I’ve never done one of these before, but I thought now was as good a time as any to share with you my latest frugal endeavor.

It’s pretty simple and I’m certain I’m not the only one out there doing it. You know I’m a gardener, right? Oh yeah. This time of year my house is pretty crazy. Starting seeds, repotting, transplanting, searching for any wandering ray of sunlight for my plants to drink in. (Promise my gardening post is coming soon!)

The thing is, I run out of containers to hold these things! And I’ve grown tired of buying more biodegradable Jiffy pods to put my plants in. The whole thing gets expensive after a while. It’s not like you need a huge container to hold one tomato plant (something small is good enough until time comes to put them in the ground), so I got creative.

Last week I realized something. I eat a lot of yogurt. About a month ago while I was packing my lunch one morning, I decided I wasn’t in the mood for a sandwich. Yogurt sounded good, so I packed that as the main part of my lunch. I found that it was more filling than the sandwich and I enjoyed the variety of flavors available. Ever since then, I’ve been having yogurt every day.

Then I was recycling lots and lots of yogurt cups. It finally occured to me that the 6oz cups were the perfect size to move my seedlings into when they need more room. And this year I have been so overrun with tomatoes and jalepeno peppers, you’d better believe I am glad the thought came to me. All I do is trim the little rim at the top of the cup off and TADA! Seed starting at its most frugal.

Psst…need any peppers?

• Pitchfork
• Shovel
• Hole in the ground
• Saw
• Willing victim accomplice

Can you guess what I’m doing?

There’s one thing I think most of us can agree on. The fact that there is a part of being a girl that we’d rather do without. You know what I mean. The Yearly. (Not to be confused with the delightful, The Yearling. This ain’t no deer.) But we all do it. Strip down, brace yourself, and focus intently on the ceiling tile.

A few weeks ago I had mine. Everything was good. I’m healthy as can be (maybe a little too healthy, but I’ll save that story for a few years from now). My test results came back in the mail about a week later and I was given a clean bill of health. And then I pretty much forgot about the whole thing.

Until I received a letter in the mail yesterday. It was from the doctor’s office and I have to admit that my first reaction was one of alarm. Did they detect something later? Had something during my exam raised concern? I ripped the letter open, dreading what was there.

What I found was dreadful, but not nearly as frightening as I had imagined. It was a bill. For $120.

Well, shoot. What’s that for?

I read on. In the middle of the page, underneath all the digits and totals and subtotals and claims and tax and yadayada, it said I needed to contact my insurance provider because they had refused my claim.

What on earth for? I know this exam is covered.

Right there, in small print, the reason they had denied my claim:

Elizabeth, please contact your benefits coordinator to have your correct sex listed with [insurance company].

Umm…what? The sheer ridiculousness of this request baffles me. I mean, I know that everything has to be in order, but really? I made the phone calls, found the hiccup, and got everything changed in about 15 minutes.

The part that really gets me though is the fact that this is the one exam that the doctor should just be able to use her judgment on. I know they can’t but the whole this is preposterous.

I’ll end this post with the tweet I posted about the situation:

MissWisabus: Insurance denied claim 4 my well woman exam bc employr lists me as MALE. You’d think w/ front row seat in stirrup sect. the dr could verify.

As far as I know, I was never popular. I never won any beauty pageants and the one I came in first runner-up at was a fluke because I wasn’t there. At the time my accomplishments were great enough (for a 16-year-old) that I nearly won the whole thing. On paper.

The smart one. The bookworm. The wallflower. Sometime in either late elementary school or early junior high I figured out the labels that best fit me and embraced them. I was clumsy and would never be athletic. I was chubby and awkward and would never be a cheerleader. Never be homecoming queen.

Words that came from my mouth were never eloquent. I stumbled and stuck my foot in my mouth all the time. Give me a piece of paper to write on though and I could spin you a yarn. Write you a poem. Plot out a letter to make you change your mind. Make you believe.

I was a dreamer and a thinker. Content to read my books and revel in my hopes and wishes for the future. Always watching, I can be truthful about it now — I never felt like I was a “part” of anything. Ever. In my entire life before college, I never felt like I fit in. It’s not something that I lament nowadays. Looking around me, I see some of the things that I was spared. One thing that does stick with me though is that I never felt like I was anyone’s best friend. Throughout my life I have gone through a handful of what I believed to be bosom friends (there I go with the Anne-speak again), but I never felt (or knew) that there was anyone who would choose me over everyone else. As a child I chalked it up to me being different from everyone else.

It was as if I had figured out my place in the world (for the time being) and I was going to sit quietly and wait my turn.

I’m not sure what I expected. When “my time came,” what was it going to look like? My senior year I was voted “Most Likely to Succeed.” I would like to know what my classmates thought success was back then. To be honest, I can’t remember too much about what my view of success was.

