Crash Test Girl Read online

  Dedication

  FOR STELLA RUBY

  AND ALL THE ADVENTURES

  WE WILL CRASH TEST

  TOGETHER

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Chapter One: Career

  Chapter Two: Love

  Chapter Three: Money

  Chapter Four: Friendship

  Chapter Five: Style

  Chapter Six: Alcohol

  Chapter Seven: Sexuality

  Chapter Eight: Depression

  Chapter Nine: Creativity

  Chapter Ten: Setbacks

  Chapter Eleven: Bravery

  DIY Crash Test

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Introduction

  If you’re reading this, you probably know me as one of the science presenters from MythBusters.

  Hate to break it to you: I’m not a scientist. Yep, that’s right. I don’t even have a background in science. No college degree in biology, or PhD in physics. No late nights in the library memorizing organic chemistry. No internships in a lab coat. In fact, the only times I’ve ever worn a lab coat were for photo shoots, when my cohosts and I were gritting our teeth and trying not to roll our eyes. If you’ve seen MythBusters or any of the other shows I’ve hosted, this might surprise you. In fact, I’ve made a living from science entertainment, am best known for my contributions to the field, and even hosted the White House Science Fair and have inspired thousands of girls to become scientists themselves (or so they tell me via social media and at conferences).

  One of the most gratifying things about being on MythBusters has been talking with teachers and reading articles that say our show changed the way science is taught throughout the country and abroad. Educators play our shows in their classrooms; parents rely on it for homeschooling. Kids re-create our experiments in their labs. They’ve used our methods as a jumping-off point to come up with their own myths to bust. When I was growing up, I hated my formal, textbook-y science class. Too much memorization, not enough inspiration. Now kids look forward to getting their hands dirty and using their imaginations in a less formal setting, thanks to the influence of our show.

  We had no idea this sea change in education was going on while we were at the shop, working elbow deep in grease and grime. We were just regular people having fun and blowing stuff up. We didn’t expect such amazing side effects, and we sure didn’t expect to become a pop culture phenomenon. It all came as a pleasant surprise, especially for me. For many years, I was the only female host in science TV. At network parties, I would be the lone woman in sight. Now, there are many more of us on the air and in the room. I never set out to change things for teachers, parents, or other women in the field. But the status quo has changed, and I’m humbled and happy to have been a part of that.

  So how’d a nonscientist like me end up with “science expert” as a job title? As it turns out, you don’t need to wear a lab coat to be a science geek. You don’t need a PhD to be fiercely curious. You don’t need an engineering degree to figure out what happens when you put a Mentos in a Coke bottle. (Spoiler: it explodes!)

  Let’s throw out the old idea of what a scientist is. Say the word, and you might picture an old, gray-haired white man with glasses and a beaker filled with some mysterious substance. I was the opposite of that when I joined the show, a twenty-seven-year-old woman with an art degree and flaming-red hair, tattoos, and body piercings.

  I was always taught that art and science were mutually exclusive. There are artsy types (me) and nerds (them), and I fell one hundred percent on one side of that line. But after a season on the show, I straddled it. Art and science are both creative processes about using the tools at hand, being struck with bright ideas, and getting your hands dirty. By living as a “scientist,” I saw how adding an “artist” sensibility to science and vice versa lifted them both.

  I started thinking of myself as something else, an experimenter. Our experiments weren’t dry and precise, like measuring how much liquid to pour into a test tube. We were messy and bold. We were just winging it a lot of the time. And, while I may not be a “scientist” in the typical definition of the term, I do have a forklift license, keep duct tape in my purse, know how to blow up, cut in half, or light on fire basically anything you put in front of me, and have been conducting experiments professionally for fifteen years.

