I’m kind of a late bloomer.  I was born 2 weeks after my due date.  I didn’t kiss a boy until it was shocking that I hadn’t kissed a boy.  I still don’t know any rap songs.

But this week, finally, years after everyone else, I got an iPhone.

And it’s the most amazing thing ever.

I fought it for so long, telling myself that I didn’t need the bells and whistles, that I could plan in advance and MapQuest directions and write them out on a a Post-It note, that I could text just as well on a Samsung.

But an opportunity came along, as opportunities are wont to do.  And I’m not too proud to admit when I’m wrong.

I was wrong.

But now?  I am so, so right.

I mean, look.  I can use Instagram to make my sad, empty apartment with an ugly air conditioning unit look so… charming and wistful.

I know – effortless evocation.  Aren’t you so jealous of how awesome and romantic my homeless life is?

[Once again, I make my case for a Sarcasm font.]

What will become of me?  I already tracking my calories, and Facebooking on the go, and playing (and winning) Scrabble.  What’s next, geocaching?

Let’s not get crazy.

“Whatever you do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius and power and magic in it.”

This, one of my favorite quotes, is by a man whose name I did not know how to pronounce – that is, until yesterday.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Now, I don’t sprechen no Deutsch.  So the fact that I’ve spent the last 10 years referring to this man as “Geth” is, on the one hand, understandable – and on the other hand, totally mortifying.

Sort of like yesterday at lunch, when I ordered the “tuna niçoise” salad – and right then and there, the waiter CORRECTED me.  “Not ‘ni-swahhhhh.’ ‘Nee-SWAHZZZZZ.’”

Well, es-CUUUUUZE.

Check out what I made!

She’s a beaut – which is Australian for 彼女の美しさだ.

I’ve always wanted to learn how to roll my own sushi, and being in Portland – a city of the aquatic variety – last night was my chance.  My friend and co-worker Molly took me to a place called Hipcooks, where we spent three hours learning the basics of sushi-making.  In the process, I snuck more scraps of raw fish than humanly possible.

No, truly – I defied the laws of science.  Someone give me a badge.

Will I ever make sushi in the privacy of my own home?  I don’t know – can sushi be made in a food processor?  Then probably not.

But I can now check #25 off my list!

I’ll just cut to the chase: Southwest Airlines lost my luggage this weekend.

[insert me telling you how this sent me for a minor emotional tailspin, and how I was sick as a dog, and almost broke down and gave up, but soldiered on – for the children, really, and for America]

Flying from Nashville to Austin on Friday night, I was exhausted.  I was getting sick – and I had no Kleenex.  So on the plane, to my horror and shame, I had no choice but to use my sleeve to wipe my insanely runny nose.  Multiple times.

Southwest offered to reimburse me for $50 worth of necessities until they found my bags – which, when you are in town for a wedding, and all you have is the mucus-crusted cardigan on your back, won’t get you very far.  But I appreciated the gesture, and went to Target to max out on the necessary toiletries, medications, and two pairs of underwear.

Why two pairs?  Because I wasn’t sure what kind of a dress I would wind up wearing, and any woman can tell you that different dresses call for different undergarments.  Just… I just needed both pairs, okay?  Always be prepared.

I found a dress and shoes at TJ Maxx, took a hot shower, my meds kicked in, and a great time was had by all at Joey and Sam’s fabulous wedding.  All’s well that ends well, right?

Not so fast, sparky.

Southwest decided to itemize my Target receipt, saying that they weren’t sure that all of these things were truly “necessary” to my survival without my luggage.  Things that made the cut, no questions asked?  Cosmetics.  Medicine.  Eyedrops.  Tampons.  Thanks, guys, for deeming tampons “necessary.”  You are too kind.

The complication?  The underwear.

Apparently, because the luggage was returned within 24 hours, only one of the pairs was considered “necessary.”  And so there at the Southwest counter, I was asked to indicate which pair I wore that day – bikini or thong.  Multiple times, I was asked out loud, “Which pair did you need today?  The bikini or the thong?”

You will never know.

But Southwest does.

My parents recently enrolled in a gym called Fitness 19 – named such because it’s open 19 hours a day.  Oh, Coloradans – you are so clever with your words!

Due to her recent surgeries, Mom hasn’t been to Fitness 19 in awhile – leaving her membership card available to yours truly.  My workouts on Saturday and Sunday were awesome – convincing me that I might actually acclimate to Mile High altitude, finally get the runner’s booty, and basically win the Nashville half-marathon that I’m registered for in April.  So last night, I went again.

I handed my (mom’s) card to the man behind the counter, and he scanned it.  “Thanks, Susan,” he said.  I smiled at him, and went to the magazine rack to choose some smut to read while on the treadmill.

“Wait – Susan?”

I froze.

“Susan, I think there’s a problem.”

I slowly turned around and faced him.