What I knew, from a very young age, was what I was good at. If there was nothing else in this world that I could do, this would sustain me.

You see, I could write.

In my mind, there was very little hope for me outside the pages of a book. I can remember sitting at a slumber party in middle school, watching Never Been Kissed and being petrified. Luckily in my school experience, I had never been really terrorized. Never had an entire cafeteria full of kids shouting a cruel name my direction. But seeing that character onscreen…all I could see was me.

And all I could think was, I have to stop this from happening.

Because, the frump thing? Totally plausible. Spouting off ridiculous grammar rules and thinking they’re impressive? Oh yeah. And the whole, I never had a boyfriend until I was 21-years-old, much less had I been kissed – thing? Ding ding ding!

This entire post is some kind of crazy tangent, but I promise you there was a reason I started it and I’ll get there somehow. Just circling the barn a few times.

Good on paper. I could ace any research paper or essay exam you handed me. Write my way out of a rabbit hole. Draw up a resume to impress the best. And I could cover letter my way right into your heart. Somewhere along the way, I let the “me” on paper define who I was. It wasn’t until I reached a point in my life where my accomplishments didn’t impress anyone outside of my little town that I was able to let go and just be.

There were moments in college when I thought that big university was going to swallow me whole. There wouldn’t be anything to it. I could disappear into that mess. But I didn’t. When I started out, I had gone the practical route. I was going to be a teacher. After a few semesters I realized, however capable and qualified I was to be an educator, that was not my passion. I changed my major and took my first writing class. And in that class I wrote a monologue about a little girl, a whole lot like me. It wasn’t until I was up in front of that class, giving that monologue, that I realized she was me. That voice in the story was the same one from my mouth. When her voice cracked, so did mine. When her sorrow became apparent to the audience it was because it was authentic and personal. And mine.

I was always good on paper. It’s where I found myself. And I’ve never been the same.

Here’s what I’ve been thinking. In a couple of years, Kevin and I plan on having a baby. It’s not in the near future, but it’s not that distant either. And can anyone remember what you were doing 5 years ago? Five years ago, I was lamenting a non-relationship with a guy who strung (strewed? strang? usheilkd? WHAT?) me along for months. (Hello, roommate and dorm friends — does anyone remember this?) If all goes as planned (and it never does, but whatever) we will have a 2-year-old in 5 years.

TIMEOUT.

Let’s stop and think about that for a minute. In a few years, we’re going to have a baby. (Sorry for all the italics. I get very “Rilla Blythe” when I think about the future and babies and AHH!) That’s insanity. How life changes so quickly. Now I’m married and it feels like I’ve always been married. Nine months down and it feels like forever. In a good way. And while I was thinking about having babies I was looking at my toes. Because toes kind of remind me of babies. They are little and cute. Well, some people’s are. And then I was looking at my tiny toe on my left foot. On the inside part of that toenail, it grows at a perfect right angle, creating a dangerously sharp point (and they don’t even need clipping right now). And because I am all hippy at heart, I’ve already started working on a birth plan (I did this like 2 years ago, it’s changed as I have). Now, I know how to make sure hospital staff doesn’t go against my wishes.

I threaten them with my razor-sharp left pinky-toenail.

Brilliant, right? I know! With feet up in the air like that I should have a clear shot at somebody’s jugular.

Then, I started thinking, which led me to ask this question of you all. Seriously. Who does that? You can’t give prisoners (the hardcore kind) nail clippers. And in a situation like mine, you definitely can’t let them go unclipped. If the need presented itself, I would use this thing as a shiv. No one would see it coming.

I’m going to have to work on that left roundhouse kick though.

Okay, back to the original topic.

That. That is a little frightening. And what I have come to realize is that if I can’t get my housekeeping under control when there are just two of us, there’s no way I’m going to know what to do when there are suddenly 3 and I’m faced with about 1000x the responsibilities that I have right now.

So, in the words of Barney Fife (who I am referencing for the 2nd time this week*), I’m nipping it in the bud.

I’ll keep you updated on my progress. Now, links!

• There’s a giveaway going on at the r house. Beautiful gift with a beautiful story behind it.
• The Bloggies are tonight! Announcing awards every 5 minutes on their Twitter.
• How to nap (thanks, Melissa!)
• Christie offers some fantastic tips on going green.
• WOLF SWEATSHIRT. I’ve always been partial to those. Found in most quality truck stops.
• I didn’t even know The Golden Driller existed (it’s because I don’t go to Tulsa. Unless I’m on my way to Branson. As a rule.), but I’m a fan now.

*The first time was in regard to the “shooting” at Oklahoma City Community College.

Apparently kids today do not know who Barney Fife is. This makes me sad.

Oh. You’re starting to see a trend?

Thank you, @LamarOKC.