Because today’s post is about my ass.

I have hemorrhoids. You heard me right. I’m saying that forbidden word that makes everyone cringe. I’m admitting that I have the poop chute of an 80 year-old. Gee thanks, God, for the cruelest chastity belt ever given to a cute single girl. And nobody gets it; my single girlfriends pause and give the “Oh man, that sucks” look when I squirm after sitting on a bar stool in tight jeans for more than a few hours. My married girlfriends shake their heads knowingly and say, “Ooh, I got one once when I was pregnant. That was the worst!” And let’s just say until now, no man on earth has ever known. In my exactly 20 years of lost virginity, I have somehow managed to avoid this conversation altogether. Although this problem isn’t anything new for me. My bottom has been discussed since I was a little girl. My mom would always say, “Just sit there and wait. Read a magazine.”

I read Gone with the Wind on the toilet when I was 12.

But now, in my advanced single adulthood, this presents a bigger problem. Contrary to popular opinion, my pants actually stay on much longer at the beginning of a meaningful relationship because at some point, I’m worried it will happen and I’m going to have to tell him. And then I’m no longer the sexy girl. I’m the girl who has hemorrhoids. And he’ll never be turned on by the sight my round ass again. In one split second, I go from having a butt like Beyonce to the woman in the Osteo-Biflex commercials. It’s like that old theory that husbands should never watch their wives give birth from “that” angle – because they’ll never want to go down on her ever again.

You know when you date someone and you’re on your best behavior in the beginning? If you’re the girl you don’t want them to see you without makeup for a few months, and if you’re the guy you don’t want them to find out you snore for a few years. Well, I don’t want them to find out that at some unfortunate moment during this relationship, I’m going to have to sit on an inflatable donut. And the last thing, the very last thing I’m going to want during that time is anything romantic. Forget the girl who doesn’t want to have sex on her period. That’s nothing. I’m walking around the house without pants on, but it’s for all the wrong reasons.

But seriously (pun intended), when would you like me to tell you? “Hi, my name is She Said. My rear end hurts all the time.” Is there ever a right time for that sentence?

So in my “If You Build It, He Will Come” scenario, I guess I’d better add an extra bathroom – with a padded seat.

My couple dumped me. But first, they cheated on me.

I know it’s partly my fault because I moved out of the building, but I only moved 2 miles away. I was still attentive to them. I still called all the time, and I really made an effort to visit as much as possible. But I felt them slipping away. Suddenly they were “busy” or “tired.” I saw the signs.

And then, there was the new girl.

In the beginning, my whole “work from home” thing was what attracted them. The husband didn’t work, and the wife worked odd hours, so we had lots of play time when I didn’t have deadlines. The new girl doesn’t have a job – at all. Total free spirit. Score one for the new girl. She’s available any time. And she’s cool – really cool. Even I want to be her friend. I thought I was fun, but she makes me look completely and totally boring. No wonder they cheated on me.

It happened slowly at first. They mentioned her name a few times in passing, and invited her over for dinner once when I was there. I watched as they couldn’t remove their gaze from her. They used to look at me that way. They were falling in love. And I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I just sat there while they laughed at every one of her jokes. The way they used to laugh at mine.

Then there were stories of drunken bike rides, and surf lessons, boat rides and hot tubs. There’s no way I can compete with that. I guess what I had going for me that whole time was proximity. And then I moved out. Out of sight, out of mind. But I really thought I could make it work. Until… the new girl took them away for the weekend. They went on a fun road trip, and stayed at a swanky house on the beach that she got through a friend. It was done. I knew I was being traded down. And there was nothing I could do about it.

I got my hopes up when we planned lunch to catch up. I carefully planned the reconciliation. We would go for bloody marys at the beach – something we used to love to do on a lazy day in the early afternoon. I picked out a cute outfit, and a hat they always loved. I was ready to win them back over.

