Which Slut Costume Are You Wearing on Halloween?

Blog originally posted on Facebook Notes 10/30/2010

Due to the ingenious invention of Netflix (and other copycat--ahem Blockbuster--rent-through-mail services), the Hollywood Video at the corner of my street closed down and has temporarily transformed into a Spirit Halloween costume store. Having a Halloween party to attend tonight, and (as of this morning) nothing to wear, I decided to head up the street to see what last-minute costume choices would still be available on the overturned racks.

I have been aware of the slut trend on Halloween for years, but I have grown quite weary of it now that the ONLY choices for female-designated costumes mean simultaneously to reveal every possible millimeter of flesh and yet remain within the realm of "clothing." The traditional slut costumes are well-known and passe these days (and please insert the term "sexy" before all of the following): cat, witch, devil, angel, nurse, bunny, bar wench, school girl, and cheerleader. What I realized this morning is that, for women, Halloween can be reduced to one single solitary concept: hookers in costume. Additionally, the manufacturers of these costumes seem to be unaware that Halloween occurs at the end of October when it can be a little chilly outside.

The Halloween costumes available to prostitutes this year (and again, please insert the word "sexy" beforehand) are as follows. This list is by no means exhaustive, but I did see all of these at the store today:
disco dancer
pirate
Indian (probably offensive in other ways, as well)
gypsy
lioness (any animal, actually, can become "sexy")
lady bug
bee (as can any insect, apparently)
geisha
firewoman
prison inmate (in the orange AND in the stripes)
greek goddess
m & m
crayon
flapper
hippie
swashbuckler
sailor
clown
policewoman
warrior princess
doctor
army soldier
baseball player (the only athlete costume I saw--apart from a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader costume that was remarkably accurate to the real thing)
Wonder Woman (of course)
Little Bo Peep
Red Riding Hood
Dorothy
Alice
Smurfette
Princess (which includes all of the Disney princesses as well)
Betty Boop
Robin Hood
Princess Leah
Freddy Kruger (didn't think it was possible did you??)
Supergirl (or "sexy" Superman--it's hard to tell)
Batman
Robin
SpongeBob Squarepants (which, more logically, should have been titled "Spongebra Miniskirt")
Ghostbuster
Three Amigos!
Olive Oyl
Mrs. Claus (or "sexy" Santa--not sure)
Minnie Mouse
Elvis
Pebbles
Mad Hatter
etc., etc., etc.

The list could go on and on--and please note that nowhere will you find a "prostitute" costume because it would simply be too redundant. I felt the need to shield the eyes of my five-month old daughter as I scanned the "adult" women's section. And I think if I were a thirteen-year-old boy, I would like nothing more than to walk among the women's costumes for a little while. The most interesting discovery was that beside the "sexy" nun costume (perhaps the most glaring paradox of all the costumes), was a traditional nun costume. The picture of the person dressed as the nun on the cover sleeve was, of course, a man. This reminded me of last year when I was in the early weeks of pregnancy--certainly not feeling "sexy," but still wanting to dress up for Halloween. I found myself among the men's costumes and finally settled on The Cat in the Hat. Although I didn't see one at the time, I hope (for the prostitutes' sake) they manufacture a "sexy" Cat in the Hat costume--to be fair.

The MOST disturbing thing about the costume store, however, is that this marketing campaign that singularly targets prostitutes has trickled down to the young girls' costume section as well. Little girls this year will be dressing as mini-versions of sexy Dorothy, sexy Cinderella, and sexy mermaids. So, please do not be too alarmed when a scantily-clad six-year-old girl hops onto your front porch in a Playboy Bunny costume squealing, "Trick or Treat!"--to be honest, it's probably the best the costume store had to offer.

Happy Halloween!

On Not Caring As Much About the Death of JD Salinger as I Feel Like I Should

I heard it today in serious, low tones in the faculty room: “JD Salinger died last night.” Three American Lit teachers sat for a moment of respectful silence, then two began ribbing the other about the poem she should write for Café Mots. An “Ode to Salinger.” I chuckled a “maybe,” and returned to the crossword puzzle with which I had been struggling moments before. I scribbled in the margin, “I heard today that JD died” thinking it had a nice ring to it for a first line. Then—in the pitiful way I construct poetry—I ran through some possible rhyming words that would help me with the next line: “tried,” “cried,” “lied,” “denied.” I considered . . . I spied and tried but could not cried. No. I changed the line. “I heard that JD died today.” No, it’s too confusing. He didn’t die today and that’s what the grammatical structure of that line sounds like. Then, I lost interest and returned to my crossword puzzle.
So, let me just be honest for a minute and admit that despite the hours upon days upon weeks upon years I have spent among the intimate frustrations of Holden Caulfield, I am not particularly grieved by the loss of his creator. Salinger was a mess—either because he could not stand the feedback of his literary critics (wimp), or because he could not tolerate society (weak), or because he was messed up to begin with (whatever), he lived a life of famous reclusiveness and estrangement from his closest family members even. I feel as deeply about his passing as I feel about the latest news from the domestic front of whichever Kardashian just had a baby.
Another revelation occurred to me today, however, in the midst of this indifference. I simple cannot write poetry unless I am at least moderately tortured about something. Having spent as much time as I have reading and discussing The Catcher in the Rye with students (8500 minutes to be as close to exact as I can get—which is a little more than 141 hours—which is almost 6 straight days), one might think I could write an ode to someone whose portrayal of teen angst has filled so much of my time for the last seven years. But I just don’t care.
Were Holden Caulfield to pass away, now, that might be another story—I might one day be able to write an “Ode to Holden.” And this is what is fascinating about the phenomena of canonized literature. I know and care ten thousand times more about a fictional protagonist than I ever could about his flesh-and-blood creator. The former is, however, immortalized in language arts classrooms around the world. We will never hold a funeral for Holden Caulfield, or mourn his loss, or sing belated encomiums of his troubled, but brutally honest musings—because it will never be necessary to do so.
Thus I will conclude, in all due respect: the passing of JD Salinger elicits from me merely this: “Sleep tight, ya moron!”