My name is Kate Briles.  I am SuperKev’s wife and we homeschool our four children. We live in Amarillo, TX, on the eastern side of the Staked Plains. I do not think, or live, in a straight line.  I’ll do my best to tell my story:

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The red, round, furry thing that mucks up all our good Christian values.  The fiction character, birthed by lies and strengthened through tradition, is wrecking the minds of our children.

Some would argue that he was at once a real person and a good and decent one, at that.

It does not matter.  He now embodies a mindset that Christmas is commercial and you must buy, buy, buy and rush, rush, rush.

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The other morning I noticed something was in the bathtub with me. Since I don’t wear my glasses in the bath, I had to lean in and squint to see what it was.

With everything in me I hoped it was a little toy  that one of the kids had thrown into the tub.  I leaned in very close, squinting, leaning, squinting, leaning in some more … until I identified it.

Cockroach. Dead cockroach, floating on its back, legs crinkled up onto its abdomen.

With a coordination I never before possessed, I was out of the tub, on the mat, with a towel around me, dripping  as I scrambled for my glasses.

I needed to verify that the cockroach was still in the tub.

I could not verify that the cockroach was still in the tub.  My heart stopped.  It was not in the water.  It was not on the floor.

That means it was stuck to me. Continue Reading…

I am in the process of digging out the decent stuff from a long ago blog and found this.  It is a post about an old journal entry I had found.  Which makes this a post about an old post about an old journal entry.  Welcome to the world of the hapless blogger . . .

Below is an actual entry from a 1995 journal. I had just returned home from Israel where I had been working for an archaeologist. My boyfriend had picked me up from the airport and it was very late. My mind was trying to make the transition of returning home. I was wondering if I would ever see my foreign friends again. I was already nostalgic for my little bunk. I was starting to realize that I had just come from a profound experience – living on a commune on the shore of the Sea of Galilee.  I was not saved then, but in a few short months I was going to become a Christian. I was pondering the deep things of life and also hoping I had not gotten screwed when I changed my shekels back to dollars.

And I was hungry. He was hungry. And it was late. We stopped at a truck stop diner . . .

It’s late and he’s missed dinner so we go to that old diner at the truck stop. That one filled with beards and leather and grime from the interstate. The waitress knows how to make her tips. The service is good. The coffee is hot. They don’t have the bran muffin I would always get but the banana nut will be great and he is enjoying his chili.

Two hours go by quickly. Catching up and remembering each other’s faces. Its been awhile. But there is still a drive ahead of us so we go. Four dollars is decided on for a tip and the worn bills are placed under the water glass. The bill is twelve dollars and eighty-three cents.

We count up thirteen dollars and he takes them to the front so he can pay while I pee. We stand to go. He walks off while I check to see if we got everything when suddenly I felt quite odd. I look down and find my favorite gypsy skirt on the floor, around my ankles.

I had been wearing a skirt and a shirt all day . . . simple and pretty . . . but now I’m only simple.

I am in the middle of the restaurant and eyes are on me. What do I do? Do I pretend that nothing out of the ordinary has occurred? Should I calmly turn and walk out of the restaurant like a f-ing (hey, give me a break, I wasn’t “Christian” when I wrote this) penguin? No . . . I am afraid I will do worse.

I pretend I am utterly confused.

Where did that skirt come from? All I wore today was this shirt, and now, unbeknownst to me, someone has placed a skirt around my ankles.

I calmly bend down and remove the skirt. I hold it up and examine it (God help me). What should I do with it? I shake it out, find the tag, and prepare to put it on properly.

I have exposed my panties. He still hasn’t noticed. He stands at the register yawning at the display of pies and waits for the waitress to come to give him his seventeen cents change. I leave.

I go to the van and stand in the cold, in the dark. The cold because I am hot and the dark because I am as red as the taillights of the cars at that intersection. The dark so I am hidden. So no one comes out of the diner and says, “Hey! That’s the girl whose skirt was around her ankles.”

I am home.

Yeah . . . it’s what I do.

One time at an RV campground I went to use the women’s shower. All the stalls were full so I sat on the bench. A bunch of kids were in there. One of them finished and walked out. He wasn’t a girl. But he shrieked like a girl and ran back into the stall. Then there was this frantic whispering, “There’s a girl out there, there’s a girl out there!”

Crap. I went into the wrong shower. The same kid peeked his head out and said, “Uh, do you know this is the men’s shower?” And I, in my one of my finest moments, remained quite calm. I simply said, “I know. I am waiting for someone.”

What the heck? Waiting for someone? I am so calm in these moments . . . but so wildly stupid.

Be merciful with your comments, please.

This week’s word:  Paid

STD Nurse; I loved that job.

ER Nurse; yes, it’s like TV

Only much worse, and quite funnier

Nanny; non-English speaking kids; challenging

Assistant to an archaeologist in Israel

Fast food; Burger King and McDonald’s

Baker; love affair with bread began

Tutored Microbiology and Anatomy and Physiology

This helped pay for nursing school

High-census, high-acuity, Med-Surg

If you are a nurse, you’ll empathize

Maid; posh hotel; businessmen are gross

Surgical ICU; ventilators, deathbeds, miracles, backaches

If you are a nurse, you’ll understand

Fixing lace.  I tat. Quite well.

Best friend’s mom taught me to tat

What thirty-something tats? I do.

Except I don’t like tatting anymore.

I know there are other jobs

And these aren’t in chronological order

But it’s the order I recall them in.

I wonder if that is important?

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