About an hour before lunch they cancelled. The other woman was taking them surfing and they promised to make it up to me and that we would “get together soon.”

In hindsight, I know the breakup is the best thing. You always said it was bad news to hang out with the husband, that my “couple” was an unhealthy relationship.

Is this the part where I tell you that I think I have a crush on a new couple?

What is it about sex that is so intoxicating? For me, it’s like drinking 3 Mojitos without the calories and the headache after. The first one is like the first kiss on a really good date – it’s a nice surprise, tastes refreshing, and leaves you wanting more. The second one is like making out – you drink it faster than the first, without paying attention to what’s going on around you. And the third one is often the one you probably shouldn’t have had. The third one is when you’ve gone too far, but you’re so caught up with how good the first two were that you don’t think about it before you order it. Or maybe you think you shouldn’t have that third one, but you order it anyway. And it still tastes really good, but you regret it the next day.

It’s been for lack of a better word, a drought. There has been no sex in my life (no, I didn’t sleep with the Handyman), and there doesn’t seem to be any on the horizon. And I think in the process I’m becoming a romantic retard. I consider myself a sexual person. I think I’m pretty good in bed. (Let’s just say I haven’t gotten a whole lot of complaints.) But lately I can’t decide if it’s me or the prospects, but I’m not feeling it – ANY of it. And I miss that feeling.

I’ve never really bought into the whole messed-up girl brain you’re supposed to get with sex. Being single for the majority of my adult life, I’ve really just taken it for what it is – a good time with someone you’re into. I guess I’m more like a guy in that respect. But lately, I’m missing the girl part. I miss the part that I was watching in the bar… Where you can’t get close enough to someone and want to be touching every part of them. Where your lips and hands can’t move fast enough to get it all in and you know the minute you’re in private clothes will be flying off. Okay, now I’m getting turned on.

But then there’s that part of me that right now isn’t just about sex – otherwise I would be having it. It’s not that I haven’t been around any guys – I have. I just haven’t wanted to get naked with any of them. And the less naked I want to get, the more naked they want to get. It’s like I flipped a switch and now I can’t find it.

I keep thinking that maybe I just need to have sex and then I’ll be back on the wagon.

And I’m really craving a Mojito.

I held a baby the other day – A three-week-old, perfectly tiny, perfectly-perfect baby boy.

I thought I was fine. I thought, “Hey, I’m almost forty. I have a great life. I have lots of kids in my life, and I have the best of both worlds because I get to love them and give them back to their parents at the end of the day.”

But then I held this perfect, three-week-old baby boy and watched him wrap his hand around my finger, snuggle into my chest and fall asleep – for an hour. I stared at this amazing child with his little nose and upturned lip, looked at his mom (who is 45 by the way) and thought, “Shit. Maybe I do want one.”

I’m 39 years old. I have no boyfriend (yes, the Handyman is history – you called it – PSYCHO), I have no money, and I have no room for a crib unless I put the baby in the dining room. I really have no place in my life for a baby, and I’m still not positive I want one. But now I kind of want one more than I don’t want one. Does that make any sense?

It’s been a year since I even thought about a baby (remember my pregnancy scare from Extra Large Jerk?)… And it was two years before that. It’s not something I think about every day. Until now. Now I think about it every day. Now I dream about being pregnant. Wait, maybe that’s just my feeling fat from my month of take-out during my moving chaos. No, it’s true… I really do dream about being pregnant and giving birth to a little boy with my chubby cheeks and bad hand-eye coordination. (Of course it’s a boy – you can’t see me with a prissy, frilly girl can you?)

A friend of mine, younger by a few years, is freezing her eggs. She’s freezing her eggs and she’s actively looking for Mr. Right. And she’s younger than I am. Why have I not been proactive about this? While I’ve been looking for Mr. Right Now, my eggs have been growing weary of waiting for a seed. I’ve been kissing Tom, Dick and Harry (or is that Tom, Dick and Hairy) and haven’t given a second thought to the fact that my unborn babies are slipping out of my grasp. I can almost hear their echo as their egg sacs shrivel up and die. “We could have lived, but you wasted your time on superficial assholes and sober alcoholics. Nice going, Mom.”

