Suck It, Wonder Woman!: The Misadventures of a Hollywood Geek (14 page)

So those bastards broke my heart. But they also made me realize that I wasn’t going to spend one more day trying to make these people like me. I was going to live my life for me and be friends with only the people I truly liked. I was lucky to have learned that lesson. Because my senior year in high school, although it had its fair share of boy problems and drama, was amazing. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t care if anyone saw me. Because I saw myself.

1.
Sent from the women’s bathroom’s glory hole.

2.
Have a ducky day!

3.
Your time is my money.

4.
My body, MY choice.

5.
Namaste.

6.
If you like your freedom, thank a Bush!

7.
This e-mail was sent from inside your house.

8.
Jesus Loves You.

9.
Taking care of business.

10.
Sent from my iPhone.

I had another friend
who was working as an assistant for some studio executive. And when I first moved to L.A., I didn’t know many people and would run around with him while he did errands.

So I’m with my friend one day and he needs to drop something off for his boss at some guy’s house. I didn’t recognize the name but I knew he was successful by the bigger-is-better size of the houses in the neighborhood. After winding our way through the glorious, golden hills we drove through a gate, down a long driveway, past a tennis court that looked perfectly manicured but never used. The inside of the house was dark with lots of leather furniture and mahogany. There was a lot of stuff around, knickknacks, tchotchkes…and, like, way too many places to sit. It was weird. There was a couch, a loveseat, a chair, stool or…something to rest on everywhere you looked. I started to imagine that whoever lived here might not have any legs. Or they might have a really big ass. Or maybe they just really loved to take a load off. They certainly

My friend said he needed to run the envelope to someone in another part of the house, but in the meantime I should, “Go in and meet him. This is his house.”

Okay.

I have to tell you, and this is embarrassing, but I had no idea who the hell he was. Because as I came to find out, he is one of Hollywood’s most successful producers. A while back, he worked on a handful of films that are commonly regarded as some of the best films ever made. One of them was nominated for a Best Picture Oscar. Collectively his films made wads and wads of cash. He still knows and is friends with many of the most powerful people in movies. So, yeah, not about to cross this dude.

All I knew about this man was that he sure loved himself some good sittin’ and since I had absolutely nothing else to do, I might as well meet him. I was intrigued.

I walked into his master bedroom. And no, that wasn’t as odd as it might sound. I quickly realized that at his age being in his bedroom was like being at lunch at The Ivy. Unlike most of us, this man does not use this bedroom just for sleeping, sex and luring young girls into his libidinous trap. Sure, he probably uses it for that, too, but also for breakfast, lunch, dinner, reading, writing, arithmetic, cutting his toenails…this bedroom was the world to him.

I had no idea what to expect. I see an elderly gentleman with his hair perfectly parted, wearing red silk pajamas. The blankets are pulled up around him and the bed is covered in magazines, books, a laptop, notepads and pencils. I’m introduced to him by one of his staffers and he perks up and asks me to come sit next to him on the bed. I didn’t feel uncomfortable. Like I said, this was no mere sex lair. The energy was closer to an outdoor patio where everyone hangs out than an intimate boudoir.

I sat on the bed and he asked me where I was from and who my agent was. Almost immediately he goes: “No, no, no, they’re good but not great. You should be with the big agencies. Give me your number and I’ll make a few calls for you and get you in with the biggest agent in town.”

I told him I was happy with my agent and thanked him for his offer. I think he could tell that I didn’t know who he was. He went into the story of his life. Something about something, I don’t remember…But, someone had made a critically acclaimed documentary about Hollywood, in which he figured prominately, and I should watch it because it’ll show me how I, too, can become successful in Hollywood.

Then he suddenly reached over to his nightstand, opened a drawer and grabbed a copy of the DVD. Wow: so conveniently stacked to give away to every single person who walked through the door. He asked me to grab the Sharpie at the edge of the bed so he could sign it. Great. Cool. Awesome. Maybe the documentary would tell me why he liked to sit so much.

He signed the DVD and handed it back to me. I graciously took it and smiled. “I can’t wait to watch it. Thanks a lot.” He smiled and laid his head back on the pillow. Then he said, “I want to show you one more thing.”

He asked me to grab a trinket on his nightstand. I stood up and walked around to his side of the bed. He pointed to a little box. On the nightstand were roughly fifty different antique boxes—most of them bronze or gold with little jewels on them. I noticed a picture of a famous actress who happens to be in one of my all-time favorite movies. It looked like they were in love. This guy used to date her? Okay, I’m impressed. I picked up the tiny, jeweled box and he told me to open it. I opened it and saw what looked like a metal top. You know, one of those things you spin on the ground and just watch…spin? So, it looked like a metal top or maybe a small wine opener. My interest was piqued. I love antiques and this was clearly some kind of music box or toy or…

“What is it?” I asked excitedly.

