Book Signing

All posts tagged Book Signing

On making it big (in relative terms).

Published February 23, 2014 by mandileighbean

Hello all! I hope your weekend is passing enjoyably.

My author event on Tuesday was a definite success. I’d like to thank everyone who registered, attended, shared links, and patiently tolerated my shameless self-promotion. Walking into the beautiful Toms River Library to where the event was set up – with a podium, posters, a table with a tablecloth – I forgot who I was for a second. In that glorious moment, it didn’t seem possible that such blessings and wonderful opportunities could come to me and yet, there they were.

It was a wonderful evening and again, I’d like to thank every single person who helped to make it happen in whatever way he or she chose.

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AUTHOR EVENT AND BOOK DISCUSSION!

Published February 11, 2014 by mandileighbean

Hello ladies and gentlemen, and readers of all ages!

Exactly one week from today, Tuesday, February 18th, from 7:00 until 8:00PM at the Toms River Branch of the Ocean County Library, I will be holding a discussion and book signing about my debut novel from Martin Sisters Publishing, entitled HER BEAUTIFUL MONSTER. If you are interested in attending, even if you are not sure you can attend, you MUST register or the event will be cancelled.

SAY YOU’LL BE THERE! The link to register follows:

http://engagedpatrons.org/EventsRegister.cfm?SiteID=2161&BranchID=770&Branch=Toms%20River%20Branch&EventID=195306

As always, thank you for your support and I really, really hope to see you there!

xoxo

On paranoia and vindication.

Published February 3, 2014 by mandileighbean

Happy Super Bowl Sunday! I was rooting for Denver because I adore the Manning family, but alas; it seems neither brother can finish the job this season.

If you’re in the Toms River area on Tuesday, February 18th, please stop by the Toms River Library for a discussion and book signing with me!  It’s begins at 7:00PM and will last until 8:00PM!

I also just want to add that I believe the most romantic notion(? idea? not entirely sure which word I want to use) is two people thinking about one another without the other knowing.  It’s nice to think another is thinking of you in that unique way.  It’s beautiful when it’s organic and not manufactured or fished for, but the kicker is the object of attention may never know.  It is within that beautiful frustration the romance lies, in my humble opinion.  Just throwing that out there, I guess.  Forgive me, but it had been some time since I was random.

Enjoy this week’s prompt!

 

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #12: “A man sneezes painfully.  He looks in his handkerchief and finds something that looks like a microchip.”

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ACHOO!  The sneeze rocked Baxter’s body, sending him backwards before he aggressively shot forward, trying to right himself.  It was a vicious and unrelenting sneeze.  He kept his eyes closed for a moment or two, as if it would help steady his breathing and help his bodily functions return to normal.  “Wow,” he said, and opened his eyes wide to ensure the world had neither stopped nor drastically changed while he had been rendered incapacitated by the sneeze.  He shook his head to clear it.  He pulled the handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and blew his nose.  “Damn,” Baxter said.  “That really hurt.”

 

“The sneeze?  Man up,” Alex smiled.  The smile wasn’t entirely genuine.  It was more queasy and nervous than anything else.  In fact, Alex’s normally bright and expressive eyes were clouded over and shifty.  Baxter had just been about to comment on the physical change which also seemed to alter Alex’s winning personality.  He was sweaty and trying to look everywhere all at once.  Baxter was just about to comment on the paranoid behavior when the sneeze had interrupted and completely knocked him flat.  He couldn’t remember what he had been thinking, or what he had been discussing with Alex.  He finished blowing his nose with a flourish, but did not return the handkerchief to the breast pocket.  He leaned closer to Alex and lifted his chin so his friend would be able to peer deep within Baxter’s nasal cavities.  “Is it bleeding?”

 

Alex pretended to look for about a second.  “No, dude, you’re fine; hey, do you know how long that van’s been there?”

 

“What van?”

 

“The dark blue one without windows; behind me and to the left, on the corner.”

 

Baxter shrugged.  He was more concerned with his aching nose.  He crossed his eyes to see the blurred bridge of it, and was rubbing it tenderly with the tips of his fingers.  “I didn’t see anything.  Did you see anything fly out of my nose?  I feel all cut up inside; I’ve never sneezed like that before.”

