FUCSSUE. In which I read something I shouldn't have.

I read something that was not meant for me today.  I didn’t mean to, but I did.  It wasn’t like I picked the lock on someone’s diary—I am not twelve—or that I scrolled through their text messages—I am not jealous soul--but it was just... there and I just… oh whoops, read it. 

Of course you can’t “accidentally” read something, can you?  It reminds me of the Sandi Toksvig novel Flying under Bridges: "How do you get accidentally pregnant?  You don’t just fall off a stool and accidentally land on a penis, do you?"

Reading takes intention.  You have to focus your eyes and string the words together, your brain makes a choice to do that.  You could, at any moment, stop yourself after that first “oopsie” word; realizing it’s not for you, you could close your eyes, turn off the computer, throw your hands in the air and wave ‘em like you just don’t care.  You could.  But would you?

You see, Facebook chats being left visible; texts popping up, readable under the nose of someone they are not meant for; texts sent to the wrong person, it happens every day.   I have heard many of the Closests lament to me that they have sent or received or left messages visible for an Unintended.  And then they have laughed, or cried, or both.  Ah Technology!  You can be a cunning little fucker when you want to be. 

There’s a term for this Reader, it’s a Communicatory Fucssue: a fucking issue, that literally, “fucks you.”  I have never really been exposed to this kind of exposee.  Well, not in adult life.  As an annoying little sister it was only my duty to steal into my brother’s bedroom and try to read anything that was specifically not meant for me.  An invasion of privacy, certainly, but don’t worry, I was always on the receiving end of a sound beating after every reconnaissance mission.  How did he always know when I had been in his den?  How?  I was always so bloody careful!   I was like a seven year old pink ninja, in a leotard, ballet shoes and gloves.  That scene in Entrapment with Sean—GRRR—Connery and Catherine—Queen of Wales-It should have been me-Spartacus-Zeta-Douglas-Jones, sliding and crouching and planking through the security net of laser beams?  That was me!  Yet, every bloody time:  “ELEANORRRRRR!”  I would hear yelled with obvious I’m-going-to-beat-the-ever-living-shit-out-of-you-you-little-turd tone and I’d be up like a character in the Hunger Games listening for the direction and speed of his footfalls and sprinting in the opposite way as fast as my little pink legs would carry me—never fast enough—and I would always be apprehended, upended and tackled to the ground, my legs kicking uselessly in the air and screaming for Mum.  Yeah, ninja.  Completely.

Perhaps it was this early, painful punishment of childish curiosity that made me resolutely, vehemently fanatical about others’ privacy.  I have never read anyone else’s mail, email, texts or FB messages without their approval, or rather insistence, that I should for some reason.  In fact, I like to think that I veer the other way; when the Pavlovian conditioning, that makes me look to the cell display on the table as it illuminates and vibrates, is finally overridden by the realization “Oh shit!  That’s not my phone,” my neck almost snaps to look away in the opposite direction.  Messages are only supposed to be seen by the sender and recipient, right?  Right.

But this, this bait and lure left visible on my own computer was just too much. 

Let me set the scene.  Papa Smurf, known to some as Michael Caine, has been visiting his favourite daughter.  Well, his only daughter.  Oh we’ve been bonding (by that I mean eating and drinking) and aside from the pressures that a visit around my busiest work time of the year, multiplied by the aggravation of uncooperative household projects, we’ve been having a jolly good time, I think. 

But it’s hard, when you have lived independently from your P.U. (Parental Unit,) not to get a wee bit claustrophobic.  The '1's On The Ridge is hardly Wayne Manor; I can't send him to the east wing, the billiard room or the library.  I don't have a TV to plop him down in front of and distract him while I get on with things, so it's a smidgen awkward.  Writing this has been the most constantly-interrupted piece of all time.  I can only look at the screen for so long while he is talking at me before politeness kicks in and I have to break away again.  I have, however, put specific days and evenings aside to see my Papa—I was feeling very Good-Daughter-Cordelia-Smugface about this.

Dad has become reacquainted with the area and has been enjoying the company of my friends.  I threw a dinner party—okay, he cooked, but he likes that, and it was my idea; I threw another party, complete with St. Germain and champagne, and a veritable fromagerie of cheese—I may be crap at throwing balls, but boy do I like throwing parties; we’ve been to jazz at Bazil, Blues at the Back Yard Ale House, I took him to Gannon’s for beers and wings, what more could a darling daught do?  I did shit, People! 

