Sprinkle Glitter on My Grave

by Jill Kargman

  Tears streamed down my face. My best friend, Vanessa, and her sister Isobel and godsister Virginia and I had an impromptu Reply All email chain which functioned as an Internet support group. We were devastated. He was irreplaceable. So much more than just a physician, he was our wizard of wisdom.

  The truth is, kids don’t like going to the doctor much, nor do grown-ups, I suppose. But now that I’m in the normal healthcare system—a factory with rotating nurses and a flash of lab coat for ten minutes and no more old-school office chats long after the blood-pressure squeezie thing has been put away—I appreciate Dokka Miff all that much more. I long for that precious time of human connection that he gave me and my kids. In a youth-obsessed culture and city where everyone wants the new, new thing, he was the exception to the rule.

  1. It is total bullshit that “these are the best years of your life.”

  They’re so not! Being young is great in many ways, but it’s not the peak of life, so don’t let anyone make you feel “lucky” to be young. Adolescence is filled with stress and frustration and waiting to be free. Also, there’s the one-chance-only pressure of applying to college, which sucks balls, but the hardest part is getting in; after that I promise you can chill a little. And then there’s getting dumped. That bites, but there will be others who won’t dump you (you might dump them) and someday, perhaps, someone you can count on. Being a teenager blows and it will get better. Swear.

  2. Zits clear.

  I had bad acne and had to take a prescription to help clear it up. So I know that zits suck and that there’s almost nothing that will make you feel better when you’ve got a full-on Mount Vesuvius on your forehead. But I really would have liked to know that when I got older it would all clear. And that I wouldn’t have to deal with stressful to-pop-or-not-to-pop questions or applying cover-up with a sponge. It’s really unfair that during the most emotionally tempestuous time of our lives Mother Nature throws down cystic acne to complicate matters. Twisted bitch. But maybe she does it to help us hone our personalities and learn not to coast on looks. Maybe it’s character building and the only way to appreciate our clear skin later. I know I do.

  3. You have not yet met all your bridesmaids.

  Friendships are tricky when you bond at a young age, because oftentimes it’s simply proximity or inertia, geography or geography class throwing you together. But one day soon you will find friends who seem to have led parallel lives. You will develop lingo instantly with these kindred spirits; you’ll complete each other’s sentences. And there is a safety in those sisterhoods unlike the catty crap of high school. I had only two extremely close friends I could trust in high school, and that’s plenty. And if you don’t have them yet, you will.

  4. It’s so good that you didn’t drink.

  Guess what—those hot blond girls doing keg stands? I have news for you: They peaked at sixteen. Would you want to be your best self in eleventh grade? Fuck no! While perfectly cool with bobbing ponytails at the time, those party girls all look like crap now. They fried on the beach in bikinis with Panama Jack, they pounded shots to stay in with the guys, they smoked. At forty-one, when I see some of those girls from my past, I can’t get over how hagitosis maximus they have become. Granted, I have armies of crow’s-feet marching out from the corners of my eyes, but from laughter, not excessive hard alcohol, ciggies, and sunburns.

  5. Love is on the way.

  Drawn hearts in the notebook margin and romantic stories in your head will one day feel real instead of fantasy. Just hold on tight. There will be douchebags and loneliness and longing so painful you will feel like you will barf up your heart, but be patient and, most of all, be your own unedited kooky-ass self. If you make your quirky path interesting, with all its twists and turns and “Billie Jean”–style light-up steps and grooves, inevitably someone will come along and want to walk it beside you.

  BONUS! Johnny Dynell and Chi Chi Valenti will deejay your wedding.

  When I was underage, I used to get all decked out and sneak into bars and clubs with my wide-eyed seventeen-year-old pals, not to drink but just to dance and people watch. One of my favorite clubs was called Jackie 60. I was obsessed with the husband-and-wife deejay duo Johnny Dynell and Chi Chi Valenti, and little did I know that a decade later they’d deejay at my wedding. Not one person wasn’t dancing their ass off. It remains one of the best parties I’ve ever been to and it was supremely cool to have them at the turntables.

