Suck It, Wonder Woman!: The Misadventures of a Hollywood Geek (15 page)

It might not be Cassavetes but I’m proud of that moment. I’m proud that young girls out there can see a girl who has hips, a butt, and some fat on her arms can get a chance to make it in Hollywood. And that even with the roundness of my belly and my carb-loaded lunches, I can still be asked to be on the cover of magazines. I can have my pie and eat it, too! And then have some more when no one is looking.

In interviews I’m often asked what I think about “being a sex symbol.” And my answer is always: “That’s very nice. And if people consider me sexy, I think it’s great for young women to see a real woman, with real breasts and thick thighs considered sexy. I hope that changes the insanely narrow definition of sexy we generally see in the press and on television. Young girls should be proud of their imperfections and curves.”

And then I think:

Suck it, skinny bitches!

Here’s the scene:
I’m on the set of this horror movie, and I’m doing my first scene with an experienced Actor. The movie takes place inside an insane asylum and centers around a power-hungry doctor who was giving patients his own medical concoctions that end up turning the patients into flesh-eating zombies. It was a really fun movie to shoot and I loved my time on it. I especially love telling this little story.

Actor plays the creepy older doctor and I play the tired, but good-hearted nurse. In my first scene I’m attacked by a patient in a hallway and Actor walks in and saves me. End scene.

End scene? Not if you’re Actor!

At the very end of the scene, he turns to me and says, “I should check your neck…meet me in the shower.” CUT! The director runs up to us. “Great. Really great. Actor—let’s try it again, but leave out the last line you added. Great!”

This was good advice, mostly because this line was not in the script.

And…action!

I’m choked by a patient. The doctor rescues me and says, “Meet me back in my office. I’ll check your neck. You need a shower.” CUT! The director runs up again. “Great. Really great. Actor—I think we need to leave the last line out. Your characters aren’t dating.”

Actor: “Nooooo. I think it would be great if my character and her character have a thing going on and then we cut to them in a shower and she can be wearing a white shirt.”

Apparently it’s true: all actors do want to direct. I’m standing there, eyes wide open, fumbling through my memory trying to remember where he read that in the script.

“Uuumm, yeah…Your characters aren’t dating. And I don’t really think we need that,” the director says. “So, let’s just do it again—it’s great—we’ll just do it without that line.”

Action!

Choked, doctor rescues me and…“I really should check your neck. Meet me in the shower.”

Cut!

Damn.

!

The finished edit does not in fact have this line. From what I hear there was some clever editing to keep it out.

But, I gotta hand it to Actor. He had a vision for his character and he wasn’t letting anyone stop him.

Just woulda been nice if we shared the same vision.

Growing up in an
Air Force family, I moved around a lot. And yes, at times it was fucking hard. It’s unbelievably difficult to walk into a new school where everyone has already clawed their way to a particular social status and try to be welcomed in. If you think of a new school as a lion’s den and all the other students as bloodlusting lions who want only to sink their razor fangs into your flesh and rip and rip and rip, until a river of crimson has washed the whole world away, then you will have in mind a mild version of what I’m talking about. The reality is, as a new student coming into the lion’s den, you are not always welcome.

And it’s not about being a girl. Or that girls are more catty and protective of their circle and don’t like other pretty girls or any of that stereotypical bullshit. The fact is, at that age, no one wants a new person to be added to their world. Especially if that new person could conceivably steal their boyfriend, innocence or Game Boy. If you’ve seen even one after-school special in your life, you understand exactly what I’m talking about. It’s already hard enough to make it to whatever social class you’ve made it to, and then to have some new kid come in and possibly dethrone or replace you creates a lot of negative, nervous energy. That’s like one of those rare New Age-y sounding ideas that also happens to be true—weird!

Whenever I’d go into a new school I would spend the first few months without any friends at all. Sure, this let me master my
Super Mario
,
Tetris,
and
Street Fighter
skillz, but still. Thankfully I had a sibling who went to the same school with me, so we would have each other to eat lunch with. Which, as we all know, is the most difficult part of the school day. Uuughh—I absolutely despised lunches or recesses. If it was regular class, there was a teacher and we all sat in our own assigned seats, listened to her and did our work. But now, out in the wild frontier of the playground or in the lunchroom wasteland where seats weren’t assigned by alphabetical order, but by popularity, a flood of anxiety would wash over me. The unlucky ones were forced to eat by themselves or make new friends or
try
to make new friends. And then they got shot down by cooler kids. No thanks. I’d rather sit by myself. Hey, at least that way nobody would make fun of my lunch. Except my lunch—which does start talking to you if you’ve been alone long enough.

