Sprinkle Glitter on My Grave

by Jill Kargman

  Through my decades living on the Upper East Side and then meeting kids in boarding school from what one person called “the platinum triangle of Locust Valley, Greenwich, and Hobe Sound,” I have been exposed, often via eavesdrop, to a phenomenon of this rarefied milieu: Rich People Accidents.

  On Odd Mom Out, the character Vanessa, who is an ER doctor, has attended patients with quintessentially Upper East Side maladies: one woman was hyperventilating into a Ladurée bag after kindergarten admissions letters went out, and another had her three-thousand-dollar Indian hair extensions stuck in a Pilates reformer. Had time permitted, we might have had her experience other very true rich people accidents I’ve heard about: the rupture of a breast implant on the Concorde, a medevac for a guy who crashed his Ferrari, or seeing someone choke on frogs’ legs.

  Sadly, many Rich Person Accidents can result in Rich People Deaths. Such was the case for how we got the idea for my Odd Mom Out father-in-law’s demise—leaving Candace the merry widow, in their penthouse. Well, I will share that with you!

  When I was growing up, I heard many tales of people my not particularly athletic (though good skiers!) parents had known who perished on various adventures, from a classmate of my mom’s at the Lycée Français who went mountain climbing in Nepal and fell to his death, to an acquaintance of my dad’s who was skydiving and met the same fate. The basic underlying tone to my parents’ retelling of these tragedies was Jews don’t do that shit.

  You didn’t have to tell me! I never understood what would possess someone to jump out of a plane. Perhaps, I thought to myself, they think life is so easy and they are so privileged that they are somehow dead inside and just want to feel alive. Maybe the challenge releases adrenaline and it’s like a drug to them, rather than, say, a nice meal with wine. Or some pills. Either way, I have never been able to wrap my brain around it, and actually equate it with mild stupidity and hubris in the face of the fragility of life.

  And then…I met Harry. My husband is an adrenaline junkie, and if that is an addiction, then the gateway drug was his skiing (recall the AMF slope he almost killed me on). But as with illegal substances, a person’s tolerance grows as time passes and fetishes are fed. So now regular skiing—even the hardest slopes—doesn’t get him off. Now he goes helicopter skiing.

  When Harry first signed up, I was dead against it. My dad had regaled my brother and me with a horrible Rich Person Accident story about a group of people he knew who went helicopter skiing and were crushed by a massive avalanche that wiped out the entire posse. Lovely. But Harry would be with a group I trusted, and so many other people we kind of knew had helicopter-skied safely, so I relented.

  Parasailing, skydiving, and paraskiing followed (the last one with myself included on tandem—shat m’ pants), but the biggie was the final box to check on the bucket list: swimming with great white sharks.

  I laughed it off for a while; I mean, really, of all the vacation options on erf did we seriously have to plan a Jaws voyage? As luck would have it, Harry got the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. One day we received a save-the-date for a wedding outside Cape Town in the wine country of Constantia, South Africa. Awesome. A few minutes later, I thought Harry was on the computer, booking just flights and our hotel, but then I saw photos of his jagged-toothed friends on his screen. “Um…hi,” I probed. “What the fuck is that?”

  “Gansbaai, South Africa, has the highest concentration of great whites in the world,” he said, beaming. “It’s only six hours from where we are going to be!”

  “I’m sorry, only six hours? That’s, like, another country.”

  “I’m not going to Cape Town and missing this. It’s my one chance to swim with great white sharks, and the best crew in the world is there to take me.”

  As it turns out, the dudes we hired had also taken Peter Benchley when he was researching Jaws and they took countless NatGeo peeps and appeared to be the people in shark watching. Fuck.

  We hauled ass to SoAfs via London, in the last row of coach, where the seats didn’t go back, right next to the shitter. It was the single most torturous flight of my life—and I say that having flown for years with kids and this was just the two of us. Exhausted and sore from being origamied into a sardine can of a seat, we arrived and checked in, showered, had an early dinner, and went to bed so we could get up before dawn for our colossal schlep to our possible deaths.

  The bus ride was interminable and I was filled with dread. Talk about Rich People Accidental Deaths. Harry was courting it! He was going to ruin my friend’s wedding weekend by getting devoured. And on top of that, when I came back to New York, people wouldn’t even pity my widow status. They’d say, Well, he swam with sharks, what do you expect? Others would probably whisper that I was a shit wife because I’d allowed my partner to descend to a watery grave. I became more and more stressed and reminded myself that the website was professional and the testimonials on it had been glowing. I figured I’d be able to exhale when we got there.

