Bill and I spent our first night at our new home a week ago yesterday. We were newbies for sure. A week ago, we didn’t know how to get from Point A to Point B. We didn’t know how to manage the dining tricks — how to order food to be delivered, how to make reservations, did you always need reservations, which restaurants have the best food, and so forth. We were completely clueless about the rules, both written and unwritten.

Now, a week later, things are a bit different. We are still completely clueless, but now we are embarrassed that even after a full week of living at this beautiful facility, the only thing we’ve learned is that the residents are awesome. They are friendly, outgoing, and very active. Unfortunately, we know very little else.

Honestly, I thought by this time, I would be posting stories about quirky seniors doing quirky things. Unfortunately, since we moved in a week ago, I have done little else than sit in my chair, moaning in pain every time I move the smallest bit, thanks to a pinched nerve in my neck/shoulder area. While my fellow Wind Crestians are out there merrily doing quirky things, I am popping every manner of pills, ranging from muscle relaxers to nerve end deadeners in a frenetic attempt to once again become mobile.

I know that there are things worse than having a pinched nerve. That knowledge, however, doesn’t make me any less frustrated at not being able to put our apartment in order. God bless the three women who unpacked my house, but they’re not me, and they don’t know just how I wanted my kitchen to work. I don’t want my kitchen utensils stuffed back into the corner where I can barely reach it. My dishes are spread out in three different places — the dinner plates in one, the luncheon plates in another, the dessert plates in yet another. Likewise, my drinking glasses are mysteriously spread out in all manner of locations. Where is my cinnamon? Is my yeast still in the refrierator? Why is dill weed not even in the same neighborhood as dill seed?

I’m ready to use at least one of my several Kitchenaids to make some bread. Homemade chicken noodle soup would taste so good. Why are some of my ziploc bags in the pantry and some under the sink. Bless those three women, but I want to make this apartment our own. And call me crazy, but I want the antiseptic smell to be replaced by the smell of brownies baking or beef stew perking on the stove.

It’ll happen. A pinched nerve can’t last forever. Can it?