It’s that time of year again, when small country fairs start popping up like boils on a warthog. We have a lot of fall harvest fairs here in Connecticut, and I’ve been to them all. Here is my list of my favorite local celebrations:

Brooklyn Fair

In terms of size, the Brooklyn Fair is probably considered “quaint.” They do have some fun exhibits, like beekeepers and the old diesel engines that are boring as all heck to me but that I’m sure my father would appreciate.

Must See: There’s a wide variety of cows and bulls to admire, if you’re the sort of person who appreciates a healthy, well-groomed Holstein.

You Can Skip: I had the worst apple fritters that I’ve ever put in my mouth at this fair. I still regret not holding out for the mac ’n cheese vendor. I’ll know better next year.

Hebron Harvest Fair

I’ve been going to this fair all of my life, so really, this is a nostalgia thing for me. Over the years, I’ve seen them lose the used-book vendor, the mouse races, the giant candy tent, and the guy who sells chocolate-covered, cherry-glaze-coated popcorn. I still go, though, in the hopes that some day, the racing mice will return.

Must See: They do get some impressive musical performers. And the Demolition Derby is fun, I suppose.

You Can Skip: The camel at the petting zoo. Cool to look at, sure, but careful—she bites. Hard. Visit the pygmy goats instead. They bite, but softer.

Durham Fair

The Durham Fair is reputedly the largest agricultural fair in the state, and given the crowds they get every year, I believe it. There are tons of vendors, an impressive Better Living barn, and oxen pulls. There are also crying babies in strollers, crying adults on scooters, exhausted people, and lots and lots of elbows and body odor.

Must See: The Sweet Cioccolata guy. Remember the chocolate-covered cherry-glaze-coated popcorn I mentioned that I miss at Hebron? This is the one fair where that guy still sets up shop. And yes, I’m the kind of person who will pay $13 just to get into the fair and buy his wares.

You Can Skip: The animals. After Brooklyn and Hebron, haven’t you seen enough goats already?

Woodstock Fair

I think (sorry, Hebron) that this is my favorite fair. It’s huge, there’s a wide variety of vendors and exhibits, and the food—oh, the food! Bacon cheeseburgers and cheese fries and fried cheese nuggets and the Cabot cheese sample people in the agricultural barn . . . but it’s not just about the cheese. There’s the Ben & Jerry’s booth and the World’s Best Sundae and homemade milk shakes . . . and probably some non-dairy stuff somewhere, too. This is also the fair where I found an artist selling watercolors of all three Kennedy brothers. Total win!

Must See:  The aforementioned agricultural barn isn’t just about the Cabot cheese. They have apple slices and honey samples, and exhibits with bugs and bears and fisher cats (all dead). You’ll want to hold a fuzzy baby chick (not dead) and feel like a kid again.

You Can Skip: The portapotties. There are real bathrooms with fancy running water and everything across from the Better Living barn.

The good news is that fair season is drawing to a close soon. I do love a nice Kennedy watercolor and properly groomed Holsteins, but after a while, enough is enough. My waistline can’t take much more.

My birthday is next week. When I was younger, this would be a week-long reason to overindulge in adult beverages. Now that I’m older, it’s a week-long excuse to eat frosting right out of the can. It turns out that as you get older, your priorities change . . . for the better.

It hasn’t escaped my notice that this year, I will be turning the same age as both Elvis Presley and Bobby Kennedy—when they died. So by the time Elvis was my age, he’d had 18 number-one singles, starred in 33 movies, and was rich enough to afford a pretty substantial drug habit. I myself have starred in no movies, buy generic ibuprofen because the brand-name stuff is too pricy, and have no hit singles. I did make the cat spontaneously pee on the bathmat when I was singing in the shower once, so I guess that’s something.

And Bobby? What did he do, really? By the time he was my age, he’d been Attorney General of the United States, served as senator of New York, and was running for president when he was shot. I haven’t even been able to muster up the energy to vote in my local school board elections, much less run for office. (I have, however, used my years to become a hardcore Kennedy buff. So again, that’s something.)

I’m starting to feel like a bit of a slouch.

This past year has seen some important changes in my life. Sure, I sold two novels, both of which should be coming out this year, but I’m not talking about the writing career stuff. I’m talking old age stuff.  I got my first pair of bifocals. They didn’t work so well at first, mostly because I couldn’t see through my “God, I’m old!” tears, but now I’m used to them. Sure, I look like my father when I wear them, but at least I can now see the TV and my phone at the same time.

