But! In the midst of all this, I was writing an e-mail, and the piano tuner finished tuning timprov's piano and played it a bit. And it sounded like a piano again, not a jangly collection of strings. And something in my neck unkinked: ahhh. There. Piano. Yes. And I arranged with the piano tuner to repair my piano in early December, and she showed me a jar my great-grandmother used to keep in the piano to keep it from going too dry in the winters.
And the chicken is thawing and the wine is chilling, and timprov's meds will be ready for pickup soon, and really, all in all, it could be a lot worse. Even if the rest of the day doesn't go as planned, it will be all right.