  No such luck.

  We pulled up to a house that can only be described—and I am being generous—as a shitbox. It was a ramshackle single-story unit that appeared to be prefab with three picnic tables outside. We were led across the patio and asked to take a seat next to other intrepid murderous-fish chasers. Then our leader got up to brief us about the adventure ahead. As he was talking about his pedigree, one of his colleagues began circulating packets, placing one in front of each of us on the picnic tables. A couple other people—all kind of hippie looking—came out with trays of warm bottled water, sad-looking salad, and gross bulky sandwiches that they placed on an adjacent table. Our pricey package had included a “chef-cooked meal,” but judging by the hideous buffet, the chef’s last name was Boyardee.

  We were asked to read the contents of the contract before us, and sign the last page. The lettering was so tiny that even with my twenty-twenty vision I couldn’t decipher the legalese. I did see various phrases that seemed to jump out like fish, such as “sustained injuries,” “indemnity,” and “in the event of death.” Basically I signed my life away with a Bic ballpoint pen on a picnic table.

  “And lastly, ladies in the group, I’ll need you to raise your hand if you are menstruating!”

  I spat out my water. Luckily I was not surfing the crimson tide. That would have sucked, to admit it to a group of total strangers, but whatevskis. Bullet dodged. It was time to eat.

  I tried to force-feed myself some brown-edged lettuce leaves and a bite of sandwich, but I wasn’t feeling so hot. My husband and all the other guys happily chowed down.

  I looked over and could have sworn I saw the crew of our boat smoking pot. I told Harry, who blew it off, and so I asked one of the other guys.

  “I’m sorry, but…is that marijuana?”

  “No, they’re hand-rolled cigarettes,” he protested.

  Weird, because I know what pot smells like—I despise the smell—and I knew I was smelling it. We were all going to die.

  “Let me guess,” the leader said, putting his hand on my arm. “New Yorker?”

  His chill accent, seaside swagger, and sun-kissed skin all signified an easygoing life, another world from the one I orbited in at home. I nodded yes ashamedly, as clearly my neuroses were a pattern of 212 women. I hated being labeled that easily.

  “Darlin’, we’ve been doing this for decades. You don’t have to worry!”

  He reclined on the bench, propped up with his hand, and I recall thinking if he were any more laid-back he’d fall on the patio floor.

  Next, we broke into groups and were taken to our vessels. After a quick safety lesson for the divers (I was not one—I would watch from the boat, thank you very much), we motored out toward Shark Alley.

  We sat alongside buckets of chum, which was soon thrown around the perimeter of the boat to attract the stars of the show. It worked instantly; within a minute I yelled, “There’s one of those triangles!” and started to sing the Jaws theme. The guy looked at me and
rolled his eyes. “You think you’re the first one to sing that?” Ouch. Sowwy!

  One dorsal fin soon became five, and they were circling us like synchronized swimmers. I begged Harry not to go.

  “This is insane. Why would you go down there with them in a wire cage?”

  “Sweetie, you’re being paranoid. These guys are pros!”

  They led him to his cage in his suit and scuba gear. He looked like an anorexic seal in a seven-foot vertical coffin made of chicken wire. They lowered him down and threw chum right next to his cage. Two sharks started ramming his cage. I got busy trying to stifle screams to avoid looking like a Manhattan nutcase. So far so good. I breathed deeply. I was just starting to feel calm when I heard one of the Phish-blaring bros start screaming.

  “THE TOP OF THE CAGE HAS COME UNDONE!”

  There were choruses of frightened “HOLY SHEET!” (That was the “Soth Efrica” pronunciation.)

  The blood drained from my face and I went into a full-fledged panic. The other divers ran to the side to watch, probably secretly hoping for blood to bubble up. It’s a miracle that I didn’t diarrhea right then and there on the deck, as the whole crew froke and were calling to each other and in a frenzy, started cranking the cage back up to the boat. Two fourteen-foot sharks rammed repeatedly against Harry’s cage, which had a faulty hinge that had somehow opened during said ramming.

  These formerly overly chill and possibly on-pot hippies went from Grateful Dead to Almost Dead from my wrath. But I stopped screaming at them when my husband fell aboard, took off his mask, and vomited all over the place. When he was all done with bulky sandwich-remain chunders, he wiped off his mouth, looked up at me, and said, “That was awesome!”

