Miss Alice Teeple

I never met her, but she seemed larger than life. Driving up to PA from Florida at 92, painting, writing poetry, marrying at 40 after a long career as a beautician, driving everyone bananas, an unusual thoughtfulness. Aunt Louisa, you were 97 years young. I know you wanted to make it to 100, and I’m sorry you were just a couple of years shy, but what a life. Feisty to the end. I can only hope to have half of that spark in my life.

I woke up this morning to the sad news that Maurice Sendak had passed away. I knew this day was nigh – he’d been sick for some time – but it still hit me like a ton of bricks that one of my idols had died. I rarely feel true sadness when a celebrity dies, but I’ll admit, I started bawling at the news…just like I did when Fred Rogers passed away. For millions of us, Sendak was peripherally part of our home.

Maurice Sendak’s work has been woven into the fabric of our childhoods for at least three generations. His sweet-faced children and animals, his psychedelic dream worlds, his incredible mastery of pen and ink – he’s permeated our memories somehow. For most people, his book “Where The Wild Things Are” is his pièce de résistance, but for me, it’s his glorious, existential eulogy for his dear little dog, Jennie: “Higgelty Piggelty Pop.” That book, a deceptively simple fairy tale about a dog searching for more out of life, is one of the deepest and most moving children’s books ever written. As a child, I loved the fun drawings, the play between hyperrealism and fantasy; as an adult who had just lost her beloved grandfather, the book became a cornerstone in dealing with grief, which was the book’s purpose in the first place.

Some of my happiest memories are snuggling on the sofa with my parents, reading Sendak with them. I never knew much about the author until recently, when I discovered in delight what a crusty old man Sendak actually was. I loved finding that out about him. For me, it made his work all the more poignant.

One of my weirdest tales about Sendak happened in my college figure drawing class. We were given the classic assignment of “drawing from a master.” I was mad about pen and ink and only wanted to draw with it because it could bring out the heavy detail I wanted so badly; I couldn’t get those same effects from charcoal or pencil.  I did study after study of Sendak’s work, trying to learn how he did his shading, etc. He was my hero-type in this field; he and James Montgomery Flagg.  I immersed myself in Sendak’s drawings, getting lost in their labyrinth of pen strokes. I was proud to have chosen him, because he was such a personal choice. For my “master” recreation, I chose Max dancing around in the forest in “Where The Wild Things Are.” It was incredibly challenging and ambitious to recreate Max as best as I could. I spent hours on the drawing, and got it almost right. It was one of the proudest moments I ever had in art school.

My teacher ridiculed me for it. She said she expected me to pick something better than a cartoon.

A cartoon.

The incident had me so devastated I quit fine arts that very day, and switched to the integrative arts program with a director who knew why Sendak was important and why he was worthy of admiration. It was the best academic choice I ever made.

I never met Maurice Sendak, nor ever felt the need to. But he was the catalyst that steered me in the direction I wanted to be in, and I will forever be grateful. I hope he’s found Castle Yonder.

One of my studies for Jennie.

Something I find immensely satisfying is polishing silver. Wearing away the grime and seeing a shining, beautiful thing underneath.

“THE WORLD OF TWIN PEAKS JUST SEEMS TO BE FULL OF BEAUTIFUL WOMEN!!!” - Chief Gordon Cole, “Twin Peaks.”

*****

I was eleven years old in 1990, just a year away from hitting puberty full on. (First day of seventh grade, in case you wanted to know.)

I was just beginning to get interested in fashion and how older women dressed. I’d sneak Sassy and YM magazines when I went to the library…sometimes I even ventured into reading the racier Seventeen.

As a child, my idea of a beautiful older lady looked a lot like the old-fashioned photos of 1950s glamour starlets or flappers of generations before. I spent a lot of time in the library, reading old books and poring through old photographs in the museum. I didn’t think the ladies of the 80s held any kind of glamour appeal. They never clicked as inspiration. They just didn’t seem very…pretty. The teen magazines? All I saw were perms and spandex. Love’s Baby Soft ads, boring, terrible hair, pictures of blonde girls in mall bangs. I had straight brown hair cut short, and glasses. We didn’t have any money, so I wore blouses that were woefully out of style. I was teased for it.