So what do I do now that I’ve had this baby epiphany? Do I look into freezing my eggs? I think I missed the cut-off, plus it’s like $15,000 and I need a dining room table.

I guess for the time being, I’ll just have to babysit more. Thank God I have 10 nieces and nephews.

One would think this would leave me overjoyed, but I’m petrified. I know that I talk about it endlessly, that I should be thrilled my “If you build it, he will come” year is finally seeing success, but I can’t help it. I’m totally freaked out.

I need to slow the train down. He’s all in already, and I’m still dipping my toe in the handyman pool. Why does it always have to be all or nothing with me? This guy is definitely into me. He calls every day, brings me coffee, cooked me dinner (and started a fire in my new kitchen) and wait for it, made me a mix CD! I didn’t know people still did that! Gotta admit – that move I loved.

But why can’t it be a normal slow progression, where you have a make-out session and then you don’t see him for a week and you wonder if he still likes you and you get crazy neurotic waiting by the phone? I like that part!

Instead, I have an insta-boyfriend. So let’s weigh the pros and cons.

I must say, The Handyman is pretty hot. He’s tall enough; he’s got really pretty blue eyes, and great dimples. When he’s got two days of salt and pepper scruff he’s downright sexy. But he’s older – a lot older than I thought – and he’s got old man nose hair and a pot belly. The belly doesn’t really bother me, because who am I to judge, but the nose hair – I just can’t take it. I want to sleep with the guy just so I can cut it when he’s passed out. So pro, dreamy blue eyes, dimples and salt-and-pepper scruff. Con, old man nose hair.

Which brings up the pros and cons of… old man. He’s 16 years older than me. Pro, he’s not some dumb asshole who’s going to dump me when he finds something better. This guy is thanking his lucky stars that I like him, and he’s not afraid to show me how thankful he is. Con, he’s 16 years older than me. And so is his nose hair. And so might something else.

He’s never been married and doesn’t have kids. That’s a pro, because he has no baggage, but a con because why the hell hasn’t a guy that old been married?

And perhaps the biggest con of all, which shouldn’t matter in the least, but it does – he doesn’t drink. As in, sober. As in, he goes to three meetings (minimum) a week. Here’s the thing. I don’t have a problem with non-drinkers, or friends of Bill W, I just have a problem when they don’t want me to drink. And as much as they say it doesn’t matter, somewhere down the road it will. And last night I learned what Rule 62 is. I’m not in AA. I don’t need to know the rules. I just need you to pass me the wine so I can refill my glass.

So, where does this leave me? I have a really sweet, wonderful guy who is totally into me. nose hair and soberness aside, he’s smart, funny and thinks I’m the coolest woman he’s ever met. He brings me flowers, cooks me dinner and makes me mix CDs. And in addition to his tool belt, he’s got a black belt, which gives me a built-in bodyguard. And, he likes me.

Do I jump in? Or run away?

I think I’m on track for the first one. Fourth quarter looks somewhat promising, and there are new projects on the horizon that could pan out in a big way. I’m choosing to look at the positive rather than the negative, which is quite unlike my usual glass-more-than-half-empty self. I’m not quite sure what has precipitated this change, but I guess I’m feeling a little zen in the new pad. And just like my new living room on a clear morning, the future is bright. Plus, it’s too frightening to think about all the new debt I’ve racked up making this house a home.

Okay, so I didn’t need that 55” flat screen. But it looks so good…

As far as number two goes, I’m thinking one trip to the grocery store will kick that into gear. I have not had food in my refrigerator for a month. It’s been nonstop pizza, Chinese food, Thai food, Italian food and beer – lots of beer – every day. That much take-out and beer is not a good thing for even a 25 year-old. And for 39 year-old me, it’s catastrophic. Even my fat clothes hurt to button. I feel like someone took an air hose, stuck it in my belly button, and inflated. One prick of a needle and (pop) goes the fat girl.

