Waiting in line at Wal-Mart

I was in the local Wal-Mart today, waiting in line at the express lane. The giant letters on the sign indicated it was for people with 10 items or less. Unfortunately, the woman two people in front of me apparently couldn't read, as she piled a whole cart of groceries onto the smallish table reserved for those who aren't really buying that much.

In general, I'm in favor of the limited role of government. But I'm willing to make an exception. There oughta be a law where the police can drag away people who flagrantly disregard signs like this that are designed to keep things moving. This same law should be used on people who wait until the last second to merge lane when they've closed that lane on the interstate.

Anyway, as I got to thinking about being in a busy express lane in a Wal-Mart, I recalled a funny incident from three years ago. So, for the first time in "Ramblings" history, I offer a rerun:

Sunday, January 02, 2005

In the checkout line
True story, which I found much funnier than anyone else involved: The local Wal-Mart was incredibly busy on the 31st as everyone tried to get their last-minute things for their parties. I stood in the express lane with a 12-pack of beer and a six-pack of soda in my arms. In front of me stood a couple with about 20 items they'd just put on the conveyor belt from their cart. The woman looks back at me and tells me I can set my beer in their cart while I wait. "That's OK," I responded. "I don't want you to think I can't hold my liquor."
Posted by David Trinko at 1:18 AM 0 comments

The biggest difference, this time around, is I had a bag of chicken nuggets for the 6-year-old and a box of cold medicine for my wife. Whew, I sure know how to party now.

Something to smile about

The new family picture found its way around the Trinko family Christmas.

One of my sisters commented, "I've never seen David smile in a picture before."

The response was simple: "I've never been happy before."

Baby doesn’t need a new pair of shoes

Baby doesn’t need a new pair of shoes
David Trinko dtrinko@limanews.com - 12.20.2007

She’s only 4½ months old, so she hasn’t taken her first steps yet.
When she does, my daughter will have plenty of outgrown shoes she won’t be wearing.
Nineteen pairs of them, to be exact.
That’s a lot of shoes for a little girl who, until about two weeks ago, couldn’t even turn on her side alone. That’s a lot of protection for the footsies of someone who is constantly monitored throughout her days and nights. That’s a lot of untarnished rubber on sneakers that will never sneak.
And it’s a lot of wasted plastic too. A quick search on the Internet shows that baby shoes can cost up to $80 a pair.
My wife’s defense is we didn’t buy these shoes. They’re hand-me-down Robeez and Sketchers from both sides of the family. Often they were gifts to a child from someone who described the shoes with terms I reserve for the child: cute, adorable, sensible.
And they all look brand-spanking new. While someone may have worn them, no one ever had a chance to wear them out. After all, they’re baby shoes, in all their Size 1 glory.
I’m reminded of a Shania Twain song, “Shoes.” “Men are like shoes,” she repeats consistently. And while I’d generally disagree with the sentiment, it’s quite true for our baby. She doesn’t need men or shoes.
Perhaps I’m just not equipped to understand. I am, after all, just a man. While growing up, I had two kinds of shoes, “sneakers” and “church shoes.”
As I got older, we added a pair of “gym shoes” to the collection, at the urging of the school system. And typically every summer those gym shoes evolved into my “summer goofing off” shoes.
That rotation of three kinds of shoes stuck with me through college. When I graduated college, I renamed “church shoes” into “work shoes.” And “gym shoes” turned into “lawn-mowing shoes.” But they were basically the same thing.
It wasn’t until I got married that I learned I should have had two kinds of work shoes, now called “dress shoes,” in my repertoire. I don’t completely understand why, but now I wear black shoes with black or gray slacks and brown shoes for everything else. About that same time, I realized I was supposed to have belts that coordinated with the shoes.
By my count, that still leaves me well below our baby’s shoe count. And I’m in no hurry to catch up. If anything, I’d like to sneak some of these ridiculous shoes to someone who might actually wear them out, such as the family cat (if she indeed wears a Size 1).
I realize I won’t win this argument in my home or any other. I’d bet since the cavemen, there have been women talking about how cute the shoes look with a man staring at his feet and wondering why he didn’t have something covering his toes while he was out clubbing animals for food.
I can’t put my finger on what the baby shoes are supposed to do anyway. My best guess is they keep her socks from falling off.
And it keeps my wife happy — even if baby doesn’t need a new pair of shoes.

Learning what it means to be a father

Learning what it means to be a father

David Trinko dtrinko@limanews.com - 12.10.2007

The judge leaned in to me, trying to size me up instantly, and asked the crucial question: “Do you completely understand what it means to adopt this girl?”
To this moment, I’m not quite sure what it means to adopt Lissie. She certainly doesn’t. After all, this beautiful 6-year-old child has been calling me “Daddy” for a year and a half. She already told her friends her last name was Trinko, just like her mom, dad and baby sister. She kept calling Purk her “old name.”
If you asked her, it was the day she would marry her daddy. Instead of getting a ring, she’d get a nice chain with a crucifix, similar to the one she envied at her baby sister’s baptism. She knew this short event in a small courtroom was important to her family, though.
As the judge asked that vital question at the final hearing for her adoption, so many thoughts ran through my head.
It means holding her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze when an unfamiliar surrounding terrifies her.
It means listening to her tell me how much she hates me when she can’t have more M&Ms.
It means listening to her tell me how much she loves me the rest of the time.
It means helping her when she’s working on her homework, perfecting the letter P and listening to her off-key silly song about Penelope, the proud and pretty pig.
It means hearing how she wants mommy when I’m there to help her and how she wants daddy when I’m not.
It means hugging her after she falls down and bumps her knee, calming her with the soothing words of “you’re all right.”
It means learning who her friends are and knowing which ones I trust and which ones I don’t.
It means being her best friend as often as I can but being the disciplinarian when I have to be.
It means I’m not one of those stepfathers who tries to be hands-off with a child coming into the marriage.
It means telling her I love her even when I’m furious she destroyed something of mine.
It means wondering aloud how she’ll turn out some day. Given her ability to negotiate on absolutes such as bedtime, I’m betting on lawyer.
It means wondering aloud how my actions and mannerisms affect her daily.
It means smiling back when she gives me a thumbs-up after trying something new, especially since Mom doesn’t use the thumbs-up gesture.
I haven’t met a parent yet who knows exactly what it means to be the legal guardian of a child. It’s certainly a position with plenty of on-the-job training. I never could have guessed how infuriated or how mushy I could feel in the same day thanks to that angelic-looking child.
I couldn’t express all of those ideas for the judge at that time, though. Instead, I said what I’ll always say about Lissie: I love this child, and I’ll do whatever I can to take care of her until the day I die.
The judge leaned back and nodded his approval. After short conversations with my wife and Lissie alike, he signed off on the adoption.