As dedicated as I am to staying out of the maelstrom of life on the weekends, somehow it’s not so bad when I’m taking Mom shopping, instead of going for myself. I wouldn’t choose to go to the supermarket on a Saturday, but I didn’t mind when Mom wanted to go today. I don’t know why that is, exactly. It could be that I enjoy her company, but somehow it seems less a burden when I’m doing it for her.

She had a pretty sizable list, too. We went to the market on her side of town, which is bigger than the one I usually go to, so I picked up a few things that my store hasn’t had lately. I would go to this bigger store more often, except that my bank is in the market where I go. They know me there, and they don’t flinch when I’m trying to deposit five-figure checks into the company account. Whenever I try to use another branch of the bank (and there is one inside Mom’s store), they always give me grief. I don’t need any more grief than I can manufacture for myself, thank you very much.

I can’t say that I enjoy the traffic on Saturday, though. It’s not just that there’s too much of it, but that too many people are in too much of a hurry, and they don’t seem to have any idea that there are other cars on the road. I was nearly cut off a couple of times on my way to pick up Mom, and those other drivers still don’t know how much they owe me for my vigilance. I guess there are two kinds of drivers: the idiots who don’t know where they’re going, and the rest of us, who expend a lot of energy watching out for group one, and keeping them out of trouble.