Speaking of pricks… Okay, bad segue. But I think I might have a new love interest, which could really help me with number three. No, it’s not the ex-boyfriend neighbor. (Yes, I took your advice and decided not to go down that path again – aren’t you proud of me?) It’s actually someone new. Wait for it, wait for it… I met him at the hardware store!

And yes, he wears a tool belt – with suspenders.

That old saying that you have to go to a “target-rich environment” is completely true. I have visited the hardware store more in the last few weeks than in the last few years, and let me tell you ladies, you need to go. THAT’S where all the men are! Just don’t go to mine.

Okay, so I know what you’re thinking. Can I actually date a guy in work boots and a tool belt? Chances are he didn’t go to college… Chances are he doesn’t have two nickels to rub together… Chances are his fingernails have never seen a scrub brush and he doesn’t own a suit. Chances are he’s everything my parents would disapprove of. But guess what? I’m not getting any younger. And guess what else? Chances are – he’s NICE.

I could really use a little nice right now. I could use a little simple. (I’m not saying he’s “simple” – for all I know, the guy reads Tolstoy in his spare time. Okay, probably not.) I’m saying simple as in, not complicated. And I think maybe for now, the Handyman (yep, just named him) might come in… handy. And hopefully he’s handSY, because I’m horny.

So far, he’s done three “jobs” for me, and not accepted any money for them. Yesterday I gave him tickets to the ball game as a thank you. And he spotted my big Kitchen Aid mixer on the counter and said, “You bake?”

So far, so good.

Because there is nothing to remind you how truly alone you are in the world than when you are moving – by yourself.

You know when you said “moving is one of the most stressful things a person can do” (or something like that)? Well yes, it was stressful, but it also was sad. The process was a reminder that yet again, I am creating a new home – alone. Don’t get me wrong, I love my new place (and especially its perks and my new TV) but here’s what was missing yesterday – someone – ANYONE. Someone to say, “Where should we put the bed?” or “I think the wine glasses should go here so when we have people over they’re right there” or “Here, let me put that up since you can’t reach.”

I had none of that. Instead, I had 3 idiot movers who broke half my stuff and took 10 hours to move a one-bedroom apartment. But even with the stress of that, it was all about the after. After they finally left, I sat on my couch alone, marveling at my awesome TV, and there was no one to share the experience with. Granted, I had shared my day with about 8 men total between the movers, carpenters, phone and TV guys, but there was none of the sinking into the couch, putting your feet up, taking a deep breath and saying, “We did it.” And there definitely wasn’t “new place sex.”

Which leads to a whole other conversation in my brain. When you’re a single girl, and you move to a new place, it’s kind of a clean slate in the man department. You get to wipe the slate clean of your ex-boyfriend who broke up with you in the old place. You get to wipe the slate clean of the stupid one night stand of whom you actually were dumb enough to allow in your home. You get to wipe the slate clean of all the guys over the years who you thought could maybe be the one, and definitely, positively, were not.

So then now it becomes a question of whom? Who will be the person who I “christen” this new home with? I can’t help but be hopeful that the fresh paint and newness of it all will lead to someone new.

My man slate is now clean. Out with the old, in with the new.

At least it seems like we’re dating. We talk every day. He texts me good morning, emails with news of the day, calls to say goodnight, we see each other a few times a week, and he’s taking my refrigerator when I move. Oh and, we’re not having sex, so it’s pretty much just like our old relationship.

The thing is, I’m not sure I want to date my ex. We were together ten years ago. It didn’t end well. And unfortunately for him, I still remember EVERYTHING. Like how he broke my heart into a million pieces. Like how he made me feel unattractive and unwanted. Like how we were much better as friends. We were great friends. In fact, he was a much better friend than a boyfriend. I think he was more in love with me when he was my friend. We were crazy about each other when we were friends. It was when he fell in love with me that he wasn’t in love with me. Does that make sense?