 

Alex stole a glance behind him.  “I’m sorry.  I guess … Baxter, I think that van is following me.”

 

Baxter nodded, but was intently focused on the handkerchief gripped in his hand.  Would Alex care if he opened it up and inspected whatever had been so readily rejected by his body?  It was a less than savory habit, admittedly, but Baxter really swore something had come shooting out.  How else could he explain the pain?  He was completely convinced that the sneeze had not been normal and had half a mind to march himself to the emergency room for a professional opinion.  “What makes you think you’re being followed?”  Baxter continued the odd conversation to be polite to one of his oldest friends, and to distract him so he could inspect the handkerchief.

 

“I’ve been seeing it everywhere, Baxter.  When I go to work, it’s always a car or two behind me.  When I go to the gym, it’s always parked on the opposite side of the lot.  When I’m in my apartment, I catch a glimpse of it from the window, down in the street.  It’s been going on for weeks.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Baxter asked, encouraging his friend to continue.  He had discreetly placed the handkerchief on the table and was slowly peeling back the corner that was folded over.

 

“And,” Alex licked his lips and found that his mouth had gone dry, “I think my phone’s been tapped.  There’s all this weird clicking and buzzing when I’m on the phone.  Sometimes the phone rings and there’s no one there, just silence, but they won’t hang up until I do.”

 

“They don’t hang up?” Alex repeated lamely, to prove he was listening despite the fact that he was not paying attention.  With the one corner unfolded, he only had to stretch it out to get a good look at the specimen, which was probably only snot, but why had it been so painful?

 

Alex sighed and covered his face with tremulous, pale hands.  “I haven’t been sleeping well,” he admitted, feeling stupid and weak.  “It’s really starting to get to me, man.  I don’t know what to do or who to talk to.”

 

“What is that?” Baxter breathed.  He had indeed pulled the handkerchief taught and found an undeniable but incredibly small metallic-looking square.  He grimaced as he reached out to pinch it between his fingers because it was slimy.  He held it up to the afternoon sunlight and examined it more closely with squinted eyes.  Along the one edge were spaces in the hard, plastic covering, like it was missing piece from some kind of motherboard.

 

“What?  What do you see?”  Alex was turning every which way in his seat but always returning to lock his gaze upon the van.

 

“I think it’s a microchip.”  Baxter placed the item back on the handkerchief.  “Doesn’t that look like a microchip?  How the hell did that get up my nose?”

 

Alex stood up suddenly.  “They’ve gotten to you.”

 

Baxter had leaned down over what had come flying from his nose.  “Who?  Microsoft?  Apple?” he laughed.

 

Alex took two halting steps backwards.  “Oh God, it’s happening.  I knew it would.  I told them I wouldn’t say anything but they didn’t believe me.”

 

Baxter looked up, finally alerted by his friend’s panicked tone and nonsensical rambling.  “Alex, sit down, man.  You’re making me nervous.”

 

“We need to go,” Alex insisted, shaking his head.  “We need to leave.”

 

“Are you high?” Baxter asked, making light of what was rapidly becoming a bizarre and terrifying situation.  “Why don’t –“

 

At that moment, the van came speeding towards them only to skid to a halt beside them along the curb.  The world then seemed to slow down to an impossible lack of speed; Alex turned to Baxter and braced himself, like he was about to sprint and make a mad dash for freedom.  As the tails of his jacket fanned out, the van door slid open and two masked men, dressed all in black, scrambled out.  If Baxter had been able to move, he would have had time to get a decent lead, would most likely have been able to escape, but he was nothing more than a laughable cartoon character; his lower half moved frantically but no real progress was made.  The men descended upon him, knocking over the table the men had been seated at and sending Baxter to the floor, the chair coming with him.  In the time it took Baxter to fling the chair from him and sit up, there was only squealing tires and nothing more.

 

Alex was gone.  Baxter looked around and only saw wide-eyed, open-mouthed and deep breathing witnesses.

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On personally defining success and nostalgia.