There was half a beat, maybe less.

“You use it to masturbate with,” he responded.

I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly.

“What?” I asked.

“Women used to use it to masturbate with…I’ve used that little box on so many women and it can really make you happy. Go ahead, it’s a gift.”

Now, I’m not the kind of person who’s surprised by much in life. I’ve been through a lot. But this, well, this stunned me. I mean, I’m sitting here holding an antique—what, dildo? And it must have been put up the vaginal canal of a third of Hollywood at least, women who are now so old their vaginas are dry and crusty. Like they’d be sold as day-old goods in the bakery of vaginas. Then something else even more disturbing strikes me: I’m likely holding the magical dildo box that was once used on or by my big-screen heroine. Her lady parts? Noooooo.

I mean, I’m sitting here holding an antique—what, dildo?

“No, thank you. I’m good,” I said.

I put the box back on the table of what I realized then was probably just fifty antique dildo contraptions, said good-bye and headed out the door. I was one step outside of the bedroom before he called out to me, “Don’t forget your DVD!”

I turned around, scooped up my signed copy of his life story, thanked him again for having me in his home, then went into the foyer and sat on the second leather rocking chair I saw and tried to rock myself out of a state of shock. Aha! Maybe that’s why there were so many places to sit.

Of all the All-American
things there are—baseball, freedom, Arnold Schwarzenegger—pie is by far the most delicious. A buttery, flakey, slightly browned crust is filled with vanilla pudding, bananas sliced into coins and topped with whipped cream right out of a can. That is exactly how I want my pie. And I want it a lot. My love for pie is not a mystery. But how it bonded me to fans in such a serious way that to this day—I still get a few hundred dollars’ worth of pie gift certificates every year—is. Let’s try to get to the bottom of it! Yay, the bottom!

I have always had a love of pie. Not in a freaky,
American Pie
way, but in an obsessed, normal way. That is, I’ve always loved pie like anyone else—I wanted it during holidays, on special events, and most Tuesdays. Okay, maybe I did love it a little more than most. Instead of birthday cakes growing up, I insisted on five pumpkin pies—three for me personally and two for family and friends to share. Wow—reading that out loud makes me sound like the saddest little fat kid around. But I promise I wasn’t. I just really loved pie.

Eventually I grew out of my pie phase—just as with Luke Perry I learned that everything is a phase. Well, I thought it was a phase, anyway. But then, one fateful day a few years ago, I was having lunch at Marie Callender’s and noticed a selection of pies on the right side of the menu. And there were pictures, too. Chocolate cream with whipped cream, banana cream with meringue, fresh strawberry topped with whipped cream—the list went on and on. A pie for every feeling, and there is a season, turn, turn…er…my bad—“Every pie for every
moment
.” It was hot steamy pie porn action for families!

I chose the chocolate cream pie with the meringue topping. It was—how to put this gracefully?—fucking orgasmic. (And as the first of a series of apologies in this chapter, let me now say sorry to the staff of Marie Callender’s for the unfortunate loud moaning that took place that afternoon and any bodily secretions I may have inadvertently left on the seat.)

Every day for about a month after that, I went thirty minutes out of my way to get a piece of pie. One day I decided to ask how much an entire pie was—just for price comparison! Well, turns out an entire pie was twelve bucks and one piece of pie was like six dollars. And it just so happens that day I wanted two pieces of pie. So you don’t have to be a superstar “mathlete” to figure out what was the smarter and more economic thing to do. So I did it.

The night I bought the whole pie I was having friends over for dinner. While everyone began eating the roasted chicken and vegetables, I excused myself and snuck into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and took out the pie. I cut two pieces and in the privacy of my own kitchen, with five friends in the other room eating a sensible dinner, I horked down two pieces of banana cream pie as fast as I could. Multiple orgasms. And no one was any wiser.

To tell you the truth, I never thought there was anything wrong with that. I’m an adult. And if I’d rather have pie for dinner, then I don’t have to answer to anyone. Can we all agree on that? But I suppose the issue wasn’t that I chose the pie over fresh vegetables. The problem was that I was secretly inhaling pie and I didn’t want anyone to know about it. Like a crack addict, I was hiding my addiction. And this actually may have been more difficult than hiding a crack addiction because of the slurping,
nom nom nom
sounds emanating from my kitchen—and because crack doesn’t leave frothing, chocolatey swirls all over your face.