I wasn’t allowed to watch many sitcoms on television. My viewership was quite limited. I could watch older shows, certainly, but nothing with whiny kids. My parents were excited about a strange new show coming on TV called Twin Peaks. I asked if I could watch it, because it looked like a murder mystery, and I was getting into those. I’d long been a child veteran of the PBS “Mystery!” program, oddly enough. Sure, they said. Why not?

Wow. I’d love to throw that in the faces of today’s helicopter parents, infantilizing their children with gobbledygook. My parents let me watch Twin Peaks.

The show captivated and terrified me, but I watched it with Mom and Dad almost every week. The music stirred my soul; the story was really creepy, and I was absolutely hooked. A sixth grader. I might have been the only one in my class allowed to watch it. But, as that little tween girl in the hideous pink plastic owl glasses, I was mesmerized by the beauty of the show. Even at that age, I knew that it was special, and even though it made zero sense to me, I didn’t care. It was fun to watch. The Giant scared the shit out of me. I still am frightened of the sequence when Maddy Ferguson is murdered, with that “chhhh-chhhh-chhhh” repeating sound of the phonograph needle at the end of a record. (A sound which will always make my skin crawl.)

And…ahem. I have a slight confession. Kyle MacLachlan, in all his strong-chinned cartoon-pilot glory, was the first man on TV that I was attracted to. That’s right. My first tween crush was not any of the New Kids - not Ricky Schroeder or Jason Bateman - but Kyle Fucking Maclachlan.

(That gum he liked actually did come back in style.)

But oh my goodness, those pretty ladies. What David Lynch did for me as that little girl was an oddly wonderful gift: he defined and presented real female beauty to me at that tender, impressionable age. The girls on that show were not plastic, they were not brassy, they were not dangerous or stupid - they were simply elegant and beautiful real human women. With bonkers eyebrows, pretty hair, a classic beauty I’d never ever seen on TV before except in old movies. I wanted so badly to grow up looking like Sherilyn Fenn, I even asked for saddle shoes.

Sherilyn Fenn, Mädchen Amick, and Sheryl Lee were my first style icons. That makeup! Their hair! The plaid all-American schoolgirl skirts! All of them looked as if they’d been dropped from other eras. Even Mädchen Amick, who looked the most contemporary of them all, had an ethereal prettiness to her that I loved to see on TV. I wanted to grow up to look like a Lynch girl.

I consider myself incredibly lucky for this coincidence.  David Lynch often talks about dredging up memories and bringing them to the table during the creative process, but I certainly doubt he had any idea that a homely little kid would be so influenced by his show.

I might have had a solid, safe upbringing, but I’ve always been drawn to the macabre, the unexplained, the melancholy, the persistence of optimism, even as a child. Somehow, Twin Peaks verified that it was okay to have these feelings, and they could even be beautiful if you allowed them. It was as strong a message as anything Fred Rogers could have said, but I came to this realization on my own through Lynch’s example. How about that?

Twin Peaks left the air fairly soon, but it never left my subconscious. As soon as I got older and could spend money on my own clothes, I searched for 1950s styles: plaid skirts, wingtips, angora sweaters. I still wear vintage clothing; for a while I even darkened the mole on my cheek like Audrey Horne’s beauty mark. My artwork - short films, photography, paintings, home style, even some of my drawings - kept reaching into that realm. I became preoccupied with how things were lit and how light created feelings. I became hyper aware of the play between sound and mood, and started experimenting with composing and scoring electronic music and creating animations around them. None of it was great, but it was certainly a lot of fun. I was fortunate to have a college mentor who encouraged it.

Thinking back on all of this creative influence Twin Peaks had on my art, and how much the show means to me personally, I feel incredibly sorry for little girls today. They have no role models of real beauty anymore - in women, in media, in art, on TV. I can’t even bear to watch TV for the most part. There’s no narrative. No story. I’m not very interested in rich housewives or dating shows. I want to get lost in fictional characters.

Young girls and women have since been branded as dumb cattle and sold a rotten bill of goods. I want to scream when I see those brash, nasty kids on the Disney Channel or Nickelodeon, catering to little girls of eleven today. Come on. When I compare Sherilyn Fenn to iCarly, I want to laugh. And cry a little. Maybe even vomit. David Lynch brought imagination and beauty to television during a dark time of shoulder pads and crunchy hair. I’ll forever thank him for briefly making the TV wasteland a thing of real beauty and brains…both literal and metaphorical.

