Crash Test Girl Read online

  It was a bright, spontaneous human interaction that I look back on and smile. There are just so many people in the world, and it’s as easy to talk to them as it is to avoid them. If I’m in the mood, I love nothing more than striking up a conversation, and making that freeing, anonymous, temporary connection.

  * * *

  HOW TO TALK TO STRANGERS

  Let it flow. Allow the conversation to develop organically. If he or she gives you a polite smile, you might make a comment about the weather, the food, and then see where it goes from there.

  Give to get. Reveal a little about yourself, and they will respond in kind, and before you know it, you’re fast friends.

  Don’t push. Let people and conversation come to you, which they will if you smile. A smile is like turning on a light switch that signals “Friendly! Will exchange pleasant words!”

  End it before it gets awkward. Don’t overstay. Classy move: Surreptitiously pay for their drink on the way out.

  * * *

  NO TIME FOR VAMPIRES

  The best friends give you energy. They feed you, not feed off you. Their hearts and minds inspire you and make you feel like you can do more and be better. If you have anyone in your life now that drains the energy out of you with negativity, complaining, whining, backstabbing, get rid of them. Life is short.

  Chapter Five

  Style

  Whenever we planned an explosion on the show, we had a long discussion about which propellant to use: C-4, ANFO, detonating cord, propane, or gasoline for that Hollywood red, pillowy poof. They each had different functions and different visuals. After hundreds of explosions, we all knew which one was just right for the job.

  However, we didn’t limit ourselves to predictable choices. Once, we used nondairy creamer for an episode called “the Creamer Cannon.” At the bomb range, we poured a pallet of nondairy creamer into a five-hundred-pound oil barrel, attached it to a pressurized tank to make it shoot into the air, and, simultaneously, ignited it to create the explosion. We usually used C-4 on the range, so the bomb tech (who, by the way, was just filling in for the day) wasn’t too worried. He said, “Creamer? Don’t worry about the blast shields. Just go stand over there. You’ll be fine.” We were about a hundred feet from the cannon and we thought we’d be okay. After all, it technically was really more of an ignition than an explosion. Semantics.

  We triggered the pressurized vessel, sent the creamer into the air where it ignited into an unanticipated massive fireball. When the blast went off, I thought our bomb tech was going to pee his pants. The wind shifted, and it seemed like the fireball was a growling devil face coming right at us. I screamed, “Run!” Instinctually I grabbed Tory and used him as a human shield, while abandoning Grant completely. So much for altruism.

  Coffee creamer rained down like sticky napalm all around the range, melting cameras, ladders, and our equipment. It smelled really good, though, like burned marshmallow. The sodium aluminosilicate (an ingredient to keep it from caking) in the creamer was what made it so flammable, much more than we, or any of the experts, predicted. It created the perfect thermic reaction for pyros like me, and we got it all with a high-speed camera.

  Armageddon-size sugary fireball + comedic survival techniques + no injury = fun day.

  Decisions, Decisions

  Sometimes you’re deciding which explosives to use. Other times, you’re just picking out your OOTD. (I just learned what this acronym means. FYI, fellow analog oldies: It’s “outfit of the day.”) In both cases, your choice will have an effect. Even if you decided to purposefully reject everything that has to do with fashion and buy all your clothes in thrift stores, you are still making a style statement, such as, “Zero fucks given!” or “Thrift store chic.” Even if you walked around completely nude, you would be telling people a lot about who you are based on what you are (not) wearing. We live in a society where a pink knit cap or a safety pin on your lapel are major statements. Your clothes and “look” are how you present yourself to the world. You supply the clues that will lead people to form a judgment about you, like it or not, believe it or not.

  HOW DO YOU FIND YOUR “LOOK”?

  All Black, All the Time

  MTV launched when I was in fifth grade, and I was obsessed. I’d leave it on all day long, and thought of pioneer VJs Martha Quinn and Nina Blackwood as my buddies. I remember dancing around the table to Michael Jackson and Madonna, and wearing lace gloves, which some might consider a fashion mistake, and braiding my hair to make it all kinky and crazy like the VJs. My somewhat misguided theory was hoping the VJs would help me define my own look and make a cool impression on other people.