Published November 17, 2013 by mandileighbean

This week was exciting as far as my blossoming writing career goes.  I had an author event on Thursday, November 14th at Ocean County College in Toms River, New Jersey.  The event was sponsored and essentially put together by the Literature Club, specifically because of Sara Pease, who is a former student of mine and a simply wonderful human being.  There were about twenty people in attendance, most of whom were attentive and asked the best questions I have had the privilege of answering.  I was able to sell seven books and talk to some truly interesting and supportive young adults.  It was a wonderful experience and it made returning to work on Friday SO HARD.

Last night, which was Saturday, November 16th, I was able to occupy a vendor table at Ladies’ Night Out at the Manchester Firehouse in Manchester, New Jersey.  I sold five books and was able to engage in highly entertaining conversations with fellow vendors.  I shared my table with D.O.V.E., which is an organization that helps to empower female victims of violence.  It was a serendipitous pairing, considering the content of Her Beautiful Monster.  It was a great evening, and I was truly humbled by my friends Heather, Ali, Kasey, Melanie, Marie and Jenna who showed up and have done so at every available opportunity.  Though I only sold a total of twelve books and minimally increased my audience, everyone has to start somewhere and these experiences helped to confirm for me that I need to be a writer.  It is a goal I need to work harder towards, because it helps to me to feel fulfilled, complete, and just plain happy.  In the following months, my goal is to be interviewed by a newspaper that serves a large population (like the Asbury Park Press) and send queries to agents, who would also help in marketing.  Speaking of marketing, my friend Kalie invited me to attend an event with her on Wednesday that provides ideas for marketing in viral markets and on social media sites (I believe).  She brought up the important point that networking is key.

Wish me luck, and enjoy this week’s writing prompt.  🙂

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #6: “I rubbed my thumb across her cheek and, buddy, I thought I was going to cry.”

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I am a sad, silly and lonely girl.  I imagine a woman would be wiser and stronger, and refrain from indulging in simple fantasies she plans on forcing to be recurrent.  The latest is this: graduation night will be a beautiful night near the latter part of June.  The moon will be full and bright and hanging high in the sky.  Its beauty will be lost on me, unfortunately, because I’ll be inside the high school, dutifully stationed at my classroom door.  I’ll be stuck handing out official, important-looking, white, large envelopes to the robed miscreants, academics, athletes, everyone in between.  The envelopes will contain various certificates and documents that become so much useless paper in lieu of graduation itself, and of all the accompanying promises and freedom and optimism intangibly included therein.  As such, students will not be rushing to obtain the envelopes and will have to be reminded and redirected several times by the faculty members in attendance.  Blue and gold robes will whip and ripple around sneakers and outrageous heels, slapping and clicking respectively through the hallways as sloppy hugs, final goodbyes, and well-wishes are doled out.  As it grows late, the number of students whirling about in flurries of excitement lessens considerably and the building borders on being empty and desolate and lonely.

 

I will sigh and fall back against the classroom door, keeping the door open while lazily allowing the door made of composite wood to support my weight rather than my understandably aching feet.  I pray I will have lost the weight and that my skin will be clear, or at the very least, clearer than it is now.  I’ll be observing the few remaining students and faculty members milling about, a mere observer whose mind is one million miles away, on to the next silly fantasy as the last thousand never ever came to fruition.  Someone will approach from behind, out of my view, to unintentionally capitalize upon the element of surprise.  He will gently clear his throat and simultaneously become unexpectedly and wildly unsure of himself.  To release the building nervous energy, he will shove his hands deep into the front pockets of his worn jeans, covered in orange-colored dust from fascinating roads less traveled in America, so that his calloused fingertips (worked to the bone, strumming guitars and banjos, gripping the wheel too tightly) bend against the fabric of the lining.  He’ll gently clear his throat, embellishing the strong and solid muscles of his masculine neck and jaw, and say, “Hey Andrea.”