  As a cohost on MythBusters, I wound up getting a world-class science education while conducting tests in order to prove (or disprove) all kinds of urban legends. Or as host Adam Savage used to say, “Helping settle bar bets professionally.” Just as none of the hosts held degrees in science or were experts in those fields, the show was not originally intended to be a science show. But since we had to use engineering, chemistry, biology, statistics, physics, and math to, say, build a rig to split a car in half, we were thought of as a de facto science show after all. Our objective was never to teach or preach to viewers about the importance of STEM (science, technology, engineering, and math). We were just having fun and learning along with the audience about how things worked.

  To do so, we employed the scientific method, the perfect narrative vehicle for proving and disproving myths. If you’re not familiar with this elegant process for, well, figuring shit out, here it is in five simple steps:

  Question. Learning begins with “I wonder what would happen if . . . ?” For example, “What would happen if I dropped a Mentos into a bottle of Coke?”

  Hypothesize. Formulate a theory about what’s going to happen based on what you know or think you know. For example, you could hypothesize that dropping a Mentos in a bottle of Coke would add minty freshness to the sugary sweetness.

  Experiment. Do it. Drop the Mentos in the Coke and find out exactly what happens: Brown foam explodes all over the walls, the furniture, in your eyes, and up your nostrils.

  Analyze. What the hell was that? Analyze the components of Coke and Mentos, study the chemical reaction that occurs when combined. Because the surface of Mentos is dimpled, dropping one in carbonated soda causes nucleation, the rapid multiplication of bubbles that have nowhere to go but up and out of the bottle. Hence, foam explosion.

  Conclude. The answer to the original question is “If I drop this mint into the bottle of soda, I will need to steam clean the carpet.” You should probably conclude to do it outside next time, with safety goggles.

  Using the scientific method, my cohosts and I asked questions and tested over 900 hypotheses, filmed over 7,200 hours, set off 850 explosions, used 43,500 yards of duct tape, and loved every minute of it.

  At some point during the show’s long, fourteen-season run, it dawned on me that the scientific method could be applied to everything, and that I’d unwittingly been dropping the figurative Mentos into the Coke bottle of life all along, asking questions, forming hypotheses, experimenting, analyzing results, and drawing conclusions to figure things out.

  Admittedly, my particular style of experimentation has been more like crash testing: I strap myself in, step on the gas, and head straight into a wall with my eyes open. It’s always a crazy ride. I’ve gotten a bit battered and bruised (via bad decisions, bad relationships, dead-end jobs, to mention a few), but I don’t mind my wounds. Scars are cool. Like wrinkles, they prove you’ve really lived.

  If I hadn’t crash tested through life, I wouldn’t have landed the job at MythBusters, met my husband, made my best friendships, managed major depression, or gotten my wild life under control. I’m a living, limping example of how being a risk-taking methodologist can bring you love, success, and inspiration. I had to be a crash test girl to evolve into a ro
ad-tested woman.

  If you’re a professional scientist reading this, great! If you’re a curious person who loves the idea of dissecting what went wrong and deciding how you might do things better next time, welcome! The brilliance of the scientific method is that it is for everyone. Seriously, everyone. The scientific method can become a guiding light for you, as it is for me, and I’m excited to show you how I did it.

  The key is to fling yourself into experimentation and to be mindful about your results. My hypotheses were often misguided, as you’ll see in each chapter ahead. My conclusions were usually unexpected. Wisdom lies in asking questions rather than in being presumptuous about knowing the answers. After things didn’t go the way I thought they would a hundred times, I learned this overreaching Life Conclusion: To be successful, you don’t have to be right, but you do have to understand, with a scientist’s emotional detachment, why you were wrong.

  With that in mind, I’ve written this book, a collection of stories about the many times I’ve been wrong, pushed boundaries and used critical thinking (How can this be better? What went wrong? What went right?) to understand what happened, learned and grew from it, and continually improved my life and relationships by measurable degrees.