And I was obviously doing a bang up job, because..."recalculating"... Papa Smurf 180-ed and decided that instead of buying a home and a boat in North Carolina, he will buy a home in NEPA!   I was rather surprised by this idea and the sudden geographical “U” turn.  Long have I thought about how nice it would be just to call my parents in the morning and say, “Let’s go for a trot around Lake Scranton and then out to lunch at State St!”  Many are the times that I have wished I was able to include them in a Bond Party, or Oscar Doodah, or seasonal shindig.  There are so many places I want to take them; so many people I want them to meet.  And yes, there’s always been that little silent speech bubble in my brain: where will you be if I have a baby?

But then the idea of North Carolina appealed too.  Oh, somewhere new to visit!  Somewhere warm!  Somewhere in the same time zone!

This new turn of events, therefore, made me quite discombobulated.  Did Papa Smurf really want to be here with the welcoming community I had fallen for; what about his boat, sunshine and retirement idyll?  Surely, thought I, both are mutually exclusive.

Yet, he is gung ho!  He has been salivating all over the property websites like I salivate over the cheese section at Wegmans.  He has been in cahoots with my darling friend Kathy Casarin from Coldwell and they have set up property viewings (without me)!  So, it's fair to say, Papa Smurf is serious.

It’s as we were discussing this around the kitchen island that he said, 

“Well, you mother has written me a long email about it.  She thinks I am giving up my dream of having another boat…” 

“Oh.  Well, round here it’s not really boating weather 9 months of the year.  And the local lakes aren't really, you know, the Atlantic Ocean.”

And that was that.  Papa Smurf went to the bathroom to continue the endless and soul-destroying many-layered wall paper stripping, and I clicked closed my lap top and toddled off to work.

Then it happened.  In my studio in Wilkes-Barre.  I opened my laptop, restored my Google Chrome and there it was: the email on MY Google Chrome.  Papa Smurf never uses my Google Chrome.  Papa Smurf always used the regular blue Windows Explorer internet dooberry.  But this time, he had logged in, and the tab was there, restored in front of my eyes.

I should have closed the tab.  It would have been easy enough.  But I didn’t.  After all, I was interested to know what dearest Mama had said.  I wanted to read her opinions on this sudden life changing decision.  And it was from Ma!  The person I know best in the whole wide world.  So, Dear Reader, Mum, Dad, I read it.

I won’t go into detail.  (I’m trying to make a point it was private after all.)  But, to read one's mother's carefully thought out opinions, including the concern that their daughter never has time for them and she probably will never have children anyway, made me realize five things:

• I must make more time for my parents.
• I really hope they move whenever they will be most happy, and if that is near me, I will be pleased.  We can always vacation somewhere warm with beaches and lighthouses.
• My eggs protest and heart fibrillates at such a death sentence.
• 2013 is going to be interesting.
• You should never use someone else's computer and leave your messages open.

"Ain't No Party Like A Scranton Party!"

It happened again tonight,

“Are you… English?” He asked with incredulity, eye brows raised.

“Yes.”  I replied, glad to be reminded of the Motherland, and that my answer had received a return stare of wonder and delight.  It is merely an accident of birth; my accent an unconscious product of native geography, parenting and schooling.  I can take no credit here.  And yet, in my new homeland, my origins inspire unicorn-like awe.  Scrantonites are quite in love with GB.  For some, it is their dream vacation destination. 

“You lived near London?  Why would you ever leave?”  

I retell the fairy tale about the wonderful Pennsylvanian who swept me off my feet… and then the reality of the relationship that landed me firmly on my arse.
"Oh."
Uncomfortable silence.
Then the inevitable question: “Why would you ever stay?”

It’s a question I am quite used to, yet am always as surprised by it as the stranger who asked it.

I am always rather to tempted to reply, "Clearly, I never found the railway station," but instead I opt for the truth: because it’s home; because everyone has been so welcoming; because there ain’t no party like a Scranton Party.