 

Startled from my reverie, my closest and most constant companion, I’ll turn quickly but it’ll feel like slow motion, like trying to move fast in a dream, once my eyes take in his image and my brain comprehends who is standing there.  I am certain I will feel fifteen.  Breathless and deliciously confused, I’ll smile and lamely offer, “Hey.”  In a moment or so, I’ll (hopefully) come back to myself and break out with a radiant (well, as radiant as a smile can be when it’s caged by braces) smile and ask how he’s been.  I’ll already have some idea courtesy of creeping on Facebook and the gossip of mutual acquaintances.  I’ll know he’s been living a bohemian life I’ve always dreamed of, that he’s braver and more wonderful than my adolescent self had ever even dreamed of, even though he had been my schoolgirl obsession for years.  He won’t go into all of that, though.  He’ll keep it politely simple and appropriately simple and only say that he’s been good and doing well.  He’ll ask me how I’ve been and I’ll answer in an extremely similar fashion, lifting my upturned palms as a sort of half-hearted shrug and to indicate how absolutely bizarre it can be to work in the same high school we graduated from.  He’ll smile and let his gaze fall to the floor beneath us, seemingly perfectly content to stew in the impending awkward silence.

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I, on the other hand, have never been so suave or comfortable in my own skin, nor will I ever be.  I’ll need to smash it, to break it, so I’ll do what I never wanted to and bring up the past in all its embarrassing nostalgia.  How could I not, given the present company, our history, and current setting?  I believe he’ll only laugh and shrug it off.  His cheeks will color slightly, resulting from excessive, juvenile flattery and perhaps guilt stemming from the playground torture and adolescent cruelty he inflicted upon me.  Indeed, his grin will ultimately fade and his eyes will rise to meet mine.  His face, so uniquely handsome and so simultaneously beautiful in its stoic sorrow from many troubles and burdens I only ever guessed at among whispering girlfriends, will be set.  He’ll ask, “Do you remember what I wrote in your yearbook?”

 

Shock and nausea will be my immediate response.  My mouth will go dry and I’ll choke and sputter when I ask, “Do you?”

 

He’ll smile, but it will be so muted that I will doubt its authenticity.  “Of course I do!  I didn’t write it lightly.”  There will be a gut-wrenching pause to allow the tears to gather and prick at my eyes.  “I’m sorry,” he’ll say.  “And I didn’t ignore the e-mail you sent me, either.  I’ve just been busy and then I thought –“

 

“Stop,” I’ll command and demand.  “You don’t have to, you really don’t have to.  It’s whatever; I mean, it is what it is, and I don’t know why I sent that message.  Did it completely creep you out?  I’m sorry.”

 

Kindly, he will smile and say, “No, it didn’t creep me out, not at all.”  Another awkward silence will descend and though I will positively squirm, screaming inner, secret prayers for it to end or for me to just die, he will be graceful and effortless in his charm when he says, “You look good.”

 

My face will flush and I will find a spot on the floor incredibly interesting suddenly, and concentrate my gaze there.  It will be in an attempt at being coy and feminine and flirty, but I will be too chicken shit to meet his gaze, so I will be unable to determine its effectiveness.  The lack of eye contact will by no means be a lack of attention.  He will undoubtedly captivate me and rob me of my breath, the way he always did and, most likely, always will.  Grinning, I’ll thank him for the compliment and eagerly return it in a fashion more embarrassing than charming or even sincere.  He’ll nod his head in a charming, gentleman’s way.  “Thank you,” he will say with a slight Southern drawl he never had before that I will suspect him of faking for the moment.  After all, I won’t feel so guilty or so lame if him and I are nothing more than a couple of liars.

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The inability to know what to say next will become unbearable for the both of us.  He’ll hurriedly mumble that it was good seeing me, that it was good to catch up, and he’ll hope to see me around, and then he’ll be gone.  Nothing ever really changes, not even within my precious illusions and foolish fantasies.  But, I’ll shut my eyes tight and envision him somewhere down the line, embellishing the encounter more so than I’ve done in creating it.  He’ll tell of an imagined conversation which lasts and lasts until we’re actually asked to leave by the custodial staff.  He’ll say I suggested moving the conversation to a local, popular restaurant where we stay until we are again asked to leave.  We’ll say our goodbyes beneath unforgiving fluorescent lights in an empty parking lot.  I smile when I think of how he’ll lie and tell his attentive listener that he reached out to touch my face and I yielded completely to the touch, a victim of parting and sweet sorrow and all that ancient, literary jazz.  He’ll say, “I rubbed my thumb across her cheek and, buddy, I thought I was going to cry.”