  My artsy punk aesthetic continued to evolve in high school and can be summed up as black-on-black, except for one crucial element: my hair.

  Readers, I have a confession to make. I am not a natural redhead. My real color is honey blond, which is a nice shade, but it didn’t play with my eighth-grade look of wild wannabe rock star clothes I sewed for myself. At fifteen, I went to the supermarket, bought a few packets of cherry Kool-Aid mix, and soaked my hair in it until it was bright red. This was way before the days of Manic Panic, and food dye was all I had to work with. I smelled like a bowl of cheap punch and would wake up with pink splotches on my pillow. When it was hot, pink sweat beads rolled down my neck, but it was worth it. As a redhead, like Rita Hayworth, one of my favorite screen goddesses, I couldn’t be a shy mouse. I had to live up to my flamboyant hair, and the color change was what brought me out of my shell.

  From shy to fly, thanks to red dye.

  DRESS FOR THE PERSONALITY YOU WANT, NOT THE ONE YOU HAVE

  I felt prettier, more confident, and unique. I was the only redhead (pink-head really) in our entire school, and no one else in my all-natural friend group would even think of changing their color. By making that one switch, I redefined myself—for myself and for others—and became, almost overnight, a rebel. The persona stuck, and I have never gone back. Over the years, I’ve tried variations, from strawberry blond to oxblood, once bright red with blond tips to look like a Tequila Sunrise, blood red with black streaks, black hair with magenta streaks. I would say, “I’ll try anything once,” and still do.

  Next came the tongue piercing, which I got at seventeen in the back of a hair salon, along with my then-and-now-BFF Brittany and a few guys in a metal band called Pink Toilet Paper. I don’t remember who suggested doing it first, but we were all intrigued by the idea, so I walked in there and stuck out my tongue apprehensively. Like most teenagers, I wanted to stand out and be different, by doing exactly what my friends were doing. I wanted the adrenaline rush, the punk rock badass feeling, which I absolutely got. But by the time I got home, my tongue was painfully swollen. My mother said, “Why are you talking like that?” She was horrified to find out, and I tried to keep her from rushing me to the doctor. I kept it in for years, and even flashed some mouth metal in a MythBusters episode about electric fences. I touched my tongue bar on the fence to see what would happen. (The zap wasn’t that bad.)

  My style went with my rebel persona, and they reinforced each other. Throughout college, I curated my clothing daily. One day, I could have passed for a Metallica groupie and the next a rockabilly swing dancer. My favorite garment was a white leather trench coat. I paired that with red plastic pants, a concert jersey, jewelry purchased at the pet store for restraining large animals, and ornate black eye makeup. The pièce de résistance was a tattoo of a butterfly fairy on my lower hip that I got when I was twenty (now covered by orchids). I had the Happy Goth look down.

  Since I was a broke student, I was a big fan of repurposing normal clothes into quirky masterpieces, making any old or boring thing look new and cool with a pair of scissors. I’d cut holes in the bottom of tube socks and wear them as sleeves (which were also useful in mopping up sweat at concerts, or as an oven mitt while baking). When I had the liquor ambassador job, I’d get tons of free promotion T-shirts. By cutting out the logo, I’d have strategica
lly placed slits and hold the shirt together with a few safety pins. As a belt, I’d use a men’s tie, and always wore a few dozen rubber bands on my wrists. Not only did I look punk rock, I was a walking multi-tool.

  My only brief departure from my SF style was while traveling the world after college. The backpacker is a strange breed. They come in all types, but have a unifying aesthetic: Thai linen pants, sarong skirts, harem pants, Maori symbol necklaces, sandals, buns, tans, body hair, and matted not-necessarily-on-purpose dreadlocks. After a few months of traveling and trekking, I started falling in line. Backpacker brethren always recognize each other, maybe by our fashion code, or the smell. When we meet, we exchange our travel tips and short bios, and a round of one-upmanship of tales of travel trials, often featuring giardia of varying degrees.

  In Jerusalem, I got my belly button pierced, which was a very small deal.