  My friends began teasing me the second I let the cat (or, ahem, mouse) out of the bag: I would be taking the plunge and taking my kids to Disney World, which I call Misney World. I’d been saying for years that Fletch needed to be out of diapers, but his days of laying pipe in his shorts had come and gone and we still hadn’t, well, gone.

  I know I was not cut out for the Happiest Place on Earth. I went as a child, full of wonder and excitement, but the rounded-corner, matte photos I still have from that trip tell the truth. The faded brights of Floridian sunshine are a-splash on my seventies clothes. My little brother looks semidisturbed in the embrace of a giant furry monster. His face is a straight-line smile, half grin, half grimace. His expression embodied my apprehensions about this trip as a parent, too. There’s a reason I call the place Misney World, after all. As in Misery and Disney.

  First of all, there is the exorbitant price tag. Just getting there and getting tickets for the parks costs the same as the Ritz, Paris. Swear! And then there is the fact that I HATE THE SUN and Florida proudly calls itself the Sunshine State. I think they should change that license plate slogan to Land of Humidity and Sunburns. I knew my locks would frizz to Cuba, I would have pubes sprouting from my head the second I stepped off the plane.

  But cost and vanity aside, as a mom of three kids under six, I was more or less paralyzed by the fear of losing a kiddo in the crowds. I’d heard the story of a former head of the FBI who was poached by Diz to become their chief of security after a nugget-snatching incident where someone shaved a girl’s head and put her in pants, trying smuggle her out as a boy. The perv got caught but, uh, nightmare!

  “Think about it,” my friend Konstantin said, when I told him how shocked I was by the horror story. “That place must be like Costco for child molesters.”

  Great.

  And then there’s the people. I’m not a total misanthrope, but the type of people who flock to Disney make me one. Example: Disney honeymooners. What twisted, sick, fucked-up couple would want to go there for their honeymoon?! Well, tons, apparently. It’s the number one honeymoon destination in America. I almost plotzed when I heard that. “Oh, baby, yes, yes, do me with those Mickey Mouse ears on! Oooooooh, baby, take me Pluto-style!” Dassome messed-up fucked-up shizzle right there.

  More messed-up Mickey-related truths:

  —

  Getting there: The crazy vibe begins long before you get to the phallic-shaped swing state itself. The departure lounge at your local airport will be an odious sea of mullets awaiting the boarding call. Children will be in tank tops in fifty-degree New York weather and parents will be sporting iron-on T-shirts in that velveteen eighties font that say the family name and “Annual Disney Trip!”

  I would “guesstimate” that 20 to 30 percent of our flight’s population had custom-printed T-shirts for the occasion. One couple had “Jionni and Jenni’s 1st Anniversary”! (Note: that horrendisssimi spelling, not Gianni or Johnny, but Jionni. That should be some kind of misdemeanor). Custom annual shirts? Annual anniversary trips? In my book it was “one and done”—a check in the box that I’d accomplished my mission. I would take my litter, make the photo book like my mom had, and basta. My friend Rachel said, “Jill, it’s like childbirth—it’s excruciating but you have to do it once per kid.” But she is a better mom than I am. I guess I had Disney triplets because I informed all my kids this was a one-time thing—no Kargman Annual Trip shirts would be ordered with the year on the sleeve. This would be it.

  —

  The colors: When we arrived, the color
scheme immediately changed. My New York City grays and browns were eclipsed by coral and teal. Florida is made up of tertiary color wheel hues. Salmon. Magenta. Tampon box designs. And skimpy! A teal bra with a coral cami over it then skin, skin, skin. So confusing. Snookis on parade. In the sea of feet with bright toenails or worse—the omnipresent French pedicure with white strip and, naturally, toe rings—I spied a guy with a nice Northeastern-looking burgundy and yellow striped university scarf. A preppy! Ahhh, a modicum of comfort. Some familiarity! Finally, someone like me who perhaps maybe even went to boarding school! We could exchange eye rolls and bond! I edged closer to him, and his university scarf, wouldn’t you know, was the scarf for Gryffindor. Awesomeness. As the weekend continued, any stitch of even remotely academic-looking gear I saw was Hogwarts issued.