  Ridick. I was expecting a teary apology for putting me through that, but nay. And the near-fatal cage malfunction didn’t stop the outing either! One of the other divers chickened out, but another went down in the other (nonbroken) cage. He came up so shaken that his vomit didn’t cease until we reached land. I tried to touch his back and ask if he was okay, and he turned around and snapped at me, “No, I’m not okay?!” Sheesh. What a pussy. Granted, I would never do that shit, but my Harry had, and in a fucked-up cage no less. He looked like a champ next to this dude.

  I am grateful Harry didn’t actually kick the bucket while checking that off the bucket list. It’s back to being normal people who don’t put ourselves in harm’s way. For now.

  Listen, I know that I could probably just as easily be killed crossing Sixty-second Street and expire as diners at Mon Petit Café watch me bleed to death. But seeing Harry almost become chum himself reminded me yet again how fragile life is. I say why throw rocks at that delicate balance by risking it all so brazenly? It’s not smart to be a dick tease to the Grim Reaper. Okay, maybe he doesn’t have a wiener under that cloak, but he definitely wields a scythe. So enjoy what you have, be the anti-Icarus, and relish your feet on the ground before you inevitably wind up in it.

  Dead-icated to my family—I’m so lucky to spend life (and eternity) by your sides. I love you so, xo jk

  Acknowledgments

  At a party I ran into the incredible Alina Cho, who told me about her new gig finding authors at Penguin Random House, two days before I was going to shop this to other publishers. I don’t believe in fate, but it was fortuitous, since she led me to the amazing team at Ballantine Books. My editor, Marnie Cochran, is a superstar who put up with my made-up words, font-stickler issues, and cheesephobia about the cover. Thanks to her and the fabulous shutterbug Deborah Feingold, plus the whole pub posse: Susan Corcoran; Quinne Rogers; Kim Hovey; Cindy Murray; Jennifer Hershey; Denise Cronin; and our fearless leader, Kara Welsh.

  Thank you to the best agent on earth, Jennifer Joel, sage adviser and friend, plus Ayala Cohen and the whole ICM crew, including Sean Liebowitz, Diana Glazer, Brittany Perlmuter, and Sharon Green. Thank you also to my lawyer of two decades (!), Steven Beer of Franklin, Weinrib, Rudell, and Vassallo.

  To my best friends, the sisters I never had who keep me laughing: Vanessa Eastman, Dr. Lisa Turvey, Jeannie Stern, Lauren Duff, Alexis Hilton, Dana Jones, I love you so much. Trip Cullman, my partner in crime and best godfather on earth, thank you for always supporting me. A special thank you to Brittany Beeson and Vernette Lochan for all your support and patience. Thanks as well to killer book party hostesses Marcie Pantzer, Jenn Linardos, and Cindy Milazzo.

  To my Odd Mom Out family, led by Lara Spotts, Julie Rottenberg, and Elisa Zuritsky, you made me realize how lonely it is writing a book—I missed our writers’ room and camaraderie the whole time and I cherish our li’l show with all my heart.

  Lastly to all of my Kopelman family, with extra kisses to Mom, Dad, Will, and Drew: You are teachers on how to live life, and make me so happy. And to all the Kargmans, especially Harry, Sadie, Ivy, and Fletch: You make life worth living, and all our adventures and laughter bring glitter to each day. I love you so.

  Also by Jill Kargman

  The Rock Star in Seat 3A

  Pirates and Princesses (with Sadie Kargman)

  Sometimes I Feel Like a Nut

  Arm Candy

  Bittersweet Sixteen (with Carrie Karasyov)

  The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund

  Summer Intern (with Carrie Karasyov)

  Jet Set (with Carrie Karasyov)

  Momzillas

  Wolves in Chic Clothing (with Carrie Karasyov)

  The Right Address (with Carrie Karasyov)

  About the Author

  JILL KARGMAN is the writer and star of the hit Bravo television show Odd Mom Out, based on her novel Momzillas. She is also the New York Times bestselling author of The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund, three novels for young readers, and the essay collection Sometimes I Feel Like a Nut. She has written for Vogue, Elle, Harper’s Bazaar, GQ, and many other magazines, was a columnist for Style.com, and wrote for the MTV shows So Five Minutes Ago and Who Is. Kargman is a graduate of Yale University. Married and the mother of three, she lives in Manhattan.

  jillkargman.com

  @jillkargman

  bravotv.com/​odd-mom-out

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