Let me go back a bit… eons ago, when I was but a 90lb whippet, all ribs, no boobs and a strange velvet jacket fetish, I followed the educational path to Southampton University.  At the time, it was in the top ten for marine biology and since Wadham, Oxford didn’t want me, it seemed a good place to go and sulk for three years.  I invested no time in actually going to visit the halls of residence and picked one solely based on the fact that in the blurb it said Stoneham Hall was "a Georgian Manor, with sprawling green lawns, tennis courts etc.."  I had romantic visions that my accident of birth into a hard working, middle class Gwyn-Jones family, and not the Fortescue-Asquith-Smythe-Smythe-St.John aristocratic clan would finally be set right! 

As my parents drove me and my 18-year-old cardboard-boxed-life into the gates of South Stoneham Halls of Residence, my smug smile shrank, puckered, and then souffled into gasps of horror.  There had to be a huge, gaping, thigh-in-mouth mistake!  Where was the beautiful masonry, the columns, the balconies, the variegated ivy and wisteria spidering up the façade?  Why was I facing a 1960’s great grey stone tower block with about as much architectural charm as a German armpit?

Ah, Stoneham!  But look beyond... behind the tree.... ARMPIT!

I clambered out of the car for a better look, drawn towards the characterless edifice like the girl in the horror flick who opens the door to the masked serial killer.  I eyed my parents, exchanged glances and slowly walked in, accepting my fate.  I unpacked and made by cupboard-sized cell cheery with posters of the England Rugby Team, and secretly, I planned my escape.

I thought I was better than Stoneham.

Then I met people.  Fourteen floors of tower (four of girls, ten of boys—I liked those odds) and a dilapidated old Georgian Manorful of smiling, excited, accepting faces.  And I realized I was not alone in this frightening world.  I was a Stonehamite.  We would go out en masse: Tuesday Karaoke at the Student Union, Wednesday, Ikon nightclub, Thursday Rhino’s for 70’s night, Friday Clowns and Jesters for pints of acid green “Juicy Lucy’s”.  We had the most ugly halls, others mocked us, yet this united us, we belonged!  WE WERE STONEHAM PROUD.

I see this now with Penn State, with my Mary Kay Team and with Scranton, my home.  Mock us, and you only make us stronger, more solid, all for one and one for all.  THAT, is why I love it here!  But it has taken a while for me to work it out.  I think I was in denial, because, I left, dear Reader.  I moved on from this small city that was the first to have electricity, that prospered in the time of coal mining, that has crumbled slightly since.  Like a serial dater, I wanted an open relationship with PA, I wanted to see what else was out there, because I thought there might be a more suitable city.  So, again, I packed my life in cardboard and  moved to Park Slope, Brooklyn.

There I was for ten months, in the city that never sleeps, and I never felt so incredibly lonely.  The only people who befriended and wanted to talk to me were married men.  Sigh.  Not working in an office, but typing away at coffee shops, surrounded by other writers, their heads ostriched-deep in their keyboards, thoughts snuggled firmly in their own self-importance, meant I was surrounded by people who just didn’t give a shit.  I took myself out, adventuring here and there, going through the motions and pretending I was enjoying myself--trying to not think of what night it was, and which venue my friends in PA would be frequenting and laughing, without me--I randomly spoke to strangers in stores, but it is really hard to meet normal people just walking the streets, shopping, and eating bagels.  Lots and lots of bagels.  "Hello! I'm Eleanor.  I'm British.  I'm a writer.  Would you like to be my friend?"  It might work at age 5.  At 33, it rather means I am a serial killer, lunatic, or hooker.

There was a small clutch of fabulous people I saw in Brooklyn.  Very small.  An actress, an agent, a Broadway Producer and a stand-up comedian.  Can four be a clutch?  They were fabulous company and I thoroughly enjoyed our limited time together, but their hours were long and unpredictable, and the call to NEPA: the invites, the demand for work, the positive feedback, was strong. I returned to PA almost weekly for this party or that. I knew this was time I could have been cultivating friendships beyond the initial serial killer/lunatic/hooker introductions, but I missed my existing circle.





The annual Oscar Party that Michaela and I have held for the last four years, gave the final twist in the guts.  There we were, in ball gowns, tap dancing and singing about George Clooney and Brad Pitt, and I looked out beyond my microphone to the beaming faces.  There were over one hundred friends and acquaintances cheering us on.  It was our little event, but it was an open invitation, it has been promoted in the local newspaper, and yet I could name every single person there.  The warmth that freezing February night was palpable.  My heart was so full I thought it would burst, and that is when I knew I was home.  A feeling that brought me back to my senses and resuscitated my lonely Brooklyn-boxed heart.
  