After about a month of my pie binge I started noticing certain side effects—for starters, I couldn’t button my jeans. Why did it take me a month to realize this? Juicy sweatpants. And I was not alone. Juicy Couture sweatpants have ruined more women than Jack Nicholson. Seriously, look around at all the girls who used to be skinny. They’re all wearing leggings or jumpsuits. It’s the only way you can truly be in denial about your weight gain. Stretchy pants fit everyone! So even when you’re turning into a fatty, like I was, you can still feel sexy. See how they get us? Clever!

On
Attack of the Show
we often take questions from fans, and one day a fan asked, “How do you stay in such great shape?” My co-host, Kevin Pereira, answered that he works out and eats right. Good answer. And as he was answering I tried to decide what I would say. There’s the classic Hollywood answer: “Oh, I eat whatever I want and it just falls off—I guess it’s just good genes.” Then there’s the real answer. I guess I was just so sick of a lot of these Hollywood role models creating unrealistic body images. Because the answer isn’t just genes. It’s makeup, wardrobe, Spanx, Adderall, anorexia, bulimia. These super-skinny starlets don’t eat junk food and then wish it away. So here I am, faced with this simple question. And I want to give an honest answer.

“The truth is,” I started, “I’ve been eating so much pie lately, I can’t even button my jeans.” And I lifted up my shirt and showed my size twenty-five jeans unbuttoned, and my belly busting through.

The reaction I got from fans was both entirely unexpected and immediate. By the end of our show, five pies had been delivered from across the street. Fans had seen my confession and called in pies to be delivered to the studio.

Since then I’ve received probably about a thousand bucks’ worth of pie gift certificates and whenever I go somewhere and meet fans, I get, like, ten hand-delivered pies.

All of this pie love eventually led to my desserting coup de grace: About two years ago I leaped into a massive chocolate cream pie when nearly 70,000 fans signed a petition to try to make a National Pie Week. And yes, it was my idea to jump into the pie. And yes, it was my idea to do it dressed as a French maid. Hey, we did it for the cause!

The pie crust was actually an eight-foot swimming pool that we had to drive to Bakersville, California, to secure. In order to construct this sweet monstrosity we went through twenty-four tubs and $2,500 worth of Cool Whip. The estimated weight of the pie was about 4,000 pounds.

National Pie Day (totally a real holiday, yo, and it’s on January 23) was coming up. At some point in preparing for the show that day one of the producers turned to me and asked if I had any ideas to celebrate the holiday. You mean, any ideas other than eating a shitload of pie, I wanted to say. Instead, just off the top of my head I suggested possibly asking fans to sign a petition to amp it up to National Pie Week! And if we succeeded in this noble effort, I would jump into a giant pie. I didn’t think about the consequences or press or pie lodged into places it shouldn’t be. (Use your imagination—no, wait, don’t!) It was just an innocent suggestion that I expected to get shot down in favor of a good old-fashioned pie-eating contest or something. Silly me. Silly, destined for a giant pie me.

The next day at work I heard that the producers thought the idea was great. This was the plan as it was laid out to me: “We’ll tell fans we need 10,000 signatures by the end of week and then you’ll jump into a giant pie.”

And…go!

My co-host, Kevin Pereira, chimed in: “We’ll get 10,000 signatures by the end of day. We have to make it more. It’s not that exciting if it’s an easy number to hit.”

Kevin was right. In fact, by the end of the show that day, just an hour after we’d announced the petition, we’d already reached 10,000 signatures. So we decided to up the ante. If we could get 50,000 signatures by end of week, not only would I jump into a massive pie, but I would jump into a massive pie dressed as a French maid. The thinking was this—giant pies are delicious; French maids are sexy. Voila!

We scored over 60,000 signatures. There was a special French maid outfit made for me at Trashy Lingerie in Los Angeles. Commence palpitations.

To be honest, when we realized we were going to reach the number, I started to freak out. Cool—so I’m going to put on a patent leather French maid outfit and then jump into a ridiculously large pie…and then what? I just sit there like some stupid-ass chick who thinks she’s hot and the audience loves me so much they’ll just sit there watching me…sit…in pie? Ugh. I despise girls like that. But it was too late. I’d announced the petition and my plan. So how could I save myself from this?

“Kevin has to jump in with me,” I blurted at a meeting. “And he has to wear a French maid outfit, too.”

If I jumped in as a French maid it’s dirty and sexy…and that’s about it. But if Kevin put on the same outfit and jumped in with me? Well, now that’s entertainment. Dirty, sexy entertainment.