In fifth grade I moved to a new school and of course it all started over again. This was a period of my life where I wore all my hair on one side of my face, covering my eye and weighing my head down so it was always tilted to the left. I sat there in my new fifth-grade class and prayed for senior year to roll around. It couldn’t come fast enough.

In fifth grade I moved to a new school and of course it all started over again.

Then one day a note was passed to me. And it read, “Will you go out with me? Jeremy.” He was a boy with brown, spiky hair who wore glasses, striped Polo shirts, and braided belts. I actually didn’t even know what his note meant. I didn’t think about boys or dating or getting asked out. I folded the paper and put it in my awesome unicorn Trapper Keeper. At recess, Jeremy came up to me on the swings and asked me again, “Will you go out with me?” I responded, “Go where?” I honestly had no idea what he was talking about. Like, outside? Or maybe to the supermarket? No idea.

The other girls around me starting laughing and I suddenly realized what he meant. He stood there by himself, no friends around, awkward and nerdy. And he was the only one, since the week that I’d been at this new school, who had said anything to me. He was a loner nerd and I was a loner new girl with weird fucking hair hiding my face. If it wasn’t exactly love, it was better than nothing at all. I could almost hear the drum solo of our own personal power ballad.

We went on our first date to the mall and went to a Spencer’s gift store and to the arcade. We didn’t exchange more than ten words all day. It was like a date with a mime. That was our only date and while Jeremy would never be confused for Han Solo or Leonardo DiCaprio, it was still awesome. Finally someone had been nice and sweet to me.

As I went through different schools and continued being the new girl there was always one thing I desperately wanted—to be in the popular group. Who didn’t, right? That to me was the answer to all my problems. When you were in the popular group no one fucked with you, you always had someone to eat lunch with and you had a team of classmates to cheat on tests with. The thought that I might be popular some day gave me something to shoot for; it was what I aspired for in every school. And Lord knows getting there was not going to be easy. But you know what? Through every school and state and country, the one group of kids I could always count on to be sweet and welcoming and let me eat lunch with them was the geeks.

After a few years of moving to new schools I stopped being afraid to be lonely. It took me a while but I finally realized that there would always be geeks. And geeks aren’t concerned with being popular or making sure they’re voted homecoming princess because their whole life they’ve been on the outside. And let me tell you, once you’ve been on the outside, you find out that it’s actually pretty awesome out there. It’s much easier to be yourself when nobody is watching…or better yet, you don’t care if anybody is watching.

So why would I rather date a geek? Because they’re who I relate to the most. They’re the ones who always saved a seat for the new girl at the lunch table, or invited me to play Dungeons & Dragons in the computer lab at recess (when they needed the services of a halfling illusionist) instead of sitting in the shade by myself. (Like the good geek I was, I avoided the sun.) Because geeks are smart and passionate and really sweet people. And because geeks made me comfortable being myself and not feeling the need to conform.

I’m asked a lot if I’d ever date a geek. The answer is hell, yes. I’d prefer to date a geek. And let me be clear that the word “geek” today does not mean what it used to mean. A geek isn’t the skinny kid with a pocket protector and acne. Being a geek just means that you’re passionate about something. There can be computer geeks, video-game geeks, car geeks, military geeks, and sports geeks. Geeks are now sexy and empowered and strong and creative. I mean, just look at Bill Gates. Or the Google guys. Geeks are empowered and strong and creative. And that’s sorta sexy, right?

So if you are you there, Geeks, it’s me, Olivia. Would anyone like to come over and play
Call of Duty 4
with me? Or, if you’d rather, I’m sure I’ve got a twelve-sided dice somewhere around here.

When I started working
at G4 I thought I would be able to continue acting in other projects at the same time. And within the first six months of starting on
Attack of the Show!
I booked two different theatrical jobs. But because of my G4 time commitments, I wasn’t able to take on the additional work. I started to become creatively frustrated and stunted. I was having a great time on
AOTS
and the ratings were fantastic. But I needed to do something else, too. I needed to become a different character and create something new for myself. That’s what I love about acting—putting on a new persona, delving into a new world and just pretending. Or, alternately, putting on tights and gold, bullet-deflecting bracelets and letting ’er rip!

So, yes, I had an artistic void that needed to be filled. A creative itch that needed scratching. A performance bug that needed…swatting? An inspired vaginal condition that needed ointment.