  I’ve organized this book into eleven chapters that describe how I’ve crash tested through the major areas of my life (not in order of importance!)—career, love, friendship, money, sexuality, depression, alcohol, setbacks, creativity, and bravery—and how I unknowingly was using the scientific method all along to ask questions, form hypotheses, experiment, analyze results, and reach conclusions. You can read the book from front to back, middle out, back to front, however you prefer. My message is to elevate experimentation and bring it from my life lab to your living room, and my goal is for the reading experience itself to be free-form and fun. I’m using every tool in my belt in these pages, and I’ve got a ton of them. Every chapter is packed with life hacks, rough drawings from my sketchbook, advice, experiments, lists and funny stories about my work on TV, real-life crash-and-burn moments, and all the times I’ve crashed and learned.

  Before you start reading, I recommend fastening your seat belts. Helmets and safety goggles are optional.

  Chapter One

  Career

  On MythBusters, we took on a “myth” that seemed so obviously true, I didn’t understand why we were devoting screen time and energy toward confirming it. The Bull in a China Shop experiment premise was just a goof, a gag. We went to a rodeo bull pen, set up aisles of foamcore shelves (as not to hurt the bulls), and loaded them down with china platters, plates, bowls, cups, and let the bull into the pen to destroy it.

  We were ready to film some beautiful high-speed footage of carnage. Instead, the bull trotted through the set and danced gracefully around the shelves without knocking over one dish. So we let in another bull. Same result. It was like they were dancing a pas de deux between the shelves, a graceful ballet of pirouettes, without breaking a single cup. We let in another, and another. Six bulls walked into the pen and up and down the aisles of shelves. In total, only one plate broke.

  My cohosts Tory Belleci and Grant Imahara and I couldn’t believe it. Tory broke more dishes while we were shopping for them. This experiment became very important in the overall arc of the series. A one-off gag that we thought was a “sure thing” taught us all a lesson (applicable for TV shows and life in general): No one knows what’s going to happen. Even if you feel one-hundred-percent sure of an outcome. When it comes to assumptions, throw them out the window.

  Finding My Dream Job

  After college, I took a year to travel the world (more on that later). The same-age people I traveled with hoped to use their gap year to sort out some things before coming home and deciding on the next big step in their lives. One friend said, “I’ve figured out what I want to do. I’m going to grad school.” Another said, “As soon as I get back, I’m going to get into public policy.”

  I ended up finding answers, but only to philosophical matters about who I was. Regarding my next step on the road of life, I had nothing. Well, I solidified in my mind that I was an artist, a maker. I knew how I wanted to approach life—as an introspective, mindful explorer with curiosity as my default setting. But as far as how I’d manifest this in the form of a career, I didn’t have a clue.

  I returned to my parents’ house, a new place they had moved into while I was away, with my stuff in cardboard boxes. I was glad to see my parents, but it wasn’t a happy homecoming. This wasn’t home to me at all. I was twenty-three, I’d seen the world, and then I landed here, in a strange guest room in a strange house. I lasted a week before I decamped to stay with friends in San Francisco. I was broke, jobless, clueless, couch surfing. I hadn’t found my life compass that pointed to my true north.

  It was time to start over again and build a life from scratch. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew how I was going, with the spirit of adventure, and openness to experiment and try new things.

  HOW DO YOU TURN YOUR PASSION INTO STEADY, RELIABLE INCOME?

  How was I going to turn painting, sculpture, and bad poetry writing (aka my skill set) into gainful, gratifying employment, regular meals, and a decent apartment? Even free spirits had to pay their bills. In San Francisco, I’d be lucky to get four walls and a door with hinges instead of a beaded curtain. Since I had no step-by-step plan for how to begin an unconventional life, I turned to the conventional wisdom of beginning a traditional one:

  Earn a college degree.

  Get internships in your chosen field to build your résumé.

  Step up to an entry-level job.

  Upgrade to a better job at a better company every few years.

  Land safely at the top with flexible hours, a hefty salary, and perky perks.