THIS little girl? Little eleven year old Alice? While most of my peers had NKOTB in their rooms, I ripped off the weirdly lit cover of that 1990 Time magazine of David Lynch and plastered it on my bedroom wall, right next to a map from National Geographic. It was in my room for a couple of years, then he migrated eventually to my high school locker.  Can’t explain why I saved and displayed Lynch. I liked the picture. I liked his face. I recognized only that this guy had made something really neat that I liked. Thinking back, why not?

When you’re an art student in a school that focuses primarily on abstraction, Lynch comes up a lot…but for all the wrong reasons. They make him sound as if he’s some kind of pretentious prick creating these abstractions to make others feel smart, with all the analysis that swarms around his movies. It’s a far cry from the sweet, good natured man his collaborators describe him as being. I can’t say I can make heads or tails of half the stuff I’ve seen of his, but usually I don’t want to. I want to experience, then think about what I felt, and feel whatever it is inside. I respect that he makes things for himself first, and allows everyone else to participate however they want to. Did you know he has a solid hand in the music in his films, and he put out a really fun solo album?

I love this song! (click on that link, it’s really good!)

I don’t even know what he’s singing. I play his album when I need some quiet thinking time.

When someone busts convention wide open, they’re either revered or hated. I don’t think Lynch deserves either of those. I think he simply feels that compulsion to create things; he likes thinking and experiments, and he must like the connectivity of the human experience. The transcendental meditation he does seems to give him that.

David Lynch might be a bit out there to many, and there are scores of people who “love him” or “get him,” but for many, I don’t agree. I think they really want to “get” him; that they see in him some kind of mysterious auteur they want to emulate, or learn from osmosis, or something. Lynch strikes me as precisely the opposite: a kindred spirit whose M.O. involves being interested, being engaged, being experimental, playing to the strengths of his collaborators, and - this might be the difference - being empathetic. He’s a true INFP.

I think anyone in the creative field can learn from him. I owe much of my learning to Lynch’s beautiful examples of how to create. Now, I can only hope to learn how to create a good balancing act for my own work.

Are you there, Governor? It’s me, Alice.

I’m so grossed out, Governor. Looks like I’ve got myself a yucky yeast infection. They put me on antibiotics and my pH levels got kind of weird, and now I’m itching and burning dreadfully. It’s the WORST! Sigh. I’m worried that people might notice. It takes every fiber of my being not to walk down the street scratching my no no place. It has me so self-conscious, Governor.

My doctor said that antibiotics can be hit or miss- they worked great when they killed the bacteria causing my sinus infection, but unfortunately, now my “swimsuit area” is out of whack. The last time this happened, it was because I used the wrong kind of soap. (Word to the wise, Governor…washing your privates with Dial is asking for T-R-O-U-B-L-E.)

Oh but Governor! I have to tell you! The discharge is the worst! I want to tell you all about it, like Nancy Wheeler did at camp. Okay. It’s kind of a clumpy, faintly yellow substance similar to ricotta cheese but slimier. Smells like beer or bread dough or something gross and yeasty. It just sits there, coagulating on my underwear, and there’s nothing I can do about it except get some Monistat and just let nature take its course. Sigh!

I am so relieved that you’re so interested in vaginas, Uncle Bob. It helps, knowing there’s someone out there who wants to understand the great mystery of female genitalia in such intimate detail!  I thought maybe, since you’re older, you can give me some advice on what to do for this infernal itching, so I can just get back to church again. Oh, my…I can barely walk, it’s so uncomfortable. Do you think God is punishing me for being a woman, Governor? I thought periods were the only curse, but when something like this happens I just want to crawl under the blankets and pray that I’m delivered from this hell.

Okay, Governor. It’s getting late. I have to go to bed. Tell me you’re listening.

Are you there, Representative Joshi? It’s me, Alice.

I’m scared, Representative Joshi. I heard lots of things in the news about fetuses being murdered. That sounds really terrible. All those potential babies that we could be cuddling and singing “Bye Baby Bunting” to! :(

But I have to confess a really sad secret, Representative Joshi. This morning I ate some cage-free organic eggs for breakfast and when I opened one to make my special Alice Scramble (I like lots of cheese), there was a spot of blood in one of the eggs. That means the egg was fertilized!  I ate the zygote of a baby chicken. I’ve been sitting here staring at my empty plate, bawling my eyes out, and wondering if I could go to jail for animal cruelty now because I killed a potential chicken that didn’t get a chance at the blessedness of Life. I thought I’d turn myself in now. I’m a baby chicky murderer.

