by Cazzie David
In some ways, though, it was a relief. My nausea wasn’t the result of neurosis; I was actually ill with . . . a parasite. I wouldn’t have to worry about causing my own nausea anymore, only the parasite causing it, which, while just as frightening, was at least much less confusing. On the bright side, I hadn’t really had anything substantial to complain about since my parents’ divorce. Silver linings.
When I told my friends about my parasite, they had mixed reactions. One was horrified and made no effort to hide her judgment: “Ew, don’t you get that from not washing your hands after you go to the bathroom?”
Another friend was thrilled that she now had a reason why I didn’t gain weight super-easily.
“Ohhh, that’s why I’m not skinny, because I don’t have a parasite!” (That wasn’t why.) “Ugh, you’re so lucky. I want one so bad,” she said as she eyed the cup I was drinking out of.
I refused to research the parasite further, because I knew if I learned anything about it beyond its name, I would have to kill myself. All I knew was that it was some kind of living organism feeding off my body, which alone is the most disgusting concept imaginable other than throwing up.
My diagnosis came with a long list of things I would need to do to get rid of it: take two weeks of antibiotics, take a massive amount of expensive vitamins, and give monthly stool samples to check the level of parasites. I would also have to go on a strict paleo diet to alleviate my stomach problems. If you don’t know what a paleo diet entails, the concept is “eat like a caveman.” And as hard as it was for them to find food back then, it’s just as hard to eat like them now. Nothing white, sweet or delicious, salty or satisfying.
The last thing my doctor informed me of was that the parasite was contagious, so I couldn’t share drinks or anything with anyone. I told him I had a boyfriend and asked if that meant he had the parasite too. It did mean that, he said. Terrific. So that night, I had to tell my hot boyfriend that I had given him a parasite. Note: If you’re ever looking to end a relationship, this is a great direction to go in. I can only assume it’s worse than having to tell your partner you gave him an STD, given what followed.
He was put on the same antibiotics as I was, and we were instructed not to kiss for at least two months or else we would be “giving the parasite back and forth to each other.” How could we go two months without kissing? Kissing is the only difference between being in a relationship and not being in one. I was beside myself. My boyfriend, however, seemed totally fine with it. I was totally not fine with him being fine, but in his defense, it’s hard to keep kissing someone who you know is preparing a stool sample in the next room.
Speaking of stool samples, they cost two hundred dollars. The fact that I was paying to do a stool sample made the process even more unsettling. If you’ve never given a stool sample before, and I’m pretty sure you haven’t unless you have a Jewish stomach or are seventy, I’ll spare you the details. Just know you have to put “the stool” into different tiny plastic bottles by using tiny little plastic tools. It’s like a fun science project! With your shit! Once you are done with the stool sample, you have to put it in your REFRIGERATOR overnight before you can mail it. Yes, the same refrigerator that stores the food you eat. My roommate was not okay with this. Nor should she have been. There was human feces parked next to her Granny Smith apples. I’m sorry, I seem not to have spared you the details.
After craving bread, cheese, and sugar for a month and having no physical contact with my boyfriend, who was being hit on by others on a daily basis, I got my first stool test results back. My doctor got right to the point: the antibiotics didn’t kill the parasite, and I would have to do another round of them as well as continue with the paleo diet, the abstinence, and the stool samples. Because of an article my mother once sent me about the deadly long-lasting effects of antibiotics, I was distressed just by taking the first round. But what could I do? My greatest fear was nausea, and my body was now home to a worm. At least I imagined it was a worm; I still haven’t looked it up. So I took the pills for another two weeks. Spent another two hundred dollars on a stool test. Pissed off my roommate and grossed out my boyfriend. Mailed out my shit in a package and waited for the results, again.
Weeks later, the parasite remained, and my symptoms were getting worse. I was so desperate to never give another stool sample again and keep my boyfriend that I decided to get a third opinion. Doctors usually hate me because I say yes to all of their questions—you know, just in case. “Have you been light-headed recently?” “Um . . . now that you mention it, yeah. Sure.” “Have you been having any body aches?” “I guess. Why not.” My new doctor was a beautiful Asian woman who immediately made me feel at ease. I had to remind myself she was a doctor and not a therapist when I started to break down about my boyfriend and me not being able to kiss for the past two months. I told her about how I was diagnosed with a parasite because of my nausea and stomach problems, that I was giving monthly stool samples, that I had done two rounds of antibiotics, which made me even more scared for my stomach, and I was on a strict paleo diet.
She reviewed all of my test results and informed me that I did not have a parasite, nor had I ever had one. What I had was anxiety that was so out of control, I had given myself the symptoms of a parasite. Yaaaayyy . . . I was just crazy.
It was unclear if I was misdiagnosed accidentally, for money, or simply for the doctor’s amusement. I’ll never know for sure. I was definitely not happy to be in the same place I was previously, with no understanding of how to control my brain or body. That will surely be a lifelong journey. Anyway, I was determined to tell everyone who knew about my parasite that I was misdiagnosed so they’d know I was actually very hygienic and had unimpeachable bathroom habits. The only person I didn’t tell about my misdiagnosis was my boyfriend, since the only thing that would be more infuriating to him than me having given him a parasite was me never actually having given him one in the first place. No, but it’s honestly fine, it’s cool. It was a good experience.