Um, forget that last one.

Anyway, I decided to start doing skits for
Attack of the Show!
. This was around the same time that rumors were circulating that Wonder Woman was going to be made into a feature film. I called up G4’s comic book expert and my close friend Blair Butler, and told her I’d love to do a skit about Wonder Woman and what it’s like for her to be a
female
superhero—there are no pockets in your super-spandexy hot shorts, invisible jets are hard to find and the bad guys are always hitting on you.

We shot the Wonder Woman skit and it was so much fun. I put on the spandex starry shorts, red bustier, tall red boots and headgear. I felt…powerful and indestructible—I felt like a superhero! I felt badass enough that if I saw the real Wonder Woman I would’ve told her to suck it! It’s funny how putting on a costume can completely change your state of mind and how you walk. I totally now understand how everyone looks forward to Comic-Con and dressing up. You feel invincible and strong and any social awkwardness you might normally have is hidden behind a mask…literally. Blair and I had a blast shooting the skit. I was running around, posing, being a badass saving people…but eventually you do start to feel like you’re becoming the character—and that’s when trouble happens. There was a fight scene where Blair dressed up as Cheetah and I had to take her down. I threw her to the ground and the next thing I heard was a loud crack—it was Blair’s head hitting the concrete. Oh, shit. I completed the scene and didn’t let her injury ruin the shot. Because hey—it’s already happened. Why ruin the shot and have to have her do it again? And yes, I would’ve stopped if she screamed out in pain or yelled “cut,” but she didn’t. Thankfully, the cost for Blair was just a small bump. But now when I shoot skits I’m much more careful when I bludgeon someone to the ground. In fact, we’ve come up with a safe word: Petunia. When I hear that, I know we’ve got to stop immediately. Or buy flowers. Luckily we’ve never had anyone use the safe word…yet.

But now when I shoot skits I’m much more careful when I bludgeon someone to the ground.

Now, little did I know at the time, but this was the beginning of what would turn out to be my calling card on the network. Soon after the great response came back from the network on that first skit, we created a master list of all the geek icons that we could turn into a skit for me—Slave Leia, the Baroness from
G. I. Joe
, Emma Frost from X-Men, Silk Spectre from
Watchmen
, Lara Croft, the Wonder Twins, and Catwoman, just to name a few.

I love doing these skits, but at some point it gets to be a little much. I mean, really, can someone answer this for me: Why are all female superheroes packed into spandex and hot shorts? Okay, of course I know the answer. I know why they’re all scantily clad. It’s because men draw them and if there is one thing men love it’s boobs! And legs! And boobs! But really what they love is boobs.

The truth is, I actually dig the outfits. They’re sexy and fun and I feel really fucking awesome in them. But, Jesus Christ, you can’t eat for a good week before you put these things on. Not even pie. Sigh.

When I put on Wonder Woman, I didn’t eat any carbs for a week (suck it in, Wonder Woman), didn’t eat past 7
P.M.
and did Pilates morning and night. I got a spray tan for the first time (first of many) and hated every second of it. When you get spray-tanned you are in a booth with a total stranger and you get completely naked. It’s like Times Square in the seventies. As she sprays you with the cold dark liquid, you can see the tan land on your skin. It’s as if you’re getting painted. I call it “getting dipped” because that’s what it feels like. Like you are just a giant human ice-cream cone getting dipped in delicious caramel dipping sauce. Holy crap, I’m hungry.

And then there’s the bustier. Contrary to popular belief (and what you see thanks to the magic of Photoshop), I don’t have very large breasts. I actually created my own bra that specializes in giving you amazing cleavage, especially when you wouldn’t normally have it. I created this bra on the set of the Wonder Woman skit. Because when I first put on that bustier I noticed how sad my boobs looked, how very un-Wonderful they looked, and how powerful the outfit was. Didn’t really match, you know? So I fashioned my own bra. I’d love to tell you exactly how I created my bra, but I can’t. Trade secrets, bitches! Because I’m in the middle of creating and patenting it as you read this. But I promise, for the next book, I’ll give out a free bra with every book you buy. Deal? So I invented a bra and my boobs have never been the same. Some mornings they thank me and other days they just scream at me and cry, “Just leave us alone! We’re not meant to be pushed up so goddamn high! We need a break. Just one day of relief.” Which reminds me, I have got to get back to listening to my
How to Speak Boob in Five Weeks or Less
tapes.