Finally, it was jump day. We had, literally, cleared out all of the greater Los Angeles County area of its chocolate pie filling. (Yes, if you had gone happily to the market that day all excited to make a chocolate pudding pie only to find the shelves barren, blame me.) Everyone at work was all aflutter. I’ve personally never used the phrase “all aflutter,” but that is exactly how to describe it. There were people I’d never seen in our studio hanging around with anticipation. They apparently worked in sales and legal and the café. Even the president of G4 came down to witness the spectacle. It was intense and palpable and really fucking uncomfortable. There were photographers and press and an extra dose of enthusiasm among our producers, staff and crew that we only had on special occasions. It was like that feeling you get when it’s field trip day in elementary school. Plus pie.

As I stood next to this giant pie—which by the way, looked ohmygodsogood!!—a producer pulled me aside and told me, “Okay…so you’ll drop your robe and then
slowly
walk over to the ladder. When you get to the top, take your time. And then unbutton the top shirt
slowly
and really play it up. And then when you’re ready, jump in.”

Man, did I feel cheap.

I couldn’t believe this was my goddamn idea. I was standing in a robe, with heels, garter panty hose and some lame lacy headband, and I was regretting every moment of it. I could see the crowd behind the cameras with all their own cameras, smiling and giggling.

“No,” I responded to the producer’s directions. “That’s so stupid. There’s no way I’m turning this into some strip show. That’s just gonna make me look like an ass. I’m gonna be one of those girls who gets up trying to look sexy and thinking that that’s good TV. It’s not.”

“But, Olivia…. that’s what the fans want,” the producer responded. “What else are you gonna do?”

“I have no idea. But, I’m not doing that,” I said. “I’ll just do whatever comes to me.”

5, 4, 3…We’re live.

I drop the robe, smile, and stand on top of the pie, looking down about seven feet to its frothing surface. Kevin begins the countdown and suddenly it was a swirling combination of fun and regret. Somehow we managed to laugh at ourselves through the nerves.

And then I jumped. And I hit the bottom of the pie pan with a thud. I was promised that the pie filling was so thick, there was no way I would hit the bottom. (Who would even know that, by the way? Maybe some sort of pastry chef/physicist that we didn’t have on staff.) There was a single metal bar at the bottom of the pie and I managed to hit my shins directly on it, which actually takes some real skill. I winced with a pain that was so intense I thought I might pass out. I never really thought about it before, but I think when it’s my time to go I actually would like to drown in pie. And then I remembered that I’m sitting…in a giant pie…dressed like a naughty French maid. And everyone is watching. Oh, hello! I couldn’t just sit there crying. I shook off the pain and sat up. Which, it should be noted, is so not easy to do in a massive pie. Try it sometime.

The whole crowd was laughing and applauding and waiting for me to
do something
. Kevin leaned over with a giant spoon and fed me some of the pie, the pie that surrounded me, my pie, and asked me how it was. The room went very, very quiet, as everyone waited for my reaction. Then I just went with it, did the only thing I could think that made sense—I started splashing my hands in the chocolate pudding like a baby in a bath and burbled,
“Om nom nom nom nom!!!”

The crowd erupted again.

Of course I knew Kevin was going to jump into the pie as French maid numero deux, just as soon as he ripped off his tearaway tux. But in all the excitement I had forgotten and when I heard the crowd cheer I turned around to see him stripping down and I squealed with excitement. (He looked surprisingly good in that French maid outfit.) He jumped in, also hitting the metal bar of death, and the crowd went even wilder. Like wild, pie-loving cheetahs they went! In the end it made for great TV, the press loved it and the ratings were huge. And Kevin and I didn’t feel cheap. We did it the way we wanted to do it. We had fun and stayed true to our sensibilities and our humor.

Afterward, our dressing room showers looked like the set of a snuff film directed by fucking Keebler elves. There was chocolate pie filling smeared across the shower walls and gathered in piles on the ground. Kevin had to jump into a swimming pool later that night just to wash out all the pudding lodged in his ears. I’d like to take this moment to officially apologize to whomever was in charge of cleaning up our showers, because it had to have looked really scary in there.

The video and pictures of the pie jump were on about a million Web sites and blogs the next day. I had friends and coworkers and even studio heads e-mailing me about it. Most of the messages went something like, “Hey! Saw you jump into a pie? That was awesome.”

In the end our petition, with its almost 70,000 signatures, wasn’t enough (or maybe not important enough) to move the government to make it National Pie Week. What, like fixing health care is so important?! But it was a great week for us. And a great stunt. And I might even do it again…but probably not in the French maid outfit. How
do
they get any cleaning done in those things, anyway?

While I’m not totally sure why fans have connected so strongly with my love of pie I think it’s partly because we live in a world where everyone on TV appears to be perfect and says their life is perfect and fans can’t help but be envious and try to emulate their on-screen heroes. Not to sound too grand but I ripped up that veil and showed my belly and flaws and basically said it was all a facade. And then I jumped into an enormous chocolate pudding pie wearing a sexy French maid outfit.