Another milestone that I hit this year was noticeable hearing loss. I’ve had tinnitus in my right ear ever since a particularly rowdy Paul Young concert back in 1986, but that’s not even what I’m talking about. It’s the soft clicks and vibrations I can’t hear anymore. I keep my phone on vibrate at all times, for instance. And at least three times a week, I’ll miss a phone call because I never heard the darn thing buzz. (Not that I’m complaining about this—I despise talking on the phone, and not being able to hear is a fabulous excuse.) I also can’t hear the blinker in my car anymore. How many times over the years had I been in the passenger seat of my father’s truck, and snarkily said “You do know your blinker’s on, right, Dad?” Remember how I said I look like my father in bifocals? Scratch that. Karma has decided to turn me into my father. That's what I get for being a wise ass.

Finally, I’ve realized this year that I’ve been living in a state of utter denial. I’d decided some time ago to stop dyeing my hair until the grey demanded that I do so. I was able to get away with this only because the lighting in my bathroom is terrible and I couldn't see the grey (also, I needed bifocals). I had the opportunity to look in a mirror with overhead fluorescent lighting the other day, and guess what? The grey is getting pretty demanding. It’s a bit depressing. I’ve seen a million pictures of Bobby Kennedy, and I don’t ever remember him being this grey.

I’d let all this get me down, but I’ve been trying to remember this: I have two books coming out this year. Elvis  wrote no books. Bobby wrote a bunch of books, but never had two come out in the same year. So they can keep their fancy gold records and presidential elections. Because I'm going to spend this year basking in my glory and eating frosting straight out of the can.

I recently read an article about a college-age woman who went to class on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in varying degrees of makeup (none, some, and lots) to test her classmates’ reactions. (Read it here: http://www.bustle.com/#/articles/26095-how-do-people-react-to-different-levels-of-makeup-i-decided-to-find-out.) She discovered that when she wore light makeup, as she was prone to do anyway, she received positive feedback.

 Desperately needing a blog idea, I thought I’d try to replicate the experiment. Would it make a difference if it was a 40-something woman who never wears makeup? If it took place at work instead of on campus? If I crammed it all in to three consecutive days instead of three days spread throughout the week? The results were shocking.

Wednesday: Here I am with no makeup. This is also a pretty clear depiction of how fuzzy my hair gets when it’s humid out. This is actually my everyday look; I often only wear makeup to weddings (or funerals, if I'm worried that I'll look more washed out than the corpse). This is not due to my confidence that I naturally look beautiful, but rather a result of my valuing sleep more than anything else. Putting on makeup would take away at least six minutes of time that would be better spent snoozing.

As this look was par for the course, I didn’t get any comments on this day. Sure, the guy at the gas station called me “ma’am,” but that’s nothing new. I finally asked one of the women I worked with to honestly critique my look.

“Um, I guess you look exhausted, but you always do. I just assumed you had eight kids or something.”

I was not pleased. “What am I, a Kennedy? I have no kids. This is my natural beauty.”

She smiled, kind of like she was gritting her teeth. “Sure, okay. Looks like you’ve got a fresh new zit on your chin. Might want to put some cover-up on that.”

Day One Conclusion: I look like a tired-looking old hag with acne.

Thursday: I had the most trouble with this look. My first attempt was to put on concealer, blush, and mascara. Apparently, this was not much different than “no makeup” because when I got to work, the receptionist asked me if my brood of children had kept me up all night. I added more blush, eyeliner, and light eye shadow. Better, though much like when I was in high school, I discovered that the more I tried to cover up my fresh new zit, the more attention the concealer drew to it. I cruised around the office space to gauge the results.

Sadly, I found that people were a lot chattier today. One co-worker who has always snubbed me asked me what my weekend plans were. Another told me I looked “different . . . but it’s nice.” Instead of giving me a boost, this made me feel a little crummy about how I normally look. Later in the day, I accidentally rubbed my eyes without thinking, leaving a trail of dried mascara crumbs along the side of my face that I didn’t know was there until I got home.

Day Two Conclusion: People seem to like the makeup, but not enough to tell me when it’s smeared across my face.