  —

  The prefab accommodations: We stayed at the Grand Floridian, but it should really be called the Mediocre Floridian. The carved marble inlay of Goofy heads in the lobby were mildly amusing, but for the staggering price, we could have gone to any Relais & Châteaux and it would’ve been much cheaper. At least I hoped the room would be palatial for the price.

  No such luck. The joint had a beige plastic bathtub from twenty years ago, and the ersatz colonial décor was enough to make you start itching right away. Harry pretty instantly forgave our normal Hotel Rule (if you’re paying for an expensive hotel room, you have to have sex in it), because Ariel from The Little Mermaid could be heard singing her “ahhhhhh” out our window and that’s just plain box drying.

  “Um, I’m sorry, is it me, or is everyone here contest winners?” I asked my husband, looking around at the toothless meth-head clientele.

  “Oh no, not at all,” Harry replied. “I had complete sticker shock at the rates and I asked our travel agent what the fuck, and she said people save up for years and expect to spend about five months of salary on this trip. They take second mortgages out on their homes!”

  You could’ve knocked me over with a feather plucked from Donald Duck’s duff.

  No wonder Main Street is broke! Shockingly though, that was only the beginning. You know that Keyser Söze gimp Kevin Spacey line: “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist”?

  Well, he does. And he doesn’t wear Prada.

  He wears a Mickey Mouse–trademarked T-shirt.

  —

  The maddening merch: I know I shouldn’t have been really surprised, but I was and so just have to comment: the never-ending glut of merchandise/shit at Disney World could fill an ocean that even Jack Sparrow couldn’t plow through. From the moment we arrived until the moment we left, we were beaten over the head with the opportunity to buy more crap. Every spinning teacup or whirling coaster or other dizzying vomitfest dumps you out into a gift shop hawking loot so you’ll never forget your hellacious odyssey.

  And then the pins. Early on, Denny—our Akron, Ohio, born-and-bred Welcome Guide—explained that the Disney pin system was a trading currency, like cigarettes in jail (my interpretation, not his).

  Each of my kids was given a new pin (the patented safety backings of which were rubber Mickey heads, natch) and was told they could buy more at the M. Mouse Mercantile on the second floor. Then they could trade with people from all over the world around the parks. The pins could be worn on clothes or a lanyard, which was like a credentials holder, covered in Made in China–stamped Ariels or Beasts or Nemos.

  And thus began the obsession with collection pins. Everywhere we went my kids wanted to stop and trade and buy and trade and buy. Oh, and BTW, each POS pin featuring a character head ranged from seven to twelve clams apiece, not including the Rare Collectibles kept in special glass cases. Every time another parent slapped down plastic for a commemorative pin, it was gasoline on the flames for my three. All they wanted was pins. Sebastian the crab. A midriff-baring Jasmine. Jack Skellington (which I caved over because I love him). They cried tears over these pieces of junk! Fletch approached a paralyzed kid and requested a trade for a Spider-Man pin (attached to the kid’s pin-covered wheelchair), and I was so mortified I wished my wrist could shoot a huge web over him and fling him back to the shitty hotel room.

  —

  The stupid-ass pennies: In addition to the pin craze, Denny also suggested we might want to purchase a (Made in Vietnam—perhaps by an eleven-year-old) smashed-penny album.

  The smashed-penny machines are ubiquitous around the hotel, the monorail, and all the theme parks. The smashed-penny machine allows you to commemorate your ride by inserting four quarters (and providing your own penny!), then pressing a button. The metal works of the machine crank away and then shit out your copper, now oblong and with Buzz Lightyear beaten into it. Awesome. The albums—which come in a colorful array of options and premium versions featuring every Disney character imaginable—have enough slots for fifty ovals. So, in addition to buying the expensive albums, you now have a holder for $50.50 worth of copper turds.

  The only good thing about the Happiest Place on Earth is that I slept like the dead. Probably because that’s how my soul felt. Though each morning I woke up ravenous.