Two months after I moved to the neighbourhood, my friend texted to ask what I was planning to do with my Sunday.  I responded the same as I always respond, that I would be working. 

“No, it is Greenridge tradition, you are coming with me!” 

An hour later, one bitter October morning, she led me through the streets to the corner of Sunset and Electric.  As we rounded the downhill corner, I saw the mass of people in scarves and gloves—dressed far more appropriately than me, though thankfully I had grown out of my velvet jacket phase—who stood a beer in one hand, a cigar or pastry in the other, swaying to the three piece band jamming on the lawn, cheering on the Steam Town marathon runners.  Whoops of encouragement puffed clouds of happy human exhaust into the air and filled the Scranton morning with merriment. 

Scranton Support!  Like Spanx for one's morale!  Thanks Ridge Resident Rob Lettieri: www.lettieriphoto.com 

Two of my friends, Chavdar and Eric ran by, exhausted but still raising a celebratory fist in the air and stretching a smile to me, as they battled through the 24 mile mark.  I shouted weirdly excited, yet incomprehensible, noises to see them.  Scrantonites, members of my home team, doing fantastic things!  GO TEAM!

The party didn’t disperse until the last runners had made it through, and this posse of passionate cheerleaders, weren’t the only people celebrating; other house parties gathered with DJ’s, dancing in the streets, mimosas, iceboxes of beers and endless supportive cheers.  

  

Last week, I was invited to Halloween 14, for this I must set the scene: imagine an ordinary house, on the end of an ordinary copper-leafed cul-de-sac.  In October, as the leaves swirl to the tarmac, a host of decorating friends descend and transform this ordinary home into the Hammer Horror House of All Hallows’ Fiends!  Devils, Ghouls, Ghosts, Zombies, Vampires, Axe-murderers, Chinti and Flava-Bean-loving-Psychos, Monsters and generally scary types with loose-eyeballs and bloody stumps, hang from the rafters, between the sprayed cobwebs, or lurk in the corners, animatronically waiting to pounce, or chop, or frighten the b’Jesus out of you.

Lauren does this for fun.  It could be a professional local attraction, and for the lucky invitees, it is.  And I was one of the lucky few, invited and game to dress up and partake in this Clarks Green tradition.  The level of dress up here, is more than your average costume party.  There are prizes on the line!  More than that, there is pride and honour at stake.  

Now I have been to those half-hearted parties before, where the standard uniform is naughty nurse, naughty cop, naughty schoolgirl, all plastic-packed costumes, highly flammable and 100% acrylic.  You know, the kind of party with Lady Gaga on repeat and slightly brown and crusty guacamole oxidizing in the fetid air.   This party is not like that.  Everyone makes an effort.  Without rivalry or taking themselves too seriously, but because Lauren makes an effort, and so her guests want to repay the compliment. 

That is another thing I like: effort.  At this party, it is a surreal mix of celebrities, cartoons, fictional characters, animals, decades, inanimate objects… all celebrating this sorority of silliness and harmless fun.

I am sure every 'hood has it's good.  But when I heard Saturday Night Live comedians had joked that Hell is, in fact, “14 miles outside of Scranton,” I chuckled, then I frowned, because the masses might actually believe that, and they'd miss that this place has a heart: Tuesdays on the Ridge, Steam Town Marathon Parties, Lauren's Halloween, The Oscar Party, these are just peaks in the social ECG (Electric City ‘GENda), the scene has a pulse, a strong one, you just have to know where to look for it, because it is there, beating and spiking every week.

I returned to NYC last night to celebrate the birthday of my bubbly actress friend.  She gave a toast and quoted from the Into the Wild, a non-fiction book by Jon Krakauer, adapted in 2007 for the big screen.  "Happiness isn't real unless it is shared."  I found myself nodding like an Office bobble head.

So you can keep your pretty castles, manors, rural idylls, cosmopolitan metropolis’, chic palatial estates; it is the people who make a place; and opportunities will come and go, and I hope my travel-lust will never be sated, but it is the people who bring you back.  It’s their shared bonhomie, camaraderie, spirit, it’s the feeling that people support and admire you from wherever you are and for whatever you do. 

So, if you have just moved to the Ridge, welcome, my friend.  I think you are going to like it here.  (And I have an extensive collection of paint brushes, rollers and chardonnay, should you ever need my help.)