Friday: I was a little uncomfortable with the amount of makeup I was wearing, but I promised you all I’d go full glam, so I did. I got used to it quickly: wearing this much makeup was almost like wearing a mask. What a difference! I noticed immediately that the guy at the gas station couldn’t keep his eyes off of me. And when I got into work, everyone was commenting.

“Wow!”

“Unbelievable!”

And that was just the president and vice president of the company, respectively. As I passed coworkers in the hallway, they all started talking, either to me or about me. I couldn't believe it! Did wearing a lot of makeup really make that much of a difference? How shallow was our society?
When I got to my cubicle, a crowd formed. Everybody wanted to see my glamorous makeup job. I'll admit it: it felt good. All the attention made me feel like a total rock star!


Day Three Conclusion:  The reaction I got from my coworkers and random strangers pumped me so full of energy, all I wanted to do was rock and roll all night.

Conclusion: I hate to admit it, but wearing makeup really does matter. Yet I do still value sleep above all else, so I'll continue to wear the 'no makeup' look for a long time to come. However, I do think I'll be breaking out the "full makeup" look for the next wedding or funeral I attend.

I love to read.
This should come as a surprise to exactly nobody. I think all writers should have an innate passion for the written word (and if you're a writer, and don't love to read, I'd recommend a new career, like accounting). My first word--scratch that, my fourth word, after "mama," "dada," and "doublestuforeo"--was "book." Early classics of my life as a reader include such fine tomes as Big Dog, Little Dog and One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. And who could forget that fine literary masterpiece found in only the most expensive and elite of preschools, Hop on Pop? Yes, even from my youngest, diapered days, I was something of a book snob.
As I got older, I became acquainted with an unpleasant sensation that would stay with me my whole life. As a kid, I first chalked up this unpleasantness to spoiled milk or an especially sour pickle. Eventually, I recognized it for what it really was: book envy. Why did the other third grade class get to read Freckle Juice while I was stuck slogging through the uberdepressing Bridge to Terabithia? How was THAT fair? Why did my cousin Lori have more comic books than I did? And in fifth grade, I had it on good authority that Miss Bennett's class sometimes got to go to the library twice a week, while those of us stuck in the dregs of Mrs. Gustafson's class were only allowed one precious library visit a week, and only if we didn't throw a temper tantrum about how Miss Bennett's class got to go more than us. It felt like I never got to go!
I formed friendships based on book-swapping potential. In our younger years, the Bouchard twins had a fine selection of Sweet Pickles stories; as I headed to middle school, it was Carrie down the road who had an impressive collection of Sweet Valley High books. (My mother thought they were not worth the paper they were printed on, which made the adventures of the Wakefield twins all the more precious to get my hands on.) (Update: Mom was right.) Laura had a formidable stash of Dean Koontz, Meghan had an impressive true crime library, and if my friends were mad at me (fights that arose sometimes when they suspected I was using them for their books--fights I ignored because I was too busy reading) I could always raid my sister's stash of Stephen King. Hey, these friendships weren't all one-sided: I held the distinct honor of being the gal to go to if you were hankering for some steamy Harold Robbins. Even then, though, I was a terrible snob. If you wanted to read The Adventurers or A Stone for Danny Fisher, I'd hook you up, but if you wanted something dumb, like The Lonely Lady, I had no time for you. It's a good thing I had books, because I went through a lot of friends during those years.
As an adult, I decided it was time to refine my interests: you know, select just a few authors or series or genres to call my favorite. So I finally announced it to the world: I did not care for sci-fi or fantasy. Except Harry Potter. Oh, and the first few Outlander series books weren't bad. Plus, I really enjoyed books 1 -32 of the Star Wars novelizations. But that's it. Otherwise, I won't touch it. Except Neil Gaiman. Ooh, and the Dune series. But otherwise, sci-fi leaves me clammy.
It turns out there's nothing I won't read (including cereal boxes, ketchup packets, and mattress tags). Sure, I have my favorites: I tend to devour anything about any member of the Kennedy family; anything by Wally Lamb, John Irving, Stephen King, Thomas Harris, or Michael Crichton; true crime in small doses (I wept when I heard Joe McGinniss passed away earlier this week) and anything about Manson; English history and historical fiction; and anything and everything by Erma Bombeck or Berkley Breathed (both conveniently located in the humor section). And yes, I've even been known to pick up a romance or two, but remember, I'm a book snob: I won't read a romance novel unless it has a bare-chested Scotsman in a kilt on the front. I have my standards, after all, and objectified Scotsmen are de rigueur.
I once met a man who told me he loved to read, but never had the time. I knew he was a liar--he didn't love to read. True readers know you make the time, even if it means you wind up asleep with inkprint on your cheek, your slack face marking the page where you left off. I dumped that guy. Then I met one who took me out on romantic dates to used book stores and library book sales. I married him.