  IF YOU FOLLOW THE TRADITIONAL PATH, YOU’LL EVENTUALLY LAND THE JOB OF YOUR DREAMS

  A Job, Any Job

  In the late ’90s and early aughts, several years out of school, I was stuck at step two of the traditional five-step path I’ve described above, trying to get a handle on what I was going to do with my life. In the meantime, I had to earn a living, so I started temping all over San Francisco. I filed at a real estate office, fielded calls for a stockbroker in the financial district, catered galas for a food service company, and passed out flyers for a psychic on Market Street. A real psychic would know that NO ONE likes flyers.

  I helped a pool shark at a bar distract his marks for a cut of his winnings. I even drove to wealthy communities to find designer clothes and shoes in the thrift stores, which I would buy for pennies, and resell in San Francisco consignment stores on Haight Street for huge profit margins. (Seriously, a pair of barely worn Ferragamo heels for one dollar at Happy Dragon Thrift Store? Sold them for twenty dollars and I heard the buyers sniggering like they took me. Ha! Dinner and beer on me!)

  I had a reputation for always having an angle or a game to keep my pockets full, but my dream job was definitely not side-hustling for dollars. The only dream I had was this: I wanted to somehow make money by making art.

  I asked around for job titles with the word “art” in them, and that led me to dig out my best version of a secretary outfit and fake smile my way into a position at an advertising agency. It was downtown, two trains and a bus away from my apartment. This was before we had cell phones so I did a ton of reading on that commute. I would amuse myself by writing poems on playing cards and then leaving them for the next commuter to find.

  * * *

  MUNI TRAIN

  Late for work with morning commuter woes. Shoeless old man clips the nails on his toes? An errant nail just hit my head! What the fuck! Maybe there is a country where this shit is good luck.

  MUNI TRAIN

  * * *

  From my receptionist desk at the ad agency, I thought maybe I’d finagle my way into a lowly job in the art department and climb the ladder from assistant to art director. (See steps three and four from the “traditional path”.) It seemed l
ike a decent creative trajectory, accessible, and potentially lucrative. In the meantime, I answered phones. No one really talked to me unless you count “Wanna get a beer after work?,” let alone mentored me. The phone I was tasked with answering barely even rang! All the calls came into the first floor receptionists. What they couldn’t handle was bumped to the second floor, where I sat. This hardly ever happened. When the phone did ring, it was a thrill. I’d grab at it like a drowning woman would a life preserver for a brief interaction with a real human, and then it was back to the monotony of staring at my desk or doodling or occasionally looking at Myspace. (Remember Myspace? No? It was once a thing.)

  I spent a year in this quiet desperation, sitting at the desk, staring at a phone. It became clear that I wasn’t going to get a single promotion, let alone climb the corporate ladder to success and financial freedom. I began sending out résumés to other agencies, galleries, and museums. No one ever replied to my mailings. I’d fought to get my foot in the door, but I was just as stuck as ever, and my take-home pay was a lot less than reselling vintage clothes to thrift stores.

  I realized something important: If I did somehow, magically, climb the ladder and end up with a job in the art department, where I’d be helping sell cars and cornflakes, would that be fun? I’d been so focused on the path, I forgot to check where it led.

  Hot Shot

  Meanwhile, as I continued to spend my days waiting by the non-ringing phone for someone to talk to or notice me, I signed on for a night job as a “sampler.” Some people used the phrase “shot girl,” like a beverage slave at a nightclub, but the spirits distributor I worked for considered itself too upscale for that description. I had no such illusions. You could call me Miss Piggy for fifty dollars per hour.

  The job was to go to a few designated bars each night, give out two hundred coupons for free drinks, and talk up the cocktail with customers. I was trained on the process of making each spirit, and could answer almost any question about it. But mostly, I just danced away from bad pickup lines. If you were in San Francisco in the early 2000s, and a highly enthusiastic woman gave you free Scotch and waxed poetic on the finer notes of smoke or heather, it might have been me. I represented Tanqueray, Hennessy, Johnnie Walker, Grand Marnier, Moët, Cîroc, and several Diageo spirits.