I love my blog. I love writing it because it's not limited, like a review. It's a firsthand account by me, a regular person, attending events. And, as such, regular things happen to me: venues don't call me back, the event is different than described, or like in this case, my plans change.

I was planning on going to the Historical Barns Tour, but the day before, I was given tickets to the Inside Downtown Tour. No problem. I wanted to do both, so I would. But the night before I hosted a bridal shower for one of my dearest friends. And, as we had over-served ourselves, the bride-to-be slept over. So instead of getting an early start, I spent the morning drinking coffee and chatting, which was really fun because I live alone and it was nice to have someone to hang out with in the morning.

Still, I had the best intentions of doing both tours. So after looking over the Inside Downtown map to see which destinations are the most closely grouped together, I headed downtown. Upstairs, downstairs, and all around the blocks I went. I liked the Ward House best. Then I headed to the country.

I began at the Historic Ichabod Town Homestead, which wasn't really on the tour, but across from Valentown Museum where I picked up my ticket. Inside was Miss Lillian's Tea Room, a quaint little space where they hold tea parties. I'll be back.

From there I followed the map, slowing down for some drive-by barns and going into a few. The fall wildflowers were out: purple, gold, and yellow. The smell of hay was wonderful, and at one, I found a sweet how-now brown cow. At the Holtz Farm, I watched a beam being hand-hewed by a very cute lumberjack.

On the way back to Rochester I stopped at a little shop, Mrs 2nds. I bought a set of eight tumblers with pink and black firework designs and a purple cow creamer, all for $4.

I have an excellent sense of direction, and one of the fun things I like to do is head out of Rochester in my car and try to become lost. I usually have to go pretty far, and I usually only get lost for a short time. However, in that short time I usually find something interesting. Like the time I found Nine Pines Country Store, open on a Sunday afternoon, miles down a dirt road near Newark. Whoddathunk? I bought a beautiful wrought iron chandelier that day. Or I come upon a spaghetti or bar-b-que dinner put on by a church or legion hall. Because of this, the idea of orienteering has always intrigued me. Using a compass, a map, and common sense, you track your way around an outdoor course.

I really didn't know what to expect when getting ready for National Orienteering Day with the Rochester Orienteering Club at Highland Park. Would I get lost in the woods and have Lassie sent out to find me? Or better yet, get stuck in a cave with Tom Sawyer? So I put on my dorky sneakers and headed out. I thought about packing a lunch and some supplies, but it was Highland Park after all. And I don't own even a Cracker Jacks compass.

Everyone was required to sign in, which took a while as many of us were newbies requiring instruction. There are different levels of courses and I chose the white one, for the beginners. I exchanged my keys for a compass, which they said reminded us to return it afterwards, got my map and punch card, and headed off. Each checkpoint had an orange and white flag to which a hole punch was attached. It was really more of a needle punch, with each checkpoint poking a different design and amount of pricks in the punch card, which we had safety pinned to our shirts.

There are two different methods to do the courses. The first is just following the map. The second is speed. Some people sprinted the courses. I think I might have won the Slowest Ever to Not Complete Award. I kept getting side-tracked looking for four-leaf clovers, talking to the birds, and watching the other people, especially the parents teaching their kids. Highland Park has many nice places to take a sit-down.

If you ever want to be an Indiana Jones, you should probably start with orienteering. It's almost like following a treasure map, and there were even cookie treasures at the finish. One thing that is really important is to sign back in. If not, they get worried. They don't want to send Lassie out for nothing.

The tram ride up to the mansion might have been fun on another day, but this day the rain that blew in the sides of the car magnified the cold and I was just thankful that I didn't have to walk. It wasn't the best day to tour Sonnenberg's gardens, but the dull gray sky, drizzle, and chill in the air was the fitting prerequisite for a hot cup of tea. The Victorian Tea was held inside because of the weather, which was an added surprise. Card tables were covered with flowered cloths, lovely mismatched china settings, and a vase of fresh flowers. A piano player played in the background. The drawing room setting was like "Antiques Roadshow" Heaven.

I was slightly disappointed to see the bowl of Bigelow tea packets, but that feeling was easily forgotten with what followed. As a stuffed silver fox looked on, servers in black dresses and white aprons and caps served pots of hot water, fresh fruit cups, and cranberry-orange scones. A man in tails followed, plopping dollops of freshly whipped cream on our plates. There was a pretty dish of orange marmalade on the table. The serving plates were removed and the finger sandwich course began. Slices of cucumber on pumpernickel bread spread with dill butter. Egg and tuna salads. Seed bread with strawberry. Sweet brown bread with cream cheese and walnuts. Wheat bread with butter and apricot-jalapeno jelly. Raspberry sherbet was then served to cleanse the pallet.

Next, a tray of many desserts. Almond crescents, Hello Dollys, chocolate cake and brownies, lemon bars, peanut butter cookies, and other yummy nosh.

Altogether -- the setting, the treats, the ambiance, the interesting and informative conversation with the three off-duty Sonnenberg volunteers celebrating a birthday at the next table -- made for a completely quaint and filling experience.

When I hadn't received a reply from my second e-mail requesting a reservation for the Victorian Tea at Sonnenberg Gardens & Mansion, I resorted to phoning. Too bad, sold out. I hate when that happens. I made reservations for the following week.