I may have mentioned in the past that I'm not a fan of stupid Christmas specials. One of the worst offenders, of course, is 'Twas the Night Before Christmas.
Surely you've seen this insipid tale of a clockmaker with a rodent problem. Joshua Trundle and his family, who all have ridiculously huge ears, painfully pointy chins, and bigger teeth than the Kennedy clan, discover that Santa is returning all of their letters unopened. How can this be? What's going on?
Turns out the family of mice Trundle's been breeding in his walls contains a pretty obnoxious rodent named Albert who managed to offend Santa Claus with his snotty attitude. Had Trundle put out some rat poison like every other normal human being who finds mouse droppings in the pantry, this problem would've never happened. But noooo, Trundle fancies himself the Mouse Whisperer or something, and actually lets these creatures run rampant throughout the house. You're creating your own problems there, Bucktooth.
Apparently, Albert the Mouse wrote a letter to the paper saying Santa was a fraud. Perhaps you're asking, Why does a mouse even care about Santa? Or even, Who taught a mouse to write? I'd personally be thinking Hold the poison, I think I might be able to make a few bucks off of this talking, writing rat, but that's just me. Trundle thinks none of these thoughts. Instead, he decides to solve the problem by building Santa a singing clock.
Now, everybody with half a brain knows that Santa is absolutely open to bribery, if you've got the right goods. Namely, cookies and milk, and maybe a carrot for Rudolph thrown in for good measure. Not, I repeat, NOT, a singing clock. Doesn't matter anyway--Albert, the obnoxious twerp that he is, breaks Trundle's clock before the hands can even be set to the correct time.
Albert's father is not amused. Papa Mouse drags his rotten little son to a children's hospital, where all of the sick kids are sobbing because Santa's throwing a temper tantrum over Albert's letter. Does this impressive guilt trip  cause Albert to repent? Heck no. However, when he overhears Bucktooth singing a song about miracles needing a hand, he melts like butter. What a load of crap. You've got a budding psychopath on your hands there, Papa Mouse.
Albert races to fix the clock before midnight. He fails, but at 12:01 AM, the song starts playing, wooing Santa back to town. Kids are cheering in the streets, which makes me wonder what the heck is wrong with the parents in Junctionville. Why is your kid even up at 12:01 AM, and outside in the streets wearing nothing but pajamas? It's freezing out! You are a BAD PARENT. Nobody in your house deserves a visit from Santa.
Santa comes anyway, which just exemplifies why this whole story is terrible. One little mouse writes a snotty letter and Santa's willing to pout like a petulant child and cut off the whole town from Christmas, but every single parent allows their brats to run rampant in the streets on Christmas Eve, and they're rewarded for it? Not to mention the little whiners in the children's hospital bawling all day. I don't think so. Santa will give you something to cry about. Personally, I'd like to think Santa has higher expectations than that for all of us.
What I'd like to see in this crappy holiday tale is a happy ending. Like, for instance, if Santa gifted the Trundle family with a nice new cat. Say, perhaps, one that comes from a long line of expert mousers.

Over the years, I've taken something of an interest in the Kennedy family. (Maybe "have had a sick obsession with all things Kennedy" is a little more accurate.) I'll read anything about any of them, from Ted Kennedy's autobiography to Rose Kennedy's chauffeur's tell-all book (I'm not even making that up). So I've formed my own opinion on who really shot President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Join me as I take a look at some of the theories that have been proposed over the years, won't you?

1. Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone gunman. 
Are you kidding? Have you not seen JFK, the Oliver Stone movie in which Kevin Costner replays the Zapruder film over and over while chanting "Back, and to the left. Back, and to the left . . ."? He's referring to the way Kennedy's head moves upon being shot. One of the shots clearly came from the front, because when you're shot from behind, like perhaps from the Texas Book Depository, your head would snap forward. Not back, and to the left. Plus, I've read the Warren Commission Report, and it should be classified as a fiction novel. Add to that the fact that just about everyone who testified for the Warren Commission said afterwards that their statements had either been changed or omitted entirely in the report, and you can start to see the problem. You know who sat on the Warren Commission? Gerald R. Ford. The same president who thought the line "I'm a Ford, not a Lincoln" was absolutely hilarious. 
I think we can safely dismiss the "Oswald acted alone" theory as crap.