* * *
Privileged Assistant
Cazzie’s oppositionalism and “I don’t care” attitude can be seen as an attempt to save face. They permit her to attribute failure to not trying instead of leaving her with the experience of having given it her best and having to see that her best isn’t good enough. The fact that she is a child of high achievers makes her situation that much more poignant.
—Excerpt from neuropsychological evaluation of Cazzie David, 2007
If there’s one thing everyone already knows about me it’s that I’m a privileged white girl. And for that, I offer my most sincere and humble apologies. What’s worse than a privileged white girl in this day and age? Nothing. Maybe Republicans, definitely pedophiles, racists, terrorists, and, in my opinion, people who plagiarize ideas and creative content. Nevertheless, us privileged white girls are not a popular bunch.
People say being privileged is a blessing and a curse. No, no one’s said that. It’s obviously only a blessing. But if there were a downside, it would be that people inherently, but justifiably, hate you for it. Even privileged people hate other privileged people for being privileged. No one will ever take a liking to that aspect of your character. No one has ever said, “She’s super-cool, she comes from money.” Although they have said, “She’s surprisingly super-cool, considering she comes from money.”
In any case, it’s technically not my fault. I didn’t ask for it. Not to say that if I had the choice, I wouldn’t still choose . . . privilege. So, yes, if I had the choice, I would have made that choice, but I didn’t choose it.
Reader rolls eyes. We get it, Cazzie, you’re aware of your privilege.
Good. Then I shall continue.
I experienced all the stereotypical symptoms of growing up with privilege one would expect: not knowing what a Ross clothing store was until last year, being diagnosed with the classic privileged-person neurosis, hypochondria. My guilt makes me certain it’s only a matter of time before I
developed a fatal disease. I still spend almost every day in crippling fear that tomorrow it will come, as it would only be fair penance to offset the privilege I was given.
The circle of privileged guilt unfolds thus: Remember the world is absurdly sad and unfair to almost everyone but you → get sad/hate the world → feel guilty for feeling sad and hating the world when everything in your world is just fine → try to continue to live your life → remember the world is absurdly sad and unfair, and so on. I was born into a life that didn’t let me develop a social or psychological immune system, so just about everything gets me sick. In high school, to slightly relieve my guilt, I’d drive around my neighborhood every afternoon offering rides to women I saw walking to the bus stop after their work. Some would be frightened when I’d pull up, roll down my window, and ask if they wanted a ride like I was a young, female pervert. Others were shocked. I couldn’t tell if it was because they were surprised one of these privileged pieces of shit was making a nice, albeit inconsequential, gesture or because it was such an inappropriate, perhaps even offensive one. Regardless, I continued to do it for years until the day I pulled up next to a woman and asked if she wanted a ride, and she turned around and revealed herself to be a scary, toothless witch lady. Fully aware of the guilt that was bound to follow, I locked all of the doors as soon as she went to grab the handle. She was still grasping onto it as I sped off. It must have seemed like I was playing some kind of sick prank by asking her. It haunts me to this day.
As ashamed as I am about my immense privilege, there isn’t much I can do to hide it. That’s because I was also lucky enough to be granted the misfortune of being a child of a celebrity. Undoubtedly, the only thing people hate more than a child of privilege is a privileged child of a celebrity. Again, not my fault. Though I do think God wanted people to hate me as much as I would turn out to hate people. He’s so funny like that.
I don’t feel like a child of a celebrity. I can’t relate to them. I would rather die a violent death than be a Golden Globe Ambassador (the child of a celeb who walks the other celebs off the stage). I couldn’t post a photo of myself with winged eyeliner and a blazer and write, Thank you so much @chanel for making me feel so beautiful or Thank you @valentino for getting me out of my sweats for once! Not that Chanel or Valentino is sending me anything. Besides, do any of these children of celebrities do anything apart from having a face? Maybe the reason I can’t relate to them is because what I actually am is just an ugly child of a celebrity?
A psychologist would probably say my hatred for children of celebrities could be boiled down to self-loathing. I guess I am just as predictable as the rest of my vapid breed. We all have to be in the arts! God forbid our mediocre creativity isn’t shared with the world! To make matters even more typical, I’m attempting to follow exactly in one of my parents’ footsteps. My hope is to be the Garrett Leight of comedy. Garrett Leight is the son of eyeglass designer Oliver Peoples. Garrett also started a glasses line. He’s doing well. No one prefers Garrett’s sunglasses over his dad’s, but they still take his frames seriously. I don’t find writing as authentic or quaint a career path as designing sunglasses. The doomed reality that I have to be a writer when I find it such an embarrassing cliché has weighed heavily on me—I assure you, if I could do anything else, I would. If I were smarter, I would have gone to law school and perhaps defended people in court. Not super-important cases, I’m too sensitive for that. But I’d defend . . . oceans? No, I can’t see pictures of sad fish.