This has me thinking a lot.  A woman only has so many eggs in her body, and she releases them once a month. I DO THAT ALL THE TIME!!!!!! All of those eggs are potential babies, just like that delicious baby chicken goop I ate.

Representative Joshi! Does that mean my eggs are dead, too, if they get flushed down the toilet? Why would God let that happen? I’m scared that I could go to jail for having my period because I’m killing potential babies with Ultra Plus tampons; easing the pain with Midol and Dairy Queen Dilly Bars.

Or am I okay, and it’s only fertilized eggs that count? If that’s the case, I’m okay, but I’m worried about my married friends. I read that sometimes women accidentally expel fertilized eggs if they don’t implant in the womb! There’s a good chance it just ends up glopping out of a woman in a big bloody clot and she doesn’t know! That’s manslaughter for like, 90% of early pregnancies or some crazy figure! How can we tell right away when conception happens so no one gets into trouble?  Is there a way the government can stop or at least counsel these suicidal fertilized eggs so the jails aren’t flooded with manslaughter arrests? Can we have women get conception alarms or something so they don’t stupidly go to the bathroom and think they have their periods?

Love,

Alice

Are you there, Governor Lynch? It’s me, Alice.

As you know, I’ve still got a lot to learn about my body, even at age 33. I’ve been reading a lot in the news about how you’re helping pregnant women by having the doctors tell them about the dangers of breast cancer if they decide to have an abortion. I was wondering what other information pregnant women don’t know!

I purchased a wonderfully informative book called “Woman In Girlhood, Wifehood, Motherhood” by Dr. M. Solis-Cohen, published in 1906, a time when people were more wholesome, everyone was Christian, and people knew what was best.

Did you know girls from different climates get their periods at different times?According to this doctor, puberty occurs later in cooler climates.

• The Teutonic and Anglo-Saxon races arrive at adolescence oftenest in the fifteenth year.
• The three races in Hungary: the Slavonic, Magyar, and Jewish, living side by side in the same climate, reach menses at different ages. (Jews reach it first!)
• Hindoos and Negresses reach puberty even earlier: eleven!!!!!!!
• Within American culture, blondes mature faster than brunettes. It’s his theory that “the influences of city life, with its excitement of theatres, parties, and the like, hasten the oncoming of puberty with sexual temptation.”

WOW! Did you know that? I didn’t. Can you put that in the pamphlet?

Oh. But Governor, there’s one passage in here about “secret vice” that has me freaked out, and I want to tell you about it. Promise you won’t be embarrassed?

Perfect frankness regarding secret vice: so frequent a cause of general ill-health, chronic invalidism, and sometimes even insanity, will save a girl much physical and mental suffering, as well as mental loss…a mother’s duty is plain.

His suggestions are to keep young women busy with “healthful amusements and judicious exercise so they go to bed wholesomely tired.” I had no idea! We have to save everyone!

It also talks about how women should avoid marrying drunkards because alcohol has degenerating effect on genetic stock. Here’s some scientific data to back this up:

• FIRST GENERATION: Father - a drunkard.
• SECOND GENERATION: Son - a drunkard. Was disgustingly drunk on his marriage day.
• THIRD GENERATION- Seven grandchildren. First died of convulsions. Second died of convulsions. Third was an idiot at 22 years of age. Fourth, melancholiac, with suicidal tendencies - became demented. Fifth, peculiar and irritable. Sixth, has been insane repeatedly. Seventh, nervous and depressed, and indulges in most despairing anticipations as to his life and reason.

Women need to also avoid habitual criminals when they marry because he is a “moral imbecile. (You can tell who they are by the shapes of their skulls.)

ARE YOU TELLING THE WOMEN OF NEW HAMPSHIRE ANY OF THIS???? I hope so, Governor. This is really important information for anyone who wants to have a child.

• When a woman gets pregnant, their teeth decay and it’s common for women to lose a tooth for each child she bears! It’s right there on page 155!
• Hot baths, cold baths, and foot baths are very dangerous during pregnancy!
• Pregnant women should avoid sea-voyages!
• Pregnant women should “avoid disagreeable sights and fright, and lead a placid, quiet life amid cheerful surroundings with pleasant diversions, like looking at beautiful pictures and listening to delightful music.”