“Susan, when is your birthday?”

My mind raced.  “June 21.”

“What year?”

My mind raced even faster.  “Nineteen fifty-fii… SHOOT.”  I said it out loud.  “SHOOT.”

“You were not born in the fifties.”

And then, some bizarre calm overtook me.  Like a sociopath, I cooly stated, “You are right.”

He was serious.  “This is not your card.”

Again, conscienceless, “No.  It’s my mom’s.”

He was adamant.  “You cannot work out using another person’s membership.”

“Okay.”  Pregnant pause.  “But can I work out right now?”

He let me run for 40 very awkward minutes on the treadmill.  I ran like I have never run before.  It will be the last that Fitness 19 ever sees of me.

And no, not because it’s been so awful.

Only because nobody else could ever, ever compare.

I will always be a JAM girl.

And now, excuse me while I go weep.

I talk to people on the phone all day at work, walking them through various Computer Things.  Yesterday, while the customer’s internet connection was moving slowly and we were waiting for the page to pull up, she decided to make small talk.  She asked me if I’d seen the pictures of the coyote that got hit by the racecar and stuck in the grill – apparently, it’s some amazing “It” email forward out in circulation.

I told her that no, I am out of touch these days.  I don’t even know important things – like if the Taylors are dating – let alone the fate of would-be road-kill.  I am the least “in the know” person around.

So she told me to Google it – to Google “coyote hit by car” – because the pictures are incredible.

Perhaps this goes without saying, and should have been obvious from the start, but THAT WAS THE WORST IDEA EVER AND DON’T SAY I DIDN’T WARN YOU.

I don’t watch the news anymore – ever.  I don’t have time in the morning, I don’t have time at night, and so I just don’t do it.  I mean, I hear things – but I don’t know the stories.  I catch snippets – but don’t know the details.

Currently, I have no idea what the deal with Tiger Woods is – that is, I know that he got in a car crash and then that somehow translated to him being accused of being a total sleazoid, but…  Wait.  Is that the whole story?  That might be the whole story.

Amanda Knox got 26 years in an Italian prison – but honestly, I only learned that because I ran across a picture of her online and liked her jacket.

I have no idea why the blonde Obama Crasher was wearing a sari.

I am embarrassingly out of touch.

Which is why I was shocked to recognize a Zhu Zhu hamster in the hand of a small child yesterday as the one that has recently been recalled.  This little toddler was walking around Marché with – yes! – the light brown version!  Gripped in his grubby little hand!  His parents were calmly eating their eggs, oblivious to the fact that their child was CLUTCHING POISON.  I had a flash of me jumping to my feet, knocking over tables, running in slow motion with my face contorted into that warped “NOOOOOOOO,” with outstretched hands to knock the infected rodent away.

But his parents looked kind of mean.  So I didn’t do anything.

And it’s too bad – if I had, I bet I could have made the news.

For as much as I love cheese – which, trust me, my devotion is infinite and everlasting – I rarely eat grilled cheese.  Chalk it up to just another childhood overdose – I never eat peanut butter & jelly, either.  Grilled cheese lost its appeal before Clinton took office.

Which is why it was shocking that yesterday, I had the chance to eat a grilled cheese for lunch – and I jumped at it.  Like, I literally sprung out of my chair and made a beeline for the kitchen.  See, my co-worker Delaney is a dazzling maker-of-all-foods, and she brought a griddle!  To work!  To make grilled cheeses!  And if this woman makes something, it is a guaran-freaking-tee that I will love it.

I’m serious.  Remember how Ritz Cracker Cheese Sandwiches are my secret shame?  Delaney has actually taken these bite-sized wonders and made them into a gourmet snack.  She shakes some sort of herby goodness all over them, and I swear, they could be served to the Queen of England.

After experiencing this woman’s brilliance yesterday, I can positively say that I am back in the saddle when it comes to grilled cheese.  She has renewed my hope, my faith, my confidence in the sandwich.  Thank you, Delaney, for pointing me toward the truth.

Now, to make my own.  I’m looking for grilled cheese tips, if anyone has any…

As inspired by a solo-hiking trip in East Tennessee on Saturday.

When you come to a fork in the road, and one sign points to “scenic overlook” and the other points to “short cut,” take the short cut.  There’s a chance that the scenic overlook will be spectacular – but then again, it may just result in losing the path altogether and wandering around the woods completely discombobulated.

Being alone may sound like a great idea, but when the going gets tough, you will be thankful to run across other people – even if they are burly, camo-clad men named Frank and Jackie.

Double-check.  When the trail is called a “loop,” it might actually be a straight path in for miles, with a small loop at the end – like a balloon.  Or, in my case, a noose.

A white tank top is either wet or dry – there is no in between.  If it looks like it might rain, err on the side of caution.

There will be spiders.  There will be cuss words.  And sometimes you will face-plant.