A terrible truth about society is that it has always been nearly impossible for anyone to succeed (especially in the arts) without privilege. I’m sure even Aristotle’s father had a nice plot of land, because only the privileged have the privilege of being left alone with their thoughts, as the rest of the world’s minds are inundated with thoughts of survival.
Ever aware of the problem of privileged children, my parents did everything in their power to prevent my sister and me from undergoing a full transformation into the worst-case scenario of that type. They kept us down-to-earth by giving us minimal attention and never being proud of our accomplishments, by making us think everything was a privilege, even them speaking to us. I’m kidding. Kind of. But one thing they did do was have us get a job every summer after turning fourteen.
Probably due to my privilege, although I prefer to blame it on being a “creative,” I’m not what someone would consider the hardworking type. In all aspects of life, I tend to do the minimal amount of effort needed to pass. My first job was at a bookstore on Martha’s Vineyard (at least it’s not the Hamptons?), and while all the other employees moved around with near-constant smiles on their faces, I made a chair for myself out of a pile of books and half-heartedly asked customers from afar if they needed anything. I was, of course, fired.
As soon as I graduated from college, it was of the utmost importance for me to start earning a steady income. My mother and I started brainstorming job ideas, a difficult task when almost nothing is enjoyable or interesting to me. I tried to think of jobs that would come with an activity to pass the time, like being a receptionist where I’d be stuck at a computer all day and could learn to play World of Warcraft or working at an art-supplies store so I could draw? My mom kept pushing for restaurant hostess, which I knew wouldn’t work out for reasons such as my lack of approachability, my unintentional unfriendliness, and my severe self-consciousness. But she was convinced the best idea was for me to work at the local Starbucks.
“No,” I said without hesitation.
“Why!”
“Mom, you know why!”
“I don’t. I think it would be perfect for you. It could help you develop better social skills.”
“I don’t want to take that job away from someone who actually needs it,” I explained.
“You do need it,” she informed me.
“Right . . .”
It wasn’t my best excuse, although it was true. But I also just didn’t want to work at Starbucks. Sorry! Is that so bad? Can I feel that way? As soon as she suggested it, I envisioned the imaginary tweet of the one person who would miraculously recognize me: Why is Larry David’s daughter working behind the counter at Starbucks?? Is that really necessary LOL? Or, worse, a meme: me miserably handing someone a coffee cup and the text below reading When the recession hits your Seinfeld money.
My mother accepted my refusal to work at Starbucks after I came up with a more calculated excuse: “You want me to just give people plastic all day long? Do you know how depressing that is?” She agreed. Fuck plastic.
As I was about to choose working in a furniture store—for the sole reason of there being many comfortable places to sit—my dad decided he was going to do another season of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Before being excited for my dad, I was excited for me. What a great opportunity derived from sheer nepotism. I told my mother the idea, and she was delighted.
“It would be an experience you would remember for the rest of your life, watching your dad do what he loves. Oh, the memories you’ll have. You can write about them in a book one day!”
“Yes, Mother, that’s exactly why I want to do it . . .”
When I told my dad I wanted to work for season nine, he was thrilled. “Oh yeah? You wanna work for your pop?” Of course I did, I’m a lazy privileged piece of shit. There is no fear of failure when working for your dad—that’s why it’s been the go-to job for fuckup privileged children for centuries!
I had previously interned and PA’d (production-assistant-ed) for many summers, so I’d racked up a pretty impressive (nepotistic) résumé. PA’ing is the lowest tier of the film-set caste system. You’re the first one on set and the last to leave, and your job is essentially to do whatever it is anyone from any department asks you to. As an entitled millennial, I felt I had surpassed coffee and lunch pickups, especially considering, you know, I’d be working for my dad. I decided to aim higher.
Later that week, my dad’s assistant called to congratulate me on my new PA job.
“Thank you. Yes, I’m very excited. Just one question, though: Are there any other positions available?”
“Well, it’s a film crew, so unless you can do costumes or lights, that’s all there is for you to do.”
“Right, yeah, that makes sense. What about, like, social media director, though?”
“What’s that? We don’t have that.”
“Exactly! So what I could do is create and be in charge of the Curb social media account. I’d come to set for an hour, take some pics—”
“Oh, no, HBO takes care of all that.”
“Right.”
“But don’t worry—I made sure to tell everyone not to treat you any differently just because it’s your dad’s show,” she said.
“Oh, you did? You didn’t have to tell them that.”
“No, everyone was really cool about it. They’re going to treat you just like all the other PAs.”
Fuck.
Soon enough, all of the new PAs met at the Curb office for an introductory meeting where we were told that we’d be working twelve-hour days, starting at five thirty or six in the morning. A little early for my taste.
Later that night, I told my dad in a somewhat joking manner that these hours just weren’t going to work for me. For a different job, I’d do it (not true; I’d try to find something else), but for my dad? Didn’t seem sensible.
He told me that if those were the hours, then those were the hours, and I’d have to go whatever time they told me to.
“Even though you’re my dad,” I said slowly.
“Even though I’m your dad.”
“Even though you’re my dad, I have to go in at five thirty a.m.”
“Yep. And if you don’t, you’ll be fired.”
“So, no dad perks? I might as well be working for not my dad.”