  In Barcelona, I got my nipples pierced, which would have hurt more if not for the anesthetizing quality of local sangria. (FYI: Not recommended for anyone who intends to breastfeed. What a mess that was. It was like feeding my daughter with a sprinkler instead of a hose.)

  After I returned to San Francisco with all my new hardware, it was a natural to return to my punk black-on-black, human multi-tool style, and I stuck with it for years to come. Style does define you to others, and it helps you to figure out who you are, too.

  * * *

  WHAT EVERY CRASH TEST GIRL NEEDS TO HAVE IN HER PURSE

  I was at a wedding shower recently, and played along with the stupid games. One of them was for all the guests to empty their purses, and the person with the weirdest contents got a prize. All the guests upended their handbags. Out came lipsticks and electronics, glasses, wallets, hair accessories. And then there was me. I had a roll of duct tape, a test tube with a stopper, a multi-tool, a plastic replica of a grizzly claw (intended to use on the show about repairing a plane that had been mauled by a bear), oh, and a glass eye.

  The look on their faces as they examined my stuff was priceless. One woman picked up the bear claw and said, “Who are you?”

  Obviously, I won the lavender-scented lotion!

  Not saying you should carry around glass eyes, bear claws, or test tubes, but there are a few things that experimental women should always keep in their bags, in case of a real, or a creative, emergency.

  * * *

  My style idiosyncrasies outed my inner rocker. When I dressed like a rebel, I felt like one. People believed me to be someone who would take risks and sure enough, I started taking them. Which came first, the adventurous spirit or the tongue piercing? My style and personality were inextricably linked. I felt good about myself when I dressed like a proto-punk. It was my look, and I was loyal to it.

  Then, one day, I was riding in my car and stopped at a traffic light. I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror and realized with a shock that I looked like Avril Lavigne. I had socks on my arms, pigtails, six piercings. I started laughing out loud. I’m thirty for fuck’s sake. I took off the socks and the piercings and shook out the pigtails all before the light turned green, and I never wore any of it again.

  That stoplight was an indelible moment. I remember exactly how I felt, a bit embarrassed, a bit horrified, albeit introspectively amused, and deeply centered about making the change. By that point in my life, I didn’t need any help defining myself. I knew who I was, and the message I wanted to project, and teenage pop star was not it. In high school, style had set me free. At thirty, it was time to retire my attention-seeking rebel wear and redefine my style to fit the road-tested woman I’d become, where it’s about the woman, not the wardrobe.

  CHOOSE THE RIGHT TOOL FOR THE JOB AND THE RIGHT OUTFIT FOR THE ROLE

  A wardrobe question unique to MythBusters: “What does one wear to blow up a building?”

  Answer: Anything nonflammable and easy to run in.

  SHOP GIRL

  The word “wardrobe” sounds very professional, and something from another show. I think I speak for the whole crew when I say that the MythBusters style was, for the most part, utilitarian. Usually, I wore jeans and tees, but occasionally, I was supplied with experiment-specific gear, like a hard hat, safety goggles, leather welding aprons, odd one-off costumes like a silver boy-short bikini I wore while being painted head to toe in aluminum paint or special gloves for handling hypodermic needles in a condemned building. Though I did rock the hell out of some hazmat suits.

  As for glamour, forget it. Professional hair and makeup people? Are you kidding? We scrubbed the workshop floors ourselves. I barely used any makeup on camera, because reality TV was actually reality, and who wears full matte makeup and lipstick to fit a pig stomach with plumbing parts? Rookie move. We showed up, did our thing while being filmed by a skeleton crew of our friends like making a home movie, and then we went home. Having a shiny nose or smeared mascara seemed trivial when scrubbing exploded poop off a wall or dodging a fireball. MythBusters was more lug wrench than lipstick.

  In truth, I did try some makeup experiments of my own after seeing myself on TV. Lessons learned: Blue sparkle eyeliner looks stupid on camera, waterproof mascara fails when diving with sharks, and there is no makeup that can withstand a good on-screen vomit. Also, once the show went HD, concealer became your friend.