I have so much to learn. We all do!

You should just start revising all of your maternal advice for all pregnant women of New Hampshire, because obviously there’s a lot of information out there that we just aren’t getting. I certainly haven’t heard of any of this from any modern doctors!!!

Are you listening, Governor Lynch?

Love,

Alice

Are you there, Governor Walker? It’s me, Alice.

I read over your pamphlets from the government. It sounds like you’re really on top of things when it comes to women’s health. You care a lot about abortion (ick) and making sure women aren’t abusing cancer screening facilities to kill people and stuff (Boo!). Taking them away was a great idea. People can be selfish jerks, like my ex-friend Nancy Wheeler. She voted for Ron Paul. I couldn’t forgive that.

Anyway, I thought you could help. I have been having some trouble with my “Downtown” …in that it REEKS! Just gross. I thought I hadn’t taken out the garbage for a while, but no, it’s just me.

It turns out this underwear I got at Big Lots ended up causing one of the nastiest cases of bacterial vaginosis that Dr. Peaking has ever seen. I mean, we’re talking smells you usually associate with expired cans of salmon, or a backed up septic tank in mid-July. Dogs can’t get enough of me! “Bring on the buffet,” they bark.

It’s since taken on an aroma of rotting meat, which I think is my monthly hormone shift. Can’t imagine what next week will bring when I’m on my period. I might have to spray myself with Febreze every ten minutes.

Anyway, I’m at a loss for what to do about this conundrum. As it turns out, I shouldn’t have listened to Granny. She was a nurse during the War and she told me I should flush everything out with a vinegar douche, like they did back in the 40s and 50s. Vaginal irrigation or something. So I tried it because she’s older and wiser, but it made things WORSE! Clumpy green mucus lumps just started glopping out of me like pistachio pudding.

So, do you have any ideas, Governor? I mean, would you take some time out of your busy schedule to come take a look at my “Scott spot?” I’d really like an expert to help me through this ostracizing time and I can’t find any reliable information anymore about women troubles. I just need someone who knows what it’s like. Someone who cares about women’s health. 

Just a warning…bring a gas mask and some Rubbermaid gloves!!!! Hee hee.

Love,

Alice aka “Stinky”

Are you there, Governor Perry? It’s me, Alice.

GUESS WHAT I HAVE??!!!!! A urinary tract infection.The WORST!!!!!

I know you’re really adamant about women like me knowing explicit information about our bodies and the risks involved when making choices and letting the government help women be more informed. I think it’s great!

Let me help the cause! I’ll describe my private infection to you in as detailed a way as I can. Maybe then you can think about it for 24 hours and get back to me tomorrow with some fatherly advice about this burning sensation in my womanhood.

Regrets! I have them. Every day this week, I’m regretting swimming in that (probably) cryptosporidia-laden public pool! Some nasty-ass kid who didn’t wipe himself enough probably did a backflip in there, and then he had to go and contaminate the water with poop particles or something. Gross! I only swam a couple of laps, but chlorine must not have done the trick.

Do you know how scared I was, Governor? Getting up late at night feeling like someone was probing my urethra with a hot rusty needle? Ouch.

It really burns when I pee, Governor, but I don’t have to all the time. Sometimes my body tricks me into thinking I have to pee, then I sit on the toilet and nothing comes out. When I do pee, my urine smells kind of gross and it’s cloudy. My kidneys hurt, too. Like someone kicked them. Back on the cranberry juice, I guess. Gotta flush this cluster of yuckies out o’ my old pee chute. If I ever have a baby, I’m naming it Ocean Spray (middle name “Rick,” “Ricki if it’s a girl)!!

Then there’s the nausea and vomit. Nonstop for three hours yesterday morning. Not fun! I’m cold. It’s like, 70º outside but I can’t stop shaking. I took my temperature: 99ºF. Uh oh! If this churning in my stomach is any indication, I’ll probably have the runs later on. I’m SO MAD at that kid who contaminated the pool!

Well, that little tickly-hurty twinge down there tells me I might or might not have to pee again. Wish me luck, Governor! Let’s cross our fingers and pray that there isn’t blood in it…THIS TIME. Do those Koch brothers you know have any extra Angel Soft to deal with the extra “overtime work?” If the past couple days have been any indicator, my cooter’s gonna need a lot of gentleness.

Love,

Alice