Tapping into musical therapy

I tried to be so good today. 

I was patient, polite, unhurried. I planned ahead; I was ready to not sweat the small stuff. 

And it worked. For a while. 

See, I knew the day was not going to be easy. Demeter wanted to do some banking. She wanted to update some funds and investments. We agreed she could do this, while I nipped off for some quick errands. 

As a precaution, I left my phone number with the banking staff.  They called me while I was just completing the first errand.  My signature was needed.  That was fine; I'm flexible.  I hadn't planned anything important. And I was patient, polite, and unhurried.  The appointment took three quarters of an hour.  That was fine.  I rather suspected this was going to happen; Demeter is at an age where financial types look at her and think:  estate planning.

What I hadn't planned for was the snarky bus driver as I helped Demeter disembark on the way home after a long afternoon.  Or the large white truck making an illegal right turn inches from Demeter's walker as we crossed to her block.  Or the neighbour who followed us into the small elevator at the condo, and seemed hurt when I hastily exited to take the stairs instead.

I came home and the Resident Fan Boy wanted me to locate a photo from the eighties, and younger daughter was watching a Friends episode, for the umpteenth time, from one of the latter five seasons (which stank, frankly).

In self-defence, I slapped on the noise-cancelling headphones, and stumbled across this latest Postmodern Jukebox video:

 

I'm not a fan of either the British nor the American versions of The Office, but I like quite a few of the featured songs here, to say nuthin' of the fabulous tap-dancing.  In purple boots, yet.

My savage breast was soothed.  (Not a euphemism.) I was only slightly cranky by dinnertime.