  —

  The food: Which brings me to the food. Or rather, lack thereof. Unless you want kielbasa fingers and a ring circumference the size of a Hula-Hoop, you simply can’t eat there. Funnel cakes and French fries abound; a “small” ice cream is enough to choke both Ben and Jerry. Though, alas, it’s not their brand, but rather some chemical goop that even I, the least farm-to-table/seed-to-anus obsessed person ever, could not stomach. And then there is the theme park’s trademark item of sustenance, perhaps the most shocking thing of all: the gargantuan bacon-smelling turkey legs. People walk around carrying these enormous drumsticks that make them look like Captain Caveman, dining on mutton. It’s like the fucking Flintstones in there. Except instead of one-shouldered cheetah togas, they’re sporting wifebeaters, frattoos of Psi Pi Alpha Sigma Epsilon, and hats with Goofy ears dangling off. We’re talking about grown-ups here FYI. One guy my age was chowing a huge turkey leg with a Yoda strapped to his back. He chucked the bone on the ground and it almost hit Sadie in the forehead. But most people made the effort to at least dispose of the carnage in the appropriate waste receptacle. I once looked into a trash can and there was just a mountain of bones. Every single day at Disney World is like a turkey holocaust that dwarfs Thanksgiving. Piles upon piles of leg bones. The. Nastiest. Thing. Ever.

  —

  The lines (and the solution to them that makes you feel terrible): I’m so not a cutter. I believe in lines. But the average wait at Disney World (on a good day) is two hours. Two hours standing there and then four minutes on the ride itself. What a complete waste of time.

  Sure, you can get a FastPass+ and cut the wait down to a half hour or forty-five minutes, but the ratio of waiting to riding still blows. Everyone I knew said that the solution was to hire a guide, a person who will gladly take your money to help you get past all the Make-A-Wish kids.

  The whole guide racket is a nightmare. I was so upset about the lesson I was teaching my children (“Throw money at someone and you get to skip ahead!”), but the alternative, zigzagging marathon seemed awful, too. So I’m ashamed to say we did it. Our guide was an Australian transplant and he got the equivalent of a litigator’s hourly fee for his evil work. But I credit him with saving us from noose roping ourselves. Maybe he even saved my marriage.

  —

  The characters: Okay, then in addition to junk on a stick and snack bar food, I was told by everyone that I’m a bad person if I don’t take my kids to the “character meals.” These made me feel like I was on another planet. Truly. For the right to watch everyone at the table hold hands to pray before eating their chicken stew and rice pilaf (which came from the hair-strewn chafing dishes at the buffet) and the chance to mingle with one of the princesses working the room, you pay sixty clams a head (no matter how small the head; no child discount!). I’m sure Jasmine’s and Aurora’s and Cinderella’s
proud families in rural Alabama (wait, isn’t that redundant?) tell everyone that little Brianna is in show bidniss. Meanwhile, she’s posing for iPhones in a dress others wear for Halloween. Apparently being a princess is one of the most coveted jobs in the area. I guess it beats stripping.

  One culinary bright spot on this “vacation” was a place called the California Grill. It was not only not bad but had a full sushi bar, a thrillingly long wine list, and an eclectic menu. They also offered a “maki roll” for dessert: gummy worms (fish) surrounded by Rice Krispies treat (rice) and wrapped in fruit roll-ups (seaweed). With chocolate sauce instead of soy. Aces. Disgusting, but A+ for creativity.

  One happy moment at the Happiest Place on Earth

  I’ll grudgingly give credit where credit is due: The fireworks were some of the best I’ve ever seen. My nuggets were awestruck and transfixed, rhapsodizing over each colorful burst of light.

  —

  Like the painful Floridian sunshine burned on my retinas, our experience at Disney is burned into my soul. I won’t forget it. We won’t do it again. Apparently that attitude makes me “not a dreamer” (an actual quote from an Upper-East-Side-by-way-of-Louisiana mom who loves Disney and goes every fucking year).

  I’m fine with that. My kids loved the trip, so it was worth the time and money, but I don’t think they are desperate to go again. Case in point: When we piled on the shuttle to the Orlando airport, the TVs had a farewell message from Goofy, saying, “See ya next time!” Four-year-old Ivy yelled to the animated dog, “I don’t think so!” and Harry and I died laughing. Orlandon’t, that’s for sure! Maybe my nondreamer side has trickled on down and poisoned my children. I’m okay with that, too. ’Cause despite the fireworks, fairies, and balmy weather, the truth is, when I wished upon a star, I wished to be back in New York. There’s no place like home.