We were fantastic friends for five years. He was like a best girlfriend, except he could lift really heavy stuff. We talked nonstop every day, we worked out together (come to think of it, he’s really good for that), cooked all our dinners together, and even took trips together. We knew each other’s families, hung out with each other’s friends, and were each other’s shoulder to cry on. And then we dated.

We had an incredible relationship – until we had a relationship.

Suddenly this amazing man was lazy, disinterested, nowhere near as good-looking, and not attracted to me in the least. This amazing man who tried “not” to kiss me 50 times as drunk “friends,” didn’t want to kiss me when he had a free pass. This amazing man who seemed to have a perpetual hard-on that everyone noticed (how could you miss it) when we were friends couldn’t find a sex drive if it were a “dick in a box” given to him as a gift.

You know the saying, “It’s the mystery of it all?” I think it was the mystery of it all. I think after 5 years of being “just friends” he wanted to date me because it was the unsolved mystery. It was 5 years of everyone saying, “You guys really should date. You guys would make a perfect couple. You guys are always together anyway.”

It’s kind of like that book, “He’s Just Not That Into You.” except the title of mine should be, “He’s Just Not That Into You When You’re His Girlfriend.”

When we broke up (or should I say when he dumped me) he made a list of all the things he didn’t like about me. I still have it. So why now? Why 10 years later? Does that mean this time is “it?” Do I want this time to be it? Or does he just want to be friends again? Do I want to be friends again? I guess at some point he’ll tell me. Or his penis will.

Oh, and I still do #1 on the list.

It only took six years, but I did it. I’m moving. I’m leaving the known behind and embarking on a whole new adventure. And I must say, there’s something pretty cool about taking stock of your life when it’s being tossed in the garbage and packed up in boxes around you. Even the tape gun is making me excited.

First there’s the kitchen box. There’s Grandma’s cast iron pot, with memories of meatballs and sauce and all the amazing smells that used to come from her kitchen. And the endless supply of cookie sheets and cake pans with visions of the millions of cakes and cookies I’ve made over the years. I may not be an expert chef, but my confidence is in that box. I am a kick-ass baker.

And then there’s the major amounts of crap I’ve never used, and never will use. It’s time to purge – in a big way. And not in the way that will help my waistline.

Onto the living room. Photo albums upon photo albums that tell so many stories, reveal secrets, and show evidence of a happy life. Or was it? An album dedicated to each boyfriend, showing young love, but upon a closer look, heartbreak. There are books that I’ve read so many times the pages are falling out, and ones I haven’t yet opened, for fear they might actually tell me something about myself that I haven’t yet learned. Or haven’t yet wanted to learn. But they are going in the box, because maybe now I can finally read them.

And the bedroom. There are clothes in every size, none of which fits right now, lingerie I could never wear twice, because a relationship never lasted long enough for multiple wearings (or multiple anything else) and for some reason, I have more socks and underwear than any one person ever needs to own. It’s time to get rid of it all. Including my bad attitude.

My new place is great. Small, but great. The best part? That it’s anywhere but here. It’s time to leave the memories behind. Not to say that it has been all bad, but it can’t hurt to leave the place where I had my heart shattered by the love of my life, had my worst career failure to date, a major health scare, and yeah, it definitely won’t hurt to get a little further away from “The Couple.” The lack of beer alone should be good for a five pound loss. And the stay-at-home husband will account for the 200 pound loss.

So will the move make a difference? Maybe. Will it automatically make life a little more bearable? Maybe. Will it put me in a new environment, send me to a new grocery store, and give me 20 new neighbors, maybe one of whom is nice and single and needs a cup of sugar? Hopefully!

Forgot to mention one thing. My new place? Five doors down from an ex-boyfriend.

This should be interesting.