2. The Mafia did it.
Back in 1960, Papa Joe Kennedy made a few "under the radar" or "highly suspicious and definitely illegal" dealings with some organized crime members. Joe just wanted to get his son elected president, no matter what. After the election, JFK's brother, Bobby, was named Attorney General. Cries of nepotism aside, he was actually a pretty good choice, and did his job well. A little too well. Bobby Kennedy made it his personal mission to unearth and destroy all factions of organized crime in the United States. As you might imagine, Sam Giancana was less than pleased. But would this really drive him to assassinate the President of the United States?
Sure, Jack Ruby had some mob ties. Sure, some witnesses have come forward to say there was a mob contract out on both Kennedy brothers. Sure, those same witnesses have now died or disappeared under suspicious circumstances. But here's what I know: Italian men are very big on family. I mean, La Cosa Nostra was built on families. I just don't believe that they'd shoot the father of two young kids, especially since family was also pretty darn important to the Kennedys. It would be like shooting one of their own. And who ever heard of the mafia killing one of their own? Ridiculous.

3. Militant Cuban Exiles did it.
I found this fun fact on Wikipedia: 
With the 1959 Cuban Revolution that brought Fidel Castro to power, thousands of Cubans left their homeland to take up residence in the United States. Many exiles hoped to overthrow Castro and return to Cuba. Their hopes were dashed with the failed Bay of Pigs Invasion in 1961, and many exiles blamed President Kennedy for the failure.

Motive? Sure. Anger at our government? Absolutely. However, I think the militant Cuban exiles might have been a bit more preoccupied with another target. Say, Fidel Castro, the guy who drove them out of Cuba in the first place. If I'm upset with the way my homeland is being run, I'm not going to shoot the guy who runs the neighboring country. It's just common sense.

4. LBJ did it.
Lots of people think that Lyndon Baines Johnson had something to do with the President's untimely demise. Sure, he hated Bobby Kennedy, and it has been said that he was unhappy being Vice President, and wanted the big seat. However, this is the same guy who allowed himself to be photographed lifting his beagle up by the ears, and showing off his gallbladder surgery scar, leaving the indelible image of a paunchy presidential gut burned into the retinas of all Americans. Does this sound like the actions of a mastermind of assassination? Didn't think so. Totally implausible. Next!

5. The CIA did it.
You can hammer me with every detail you want to about how the CIA hated Kennedy, was furious with him over his reluctance to escalate the situation in Vietnam, and how Kennedy said he wanted to "splinter the CIA into a million pieces." This is not proof enough to me that the CIA killed Kennedy. Let me instead tell you a story of a man, a woman, and a CIA official.
This may come as a shock to some of you, but JFK was a bit of a philanderer. I know, you say no way, but sadly, it's true. The man was a horn dog. And one of his many, many, many concubines was a pretty blond woman named Mary Meyer.
Mary was a wealthy socialite who hung in the same circles as our beloved President. She was artistic, smart, and witty. What hot-blooded president wouldn't jump at the chance to sleep with her? Repeatedly?
Here's the thing. Mary's ex-husband was CIA official Cord Meyer. After their son died in 1958, Mary left her husband and jumped into the arms of JFK.
Who knows what Cord was thinking or feeling? My guess is he was feeling pretty darn mad, or "ready to kill the S.O.B. that's sleeping with my wife, president or no." If only he had the resources to kill the guy and cover it up! But wait! Maybe his employer, who also hated the guy sleeping with Mary Meyer, might be able to suggest something. Do I have proof that Cord Meyer went to his boss and said "let's kill that horn dog 'til he's dead?" No. But I have my suspicions.
Interesting conspiracy-filled side note: Mary Meyer was subsequently murdered in 1964, and her murder was never solved. Also, when her family went to go find her diary in her apartment, the CIA was already there, looking for the same diary. Proof that the CIA was a murderous bunch of president-killing snipers. (In their defense, I don't think they still are. I grew up with a girl who is now in the CIA, and she's delightful.)

So there you have it. Irrefutable proof that the CIA killed Kennedy. I don't know why this is so hard for people to figure out.