Every Halloween I can count on a couple of things happening: One, I will eat Kit Kats for breakfast, hide the wrappers in my purse and hope my husband doesn’t wonder why the candy bag is light and his wife is heavy.
And two, there will be approximately 45 million new and randomly eroticized costumes — such as “sexy” Osama bin Laden (no, really), “sexy” Chucky doll (why not?) and “sexy” poison ivy, which, by the way, I recently had on my arms and I can assure you, it was about as sexy as the final stages of Tom Hanks in “Philadelphia.” (Oopsy. I’m just now realizing Poison Ivy was a legitimately sexy character from “Batman” and not the rash. The things you learn when you’re making inappropriate AIDS jokes. Still, I’m talking angry, red, blistery lesions on my arms that itched and lingered for days. What do you have to say about that, Uma Thurman?).
Now, the sexification of Halloween costumes is nothing new, of course. I myself, naive as I was, attempted to go as a prostitute in sixth grade — because I’m Catholic, and no one ever told me what they really did. Instead I grew up thinking a “prostitute” merely meant “a lucky girl whose mother let her wear makeup.” Turns out it actually meant “crying, lipstick-free preteen in an old bridesmaid gown worn over a sweatshirt and under a puffy polar fleece, screaming, ‘I wanted to be a fancy lady of the night, not whatever this is!’”
The neighbors practically threw their razor apples at me that year. It was a real tragedy, and I’d like to think everyone involved in my attempt at a “sexy” Halloween experience — especially those who wrote me off as being an ungrateful brat Mom — has tortured themselves over the years with the knowledge that I was clearly a time traveler, warning them of the over-the-top Halloweens to come.
“Stop and listen to me, everybody! There’s not much time. I’m from the year 2011 and I’m here to tell you: Girls of the future will turn Flintstones and Garfield costumes into tiny strips of fabric and call themselves ‘sexy Fred’ and ‘sexy lasagna.’ (murmur murmur) Quiet! And there’s a thing called a thong. And these girls will wear them outside. In the cold. With nothing else on Yeah, that’s right, Mom. No sweatshirt, and NO ONE WILL BAT AN EYELASH. So, please. Let. Me. Wear. Lipstick. Tonight.”
Perhaps when it comes to commenting on current Halloween sexiness, early-morning Kit Kat eaters would be well-advised to keep their mouths shut. But I have run out of candy — and I feel the need to set the sexy record straight for those who were there that night I traveled back in time to tell them the world will soon cease to have standards for the eyes.
Yesterday, I was reading a classic Halloween story about Courtney Stodden, the barely dressed 16 year old who is currently “famous” because she married the barely known character actor from “Lost,” 51-year-old Doug Hutchinson. Their relationship is like a post-“Hills” Heidi and Spencer situation in that I truly do not care what they do, yet I still look because it’s bound to be ridiculous — as was the case in this situation.
Courtney and Doug got themselves kicked out of a pumpkin patch in California because Courtney, who looks like an oversized “Toddlers and Tiaras” contestant but with a smaller vocabulary, was vamping and frolicking in her tiny shorts, stripper boots and belly-baring Elly May shirt. She was deemed “too sexy” for the gourds and was asked to leave.
That’s right, people, too sexy for Halloween. Apparently, I was mistaken. This can happen in 2011. Because poor, old Courtney Stodden has discovered the one guise that will universally frighten and offend the modern masses.
The desperate wannabe reality star.
How truly scary.
Liz Farrell is the editor of Lowcountry Current. Follow her at twitter.com/elizfarrell.