  Wardrobe malfunctions were unique to the show: A visible bra strap in postproduction would trigger an automatic reshoot. (My rebellion was to go braless, boob-mando, but the joke was on me, because internet.) My bra underwire once stabbed me in the knocker when we naively became crash test dummies in an early episode about the airplane brace position. Also, while welding, I learned the hard way how many flammable synthetics are in women’s stretchy jeans. And gun-friendly shirts are those with high enough necklines to cover your cleavage, thus preventing hot lead shells from landing between your boobs. Worst of all, shortly after having my baby, I peed my pants on camera during a timed test, but managed to completely hide it with a sweatshirt around my waist and finished the scene. The entirely child-free crew had not anticipated how much having a baby fucks up your bladder, and how challenging a long experiment with no breaks would be. (TMI? Welcome to being my new friend. Kinda how I roll.)

  Fans noted on websites that my clothes did seem to be awfully tight. That wasn’t a style choice per se or me trying to be sexy. If you were around machines with moving parts that seem to reach out and grab loose clothing, reel you in, and grind you into hamburger, you would wear tight T-shirts, too. Flouncy pants and peasant blouses could mean a gruesome injury. Early on, I wore scarves because the shop was freezing. Jamie would take one look at me and say, “Stop whatever you’re doing and take off that scarf.” Old footage of me using the chop saw with a scarf loosely draped around my neck gives me the chills. You always had to be on your guard in the shop. As soon as you got comfortable—or warm—that’s when accidents might happen.

  After destroying most of my pants with sparks, grease, animal secretions, and the like, I started wearing enormous men’s coveralls, because I couldn’t find any in my size. I guess the majority of welders are not petite females—clearly an oversight since the best welders I’ve ever met were women (Scottie Chapman!). I had to go to specialty shops deep in the Mission and dig to the bottom of the pile to find something that actually fit. There aren’t a lot of clothing lines for female construction workers, period, and designing a flattering silhouette was clearly not a priority. Comfort and functionality would have to do.

  In the end, none of it mattered anyway. Over the course of shooting an episode, I’d be covered in grease and sweat, my hair would go limp, and my makeup would melt off. A small nose pimple becomes a live volcano on HDTV. We were exactly as gross and disgusting as we looked. The charm of MythBusters was the true grit of the cast and the show. To us, TV wasn’t glitz and glamour. We cared more about how things were made, not how we looked. The aesthetics of the show fit me perfectly, or at least we grew into each other.

  All that said, I like dresses
! Practical comes first for me professionally, but I feel great about myself in classically girly clothes, too. Why can’t a welder be a feminine woman? I enjoy blowing shit up and sparkly shoes. Not simultaneously. Usually.

  In 2009, MythBusters was nominated for an Emmy for the first time. Instead of pulling an A-list move of asking a designer for a dress, I took the D-list approach and bought my own deep purple Gucci full-length gown. Unlike all the other women, I did not wear a push-up bra. That year, I’d just had a baby and wore a super-sexy nursing bra with three pads to sop up the leak from my sprinkler nipples.

  MythBusters was a perennial nominee, and every year, I’d have my Cinderella moment at the awards show in a brand-new dress. I know it seems crazy to spend thousands of dollars on a dress that I would only wear once. Logically, designer couture is an impractical, ridiculous waste of money. I’m hoping that, someday, my daughter will ask for a prom dress and I can repurpose one of my vintage gowns for her. Or maybe I’ll sell them to send her to college.

  Regardless, walking the red carpet in full glam mode was an undeniable thrill that I hope to repeat one day. But what I enjoyed most about it was the inherent contradiction. In my pretty dress, standing tall in stilettos, people didn’t recognize me. I’d watch them realize who I was, and their mouths and eyes would turn into big Os. I shocked reporters, photographers, and even my producers and friends by how well I cleaned up.

  I can’t say I was comfortable out there, neither at ease in the moment nor pain-free. I wore two pairs of Spanx and swallowed down a flock of nervous butterflies. It felt like my organs were shaking on the inside while I fought for “smooth TV star” on the outside. Still, though, I looked good, like I belonged. Only Tory and Grant knew just how nervous I was because I tend to giggle and smile and talk too much when terrified, which was perfect in that situation.