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AUTHOR EVENT

Published October 7, 2013 by mandileighbean

21 Colonial Drive

Manchester, NJ08759

Telephone:     732.657.7600

 www.theoceancountylibrary.org

Suzanne Scro,     Branch Manager

September 24, 2013

OCEAN COUNTY      LIBRARY

Connecting People … Building     Community

 

 

 

 

 

 

PRESS RELEASE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CONTACT: Maria Colon, 732.657.7600 Ext. 4524

mcolon@theoceancountylibrary.org

 

 

MANCHESTER BRANCH LIBRARY TO HOST

BOOK TALK BY LOCAL TEACHER/NOVELIST

 

MANCHESTER, NJLocal author, Mandi Bean will be on hand at the Manchester Branch Library on Tuesday, October 15 starting at 7:00 pm to talk about her novel, Her Beautiful Monster, published last year. This author’s first book, a thriller, tells the story of a young woman who is obsessed with romance and finding the perfect man for her. After she meets him, he gets murdered. In the midst of the emotional tailspin that ensues, her world changes, and she enters into a struggle in which must discover the truth about herself and those around her in order to save her life, her heart and her sanity. Copies will be available at the event for purchase and signing. Mandi is an alumnus of Manchester Township High School where she now teaches English.

 

This program is open to teens and adults, free of charge. Please go online to www.theoceancountylibrary.org or call 732.657.7600 to register.

 

The Manchester Branch of the Ocean County Library is located at 21 Colonial Drive in Manchester Township.

On the fear of the forever funk.

Published August 9, 2013 by mandileighbean

Whenever I leave my house to go absolutely anywhere – even to Wawa in my pajamas for a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread – the following exquisite scene from an equally amazing film plays over and over in my head, soundtrack included:

Maybe it is because of the crippling disappointment I experience when reality does not match nor even meet my expectations that I haven’t really left the house, or found a reason to get dressed or style my hair for a couple of days.  These are the dog days of summer and no one particularly feels like doing much of anything, but I worry when these moments of complete lethargy and absolute disinterest stretch into a day and then a week.  Everyone experiences these so-called “funks,” but most snap out of it eventually.  I have definitely slipped into a funk that has been going on for what feels like months.  I have been avoiding social interactions, sleeping more, gaining weight, and going from one set of pajamas to another.  I know I recently wrote about how liberating it can be to wake up with an absolutely clear schedule, but after a while, it becomes tiresome. 

I think my apathetic nature will be eradicated once the school year starts, but what if it is only yet another instance of reality falling short of the expectations of a wildly romantic writer?  I thought my life would change in high school; it didn’t, so I thought college would make all the difference.  Everything remained the same, so the key to an exciting and fulfilling life must be in a full-time teaching job.  I acquired the job and am still restless.  Even when my novel was published, it did not inspire the instantaneous and dramatic change I thought it would.  Do I need to lower my expectations?  It seems a simple enough solution, but won’t doing so also eliminate that wonderfully dreamy aspect of my nature that allows to me create and – hopefully- inspire?  I think the real answer is not to depend on change for happiness, though it is a consistent aspect of our lives.

That being said, do I believe one hundred people will show up at my upcoming author events?  No, not exactly; I will be obviously devastated if not a soul shows up, but I know I will be equally as devastated if no romance comes of it.  I don’t limit the meaning of romance to a chance encounter with a handsome stranger – I’m talking about all kinds of romance, like there’s a large portion of the crowd that attends with a battered copy of my novel clutched in their hands, eager for me to sign it because they really did love the story that much.

I started this blog to narrate my writing life and what I have discovered is that my “writing life” is my life; they cannot be separated.  I am still determining whether or not this is a good thing.

I remembered my earlier promise of trying to accentuate the positive, so here it goes: I have an author talk/book signing event at the Manchester Branch of the Ocean County Library on October 15, 2013!  The event should begin around 7:00PM.  I am waiting on confirmation from the program coordinator, but so far, all systems are go! Smile  I hope to see some of you there.

Stay golden. xoxo

On Andrew McCarthy and being un-pretty in any color.

