I was sad to leave nearly all my friends behind when I left the Bay Area, but the good news is that I have relatives coming out of the woodwork here in Citrus Heights, all within a few miles’ radius of my house. They have been leading busy lives here for decades and lifetimes. They are some of the smartest and funniest people I know, too. They probably wouldn’t take too kindly to my grousing about their neck of the woods, but then they’re the ones I stole the best lines from, so they have only themselves to blame!

In contrast to people in the Bay Area, who tend to either be very kind or very opinionated, I have found that folks here tend to be both kind and opinionated. They generally will let you know what they think, and they’ll give you the weather report, too. This hit home just this past week when I gave myself a black eye while visiting my daughter in Monterey. (I had a run-in with a stairwell; don’t ask. The eye is fine, but even the doctor said it was the most impressive shiner she had seen in a long time.) So my daughter and I made up stories to tell people in the restaurants, the shops, at the beach, at the aquarium when they asked about my eye. She got tired of my lip and let me have it. I got into a healthcare debate over at the bingo hall. That kind of thing. But the funny thing is, no one asked. They looked away and were exceedingly polite; I guess somehow a black eye seems like it’s—well, a private matter.

When I got home, it was an entirely different story—I should say stories, because everyone asked, with great concern, and then proceeded to tell me their own black eye stories. One sweet old guy at Kaiser came over to tell me about a battered wife who finally tied down her husband while he was sleeping and started in on him with a frying pan. (I think he wanted to encourage me to stick up for myself, in case my story about the staircase turned out to be fabricated.) The woman at the dentist’s office told me she had had five black eyes in her life—all accidents—but one was accidentally inflicted by her father, so she held it over his head every time she wanted a new toy. My favorite shiner story of all time is from a friend of the family—who finally admitted that it happened the night before when she and her husband were “playing fort.” (They live near Foothill Farms. It’s okay to do stuff like that there.)

Another funny thing about people who live here: you ask them where something is and they tell you what it’s next to. I asked where a certain little sushi place was and was told it’s over by Raley’s. When they see the glazed look in my eye, they think I’m nuts; who in the world doesn’t know where Raley’s is? Everything around here is just over behind something else. Where’s Costco? Well, it’s right there next to Walmart. Do we have a party supply store? Well, that’s Wishing Well. And where is that? Do I know where Smart & Final is? Turn left and it’s right behind that, across from the 99-Cent Store. Duh.

I had to call Uncle Ed to get the above conversation. I wrote it down verbatim. He calls me Sueburger—don’t ask me why—but I like it! No one in the Bay Area would ever even consider calling me Sueburger. In fact I told Ed there’s a Suzie Burger downtown at the P Street exit off 80 and he was astounded. Why would you want to go all that way when you’ve got one right here in Citrus Heights? That’s me; I’m Sueburger, the New Girl.