Now for something a little bit unpleasant: the hot shorts. Every girl hates her ass. It’s true. And I am no different. Except that no girl hates her ass as much as a girl whose ass is packed into a Wonder Woman costume. So here was the scene: Me, hating my ass, in full Wonder Woman gear and hot shorts. Running. (Despite how horrible I’m making it sound now, it is actually one of my favorite outfits. And I hope to one day put it into the Smithsonian…or at the very least be able to wear it when I’m eighty. Sorry for that visual. Old lady ass in hot shorts is generally not a pretty image.) In short, I could’ve used the assistance of another superhero: Magical Ass-Slimming Man.

This is difficult to admit out loud, but one outfit that I actually 100 percent regret is the Slave Leia outfit. I know it’s a surprise that I regret it because the pics have gone everywhere and a lot of people seemed to really like it.

Here’s what happened. We were going to shoot a
Highlander
skit at the
Star Wars
30th Anniversary Celebration. I had my outfit specially made for me and it was very expensive. And rad. Before a shoot like this I usually diet for at least three days to look as lean as possible. But for this one, I guess I was just having one of those weeks and I thought to myself, “Whatever, you look fine. Just eat what you want.” Big mistake. Big, big, enormous, jeans-busting mistake. When I shoot a skit in our studios, it’s a controlled environment and I know where the camera is at all times. I know how to position my body for an angle and how to yell at someone for taking a picture of my ass. (Note: like this—“Don’t take a picture of my ass!”)

But when you’re in a public setting, with massive amounts of fans, and you’re dressed as the sexiest character of that genre in barely anything, you DO NOT get photo approval over everyone’s cameras at the event. Ipso facto or whatever, there were pictures of me from every angle, and not all of them were flattering. When people tell me I’m being silly for thinking that and that I “looked great,” I tell them they’re wrong. Then I yell: “Don’t take a picture of my ass!” So that’s why I have vowed to never wear the Slave Leia outfit in public again. And most likely not even for a skit. Sorry, but I just can’t do it. Hey, you try putting on a gold bikini and hang out with Jabba the Hut. It’s no picnic. It’s not even a light snack.

The Lesbionic Woman was a fun one to shoot with less anxiety because I was fully dressed for that skit. The premise of the skit is a parody on
The Bionic Woman,
but instead of bionic, she becomes faster, stronger, and incredibly good at munching female muff. In the skit you see me wake up and, realizing I’ve become lesbionic, I begin to fight crime with my lady powers. I save the world by making out with the female assassin and my kiss is so powerful she caves in right away.

Before we did that shoot, the producer asked if I wanted to cast the girl to kiss, or if I knew someone I was comfortable kissing. The only person I could think of was my spray-tan lady. She wanted to be an actress and she saw me naked all the time anyway, so I thought it was perfect. I’ll help her out and she’ll make me less nervous. Plus—discounted spray tans for life!

I’d never kissed a girl before on camera and was not really looking forward to this one. Not that there’s anything wrong with it or with my spray-tan lady, it’s just not something I’ve ever wanted to do. And it probably didn’t help that my spray-tan lady was really excited about the scene and told me how she practiced with friends.

(I will pause here while you run to your computer, search for the video and possibly rub one out and/or consider hooking up with your own spray-tan lady. Ready to continue? Great.)

So we went in for the kiss and it was so…glossy. Just totally glossy. Two girls, both wearing a shit-ton of lipgloss. And, I’m sorry to report, it wasn’t very nice. She was a good kisser, but all that gloss just made it gross. It was like kissing a Slip ’n Slide that had dressed for a night out. Perhaps you’d like me to say that it was amazing and we went home and finger-banged each other. And, sure, that would be hot in a way. But, sadly, what you see in the Lesbionic skit is as far as I took it. But hey, at least I saved the world.

The last thing I will say on all this costumery for now is that dressing up as a superhero is surprisingly hard. But despite all the working out, tanning, makeup, special bras, not eating and spandex…it’s also pretty fucking cool. I mean, there aren’t many jobs around where you get to beat up bad guys while wearing go-go boots. (And, no, vigilante stripper does not count.) So it’s just too bad for me that being Wonder Woman is not a real vocational possibility (it’s not, right?). Guess I’ll just have to settle for the next best thing—dressing up
like
Wonder Woman, crushing fake fools to dust and shouting intimidating smack at anyone who dares cross my path.

Stuff like: Don’t take a picture of my ass! And: Suck it, Wonder Woman!