Published December 26, 2012 by mandileighbean

The world was supposed to end on Friday, December 21st. However, I am proud to report that I am still here, along with the rest of the world. Actually, aside from the raging winds knocking the basketball hoop in the driveway onto my car (which cracked the windshield and prevented me from entering the vehicle on the driver side) and an increased police presence at work, Friday was awesome. The days leading up to this posting were also quite awesome; I spent Christmas in Virginia with my nephews and now I am in The Sunshine State – vacationing in Florida. Though I traveled close to eighteen hours from home, I could not escape the fears and insecurities which essentially plague me.
I am slightly terrified that I am more skilled at picking up and impressing women than I am with the opposite sex. It makes me feel like a loser and terribly lonely. Last night, I went to the more prestigious branch of the Ocean County library to listen to Andrew McCarthy speak about his book, and to have him sign it, and get a picture. I was really dressed up in a red, lace number, complete with black stockings and black high heels. I curled my hair and rouged my lips and made sure my eyes looked smoky in varying shades of lilac, lavender, violet and purple. I thought I looked seductive, mysterious or, at the very least, pretty. When I walked into the library, no one seemed too impressed though. I didn’t see any heads turning to watch me pass and no one struck up a conversation even though I was clearly flying solo and obviously unattached.
I slid into an uncomfortable, plastic chair at the end of an aisle that was near the center of the large, dimly lit room. It did give the place a certain ambiance and that set my mind reeling with romantic, optimistic possibilities. I turned to the woman beside me. She was older than I was, with red hair and small eyes. About her was a decidedly academic and impressive air. I asked her if she would mind if I put my bag on the seat between us and she politely replied that no, she wouldn’t mind and that it would certainly be all right. An awkward sort of silence descended, as if both of us were waiting for the conversation to continue but neither of us really wanted to bear the weight of that responsibility. Eventually, I bit the bullet and asked her if she read a lot and that question and the resulting threads of conversation carried us to the start of the program. I learned that she was also an aspiring writer, but spending hours alone in a locked room putting words onto paper did not really appeal to her; she freely admitted to being a herd animal and to being dependent upon human interaction. I commiserated and confessed that I was turning into a writer recluse myself, and supposed that could either explain or rationalize my chatty behavior of the evening.
The conversation was cut short as an older, chubby, and balding man came to the podium with his chest puffed out, as if he believed the small audience assembled before him were just as interested in him as they were in Mr. McCarthy. He cracked a few mildly funny jokes and then introduced the man of the hour. I watched him climb onto the stage with baited breath and slight trepidation not because I was starstruck, but because I was nervous. What if he was completely narcissistic? What if he spoke at length about Hollywood and acting and did not even mention writing or his process? Or worse, what if he attempted to discuss the craft of writing and it became painfully clear that he had no idea what the hell he was talking about?
Refreshingly, none of my fears came true. He did talk about himself, but that’s the nature of the beast, isn’t it? The book is a memoir and he is a celebrity- are they not more inclined to be something of an attention whore? After all, if one is a writer, an actor, a painter, a musician or any kind of artist, one is constantly demanding to be noticed because creations are parts of the artist himself, some pieces more personal than others. However, the key for any artist, in my humble opinion, is to strike a healthy balance, which McCarthy did. He spoke of how he came to be an actor, of how he came to be a writer, about his character flaws and insecurities, of his family both past and present, and of his tastes. He confessed to being a huge Springsteen fan and mentioned that the song “Badlands” is especially important to him and holds a special, significant meaning for him. Clearly, I only fell more and more in love with this romantic hero from my younger years.
He stated a couple of ideas which struck me and will stick with me for some time, I believe. He mentioned that he sucked at journaling and that he found his entires to be self-indulgent and repetitive; I couldn’t agree more. He talked about how traveling allayed his fears and as he traveled, he wrote to keep himself grounded; that inspired me to take my iPad along on the family trip to Florida this year. He also made up my mind- I will travel to Ireland, England and France. McCarthy was genuine, honest and authentic. He is who he is and did not apologize. He wanted to do things and he did them; he did not plan, he was just passionate and pursued those impassioned ideas, goals, aspirations. McCarthy also said that the aforementioned passion was what moviegoers and fans responded to, that there was something in his eyes that confirmed he was right where he was supposed to be doing what he was supposed to do. According to McCarthy, that something was pure, unbridled joy because he felt at home in the world and, perhaps more importantly, in his own skin. I truly enjoyed myself.
