, that’s when he’s elected.

Finally, in order to get things accomplished, he compromises.

I’m Andy Cowan, and I approve this message.

If relationships were like new car models… which improvements would you want to see in your 2013s?

Greater mileage, of course.  More stability.  Improved brakes.  (When things are moving too swiftly.)

Better absorption of the inevitable bumps in the road.  More efficiently heats up and defrosts.  Greater visibility.  Okay, helps you see your world more clearly.  I’m stretching now.  Advanced security system.  (“Do I look okay?”  “You look great.”  “Thanks, I feel more secure now.”)  Room for 4 or more.  Well, that’s if you want to start a family.

And most importantly… you won’t go broke come trade-in time.

Women say they’re looking for a nice guy. But is nice too boring? Do nice guys finish first in the dating world? Or do they need to toss a little danger into the mix? You’ve heard of the expression, smart women/foolish choices. Is that because, a la Groucho and Woody, these ladies are less interested in being a member of a club (nice guy) that would have them as a member?

Over the long haul of a relationship, “nice” rules. But to get women interested enough to commit to that relationship in the beginning, I will now periodically be dangerous.

Should we watch a video back at my place, I won’t stop nuking the popcorn until I hear the very last pop.

It’s a start.

Happy March. Are you guys coming in like a lion and roaring your intentions to sweep that gal off her feet? Or are you closer to the lamb persuasion?

Tony Danza spent five years chasing after his future wife before she agreed to marry him. But when is enough enough? If I’m interested in at least a long term relationship and I don’t sense it’s reciprocal by date 2, I cut my losses. If they don’t get me, I don’t get them. Not that I sometimes don’t get me! If I were a “me” salesman, I’d have a lot of “me’s” left on the lot. Maybe I’m folding too early?

A persistent Rob Petrie once said about a dismissive Laura before she became Mrs. Petrie: “That’s the woman I’m gonna marry!” Why was he so sure she wouldn’t just slap him with a restraining order? Okay, she was cast as his wife, that’s why.

It’s human nature to be wary of stuff at first. New TV shows. New main squeezes. They need to get used to you. But still – five years of chasing? As the cowardly lion famously growled in The Wizard of Oz, “If I only had the noive.”