inlaw stories

For the past two weeks I have found myself entertained at the PT-gym by various lurid inlaw stories.
My Physical-Therapist, who has her head screwed on pretty straight, and I think very highly of, has apparently married into a family that is “crazy” — her word.

The first is the story of the vaunted inside of a coffee-cup (or coffee-mug).
Her mother-in-law requires that all coffee-containers have a shiny inside, or they are (drum roll here) not usable.
This has led to contretemps at restaurants, since often a restaurant will pour coffee into a cup with a matte-finished inside.
So the Physical-Therapist was required to search out Christmas-present coffee-mugs with a shiny inside.

This leads to story number-two.
The Physical-Therapist and mother-in-law were apparently at the mall searching out coffee-mugs.
“I don’t care what color they are,” mother-in-law said; “as long as they match my decor.”
REPUBLICAN-LOGIC ALERT: “I don’t care.... blah-blah-blah; as long as blah-blah-blah.”
“See how accommodating I am?”

Then there is the story of the Christmas-present requests.
Inlaws went through catalogs and apparently circled requested presents costing $1,000 or more.
“Now you do the same,” they said. “Just limit your requests to $10.”
Again: REPUBLICAN-LOGIC ALERT: “We’re entitled to grandiose gifts; you’re entitled to peanuts.”

This leads to story number-four: the great coffee-maker caper.
Apparently the inlaws contacted their son (Physical-Therapist’s husband), indicating a specific coffee-maker they wanted.
“Now you go to that store,” they said; “and get us that coffee-maker, and we’ll be happy.”
Hubby got up early to purchase that coffee-maker, got it, and brought it home.
“Oh, we hope you didn’t buy that coffee-maker,” his parents said. “We saw another even better and bought it ourselves.”
The Physical-Therapist, ever the diplomat, suggested returning the requested coffee-maker.
“Nope,” hubby said. “They’re eating it.”
-“What is it with these people?” I said.
“I’ve run into thousands of Boomers who think they’re entitled to the Moon.”
“I run into them at Weggers: Granny blocking the aisles with her powered cart; another bunting all-and-sundry; a 350-pound woman wearing shorts (‘I sure am sexy’).”
“They’re not that old,” the Physical-Therapist said. “They’re in their early 50s.”
Well, to me my kid-brothers are at the tailend of the baby-boom, ‘57 and ‘58; and they’re 48 and 49.
I don’t consider my kid-brother’s wife, born in 1960, a Boomer; nor my baby-sister, born in ‘61.
(Yet I myself am castigated as a Boomer even though I was born in 1944; before the war ended.)
Here we are navigating down 5&20 toward Canandaigua and we approach a major intersection with a state-highway angling in from the north. It’s not that busy; so only has a stop-sign.
Three vehicles are at the stop-sign: a semi followed by a Chevy Colorado pickup followed by a black Jeep Wagoneer.
The semi ambles slowly into the intersection, which is okay, since we’re still 300 yards away.
Now to see if the Colorado does the same; and it does, which is also okay, since we’re still 100 yards away, although closing.
I hope the Wagoneer has enough sense to wait, but I have my foot on the brake.
Yep, sure enough; the Wagoneer cuts right in front of me as I enter the intersection, requiring me to slam on the brakes.
“What are you talking about? I’m entitled to cut you off. I voted for Dubya, and I’m a Boomer!”