The lights came up and there was a question and answer session. Some zealous, older woman asked about three questions and talked as he talked, talked over him even. I raised my hand, but he did not call on me, so I did not raise my hand again. That was cowardice and I mentally berated myself in my seat. We rose to form a line in the short, wide hallway where a table was set up and piled high with copies of his book. While waiting, the woman I had spoken with earlier resumed conversation. She agreed to snap a picture of me with McCarthy, though declined having the favor return – she confessed that she never gets her picture taken with people because she finds the whole process uncomfortable. We spoke about writing again, as well as brief snippets of our personal lives. She is currently unemployed and has previously worked in a pharmacy. She’s been married for a year and lives in Manahawkin. When it comes to writing, she’s having trouble getting started and developing a plot. We agreed to exchange e-mail addresses as both of us would like to widen our writing circle.
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Then came the moment of truth; I met Andrew McCarthy. He took his book from me, said hello and asked how I was. He asked who the book was for, and I told him it was for me, and that my name was Mandi with an ‘i.’ Quickly, with a light laugh, I added, “Don’t judge me.” McCarthy put down the marker, stopped what he was doing, turned to me, looked at me, and laughed. I made him laugh. I entertained him. That has to count for something, right?
Having thusly roused a chuckle from a teen idol, I was feeling pretty damn good and special and unique and all that jazz when I drove down to Atlantic City to see my oldest friends. I love them all so, so, so much because no matter what happens, we can all get together and make each other smile. We smile about the good times and joke about the rough times and it is perfect. I was having a wonderful Friday night … until we went to the club.
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I know I have been gaining back the weight that I lost, and I know that my teeth need to be straightened and whitened, but I have never been as aware of my flaws as I was that night, watching prettier girls become the centers of attention in assigned, miniature melodramas. No one approached me. Well, that’s not entirely true; when Heidi was being wooed, the possible interest had his friend chat me up to keep me busy. I saw through this ruse and called the friend out on it. This seemed to impress him, believe it or not. He said he never had a girl call him out like that before and in turn, he called me out for feeling superior to the whole scene. He was right, but that did not repel him and we kept talking and I was actually having a nice time, but I kept pushing him away with both my words and body language. I figured that since we both knew he wasn’t romantically interested, the whole thing could be over and done with and I could then avoid feeling lonely, lame and like I was the biggest loser in the universe. My persistence in insisting made him feel bad, I think, because he went to the bathroom and never came back. I was expecting as much – had encouraged him to do as much – but it still stung. All my confidence from earlier fled and I wanted to leave. I wanted to go home and cry in my room and watch “Pretty in Pink” and forget the whole thing ever happened. It’s ironic, isn’t it, because here I am, memorializing the whole incident via the internet.
McCarthy talked a lot about insecurity and about how crucial it is to shed that fear. I think he’s right, but I also think to shed the fear and to become the master of insecurity, one needs certain tools. Emotionally and mentally, I feel that I am a catch – that I will care and love someone in unfathomable amounts and be loyal and true – but physically I know I leave a lot to be desired. McCarthy also talked a lot about paradoxes and I believe there is power in paradoxes and contradictions and that is what people gravitate to. Whitman said, “Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself. I am large; I contain multitudes” (forgive me if that was not an entirely accurate quotation). I know that I am a walking contradiction and that I am positively filled with paradoxes, but that does not make for someone guys want to grind against for a night in a sweaty, smoky club. The true, swift kick in the ass is that I don’t even want to be THAT girl until I’m in the club, and I’m so clearly the only girl who doesn’t want to be that girl. I preach and pontificate about being true and genuine and cling proudly to my self-proclaimed title of “woman of substance,” but then I find myself near tears, desperate to suddenly assimilate.
I can’t be the only one, right?
This upcoming year, the year of 2013, I am going to fix the things I don’t like about myself so that I can become more attractive, appealing and well-rounded. It is not just about getting the attention of males – though it is certainly a factor and I admit that freely because The Boss says it don’t matter what nobody say, ain’t nobody like to be alone – it is about getting the exterior to match the interior. I want to be beautiful inside and out. That being said, I would also like another crack at McCarthy. I would love to meet him again, hand him a copy of my book, tell him how great I really think he is, and snap another photo in which both of us are beautiful.
Wish me luck.

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