I didn't do an event, but I did do something eventful. I went peddle boating, my absolute favorite summertime activity. There are just so many things I love about it, beginning with it being something I can do with only one other person, as they are typically two-seaters. I love one-on-one interactions. So, I gathered up a friend and we headed toward the Mid-Lakes Erie Macedon Landing.

First we stopped for supplies, which always include water, Pringles, M&Ms, Starbucks DoubleShots, and alcohol -- usually beer, usually Guinness. This day we also picked up some tuna and chicken salads and crackers and some iced tea. We added two small cartons of chocolate milk from the "Got Milk" campaign outside the store. Everything packed in the cooler, we headed to the marina.

At this point, I've got the activity down to a science. Dropping the supplies dockside, we parked the car and went in to sign the release. They know me, and know I never know how long I'll be gone, so we always tally up afterwards. This week the owner told me he'd be closing at 5 p.m., but he'd be around until at least 6 p.m., but not to worry because we'd work it out the next time I came around.

This marina is on the Erie Canal outside the city. Framed on both sides by trees and greenery, it's really beautiful and quiet. Once outside the dock area I decide which way the wind is blowing and head into it. This makes the ride back easier, which is good, because I'm always very relaxed, tired from being out on the water and in the sun, and not up to fighting the current. We headed east and pulled into the first station. (I've been back and forth both ways many times, and on each way I've found stations. They're what I call the places that are perfect to pull over, tie to an overhanging branch, and float. Which is why I call it "peddle floating" rather than boating.) It's at this first station that we always disrobe. Off come the overclothes and we're down to our swim suits. We broke out a beer and peddled onward.

This week there were many baby turtles on logs sunning themselves. And this week I was so in need of doing nothing that I headed straight to a little cove with a beautiful tree with branches that curve over and touch the water. Tied up, we opened up our snacks and had our picnic lunch. We talked and talked, and ate, and loosened and tightened the rope to be in the sun or in the shade, and did nothing. Absolute bliss.

That nothing is what I like best about peddle floating. It takes a bit of time, but at some point you realize there is nothing else you can do but what you are doing. All the coulds and shoulds and will-dos peel away. Even the conversation changes from past events and future plans, to what you're experiencing in the present.

After rejuvenating with our DoubleShots, we took our time getting back with at least five station stops. No one was around so we unpacked and were just about to pull the boat up off the launch when the owner arrived. We had a lovely relaxed chat about his plans - campgrounds, snack bar, swimming pool -- and we'll tally up next time. Hopefully, there will be many next times. He's open until the end of October.

We didn't know exactly where we were going for the Poags Hole Hillclimb on Sunday, August 17, but it wasn't a problem. We simply followed the motorcycles. At first they came in ones and twos, then they expanded in number the closer we got. As we stopped for gas at what looked to be the last place before turning off the main roads, I got a small dose of what we were in for. The large convenience store parking lot was rimmed with bikes and bikers, and my heart sped up a bit. "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" Leather everywhere. And lots of bleached hair. Bleached hair on women I feared would beat me up just for looking at their old men.

OK, not really. I didn't really feel danger, just excitement. And not all the women had bleached hair. But, it was fun to imagine being that scared. And I got to go on a tirade about how I have always hated that my-old-man, my-old-lady sentiment.

Turning off the main road and down a twisting lane, seeing the slate cliffs framing a winding creek, I remembered how much I like the Stony Brook area. We moved along at a steady pace, crawling in a traffic line for only the last half-mile or so. After parking and entering, we scoped out the map to get acquainted with the layout. I don't know what I had in mind, but it wasn't this. Very well organized, the merchandise vendors were on one side of the road, conveniently lined up with a clear view to the hill. On one side of them were parked cars, and on the other a sea of cycles. More cycles than I've ever seen in my life. Thousands of cycles. On the opposite side of the street were the food vendors and the hill. And what a hill! Straight up 700 feet, with a few small humps along the way. The idea of driving a bike up it seemed ludicrous, and begged several questions.

How would they get down?

What if they tipped over backwards?

Why?

Why was the easiest to answer. Why not? It's fun, dangerous, and silly. Silly only to a few -- the professionals take this very seriously, and use serious bikes in the $100,000 price range.

After partaking of some sustenance from the food vendors, we settled down on the grass to watch the show. It was postponed a bit in order for the 4- to 5-mile traffic backup to get parked. Very family friendly, the crowd was all ages. And the sound wasn't that loud unless you were right near the bikes.

It went like this: bike wranglers would bring the bikes toward the starting point - buzzing up the batteries, pumping up the tires, fueling, if needed - while the rider, in a costumed suit coordinated with his bike, performed his final preps, like tightening up his jacket, slipping on his gloves, and donning his helmet. Think Power Ranger costumes. Some even had pretty girl assistants doing the prep for them. Sheesh.

The bike wranglers would put the bike in place and the rider would mount while the wranglers fanned the fumes from the nitro-methane away from their eyes. Then they'd drive the bike straight up the hill, flying over the humps, and landing, and falling over somewhere along the way. A few reached the top. As they toppled off, the Hill Workers, aligned along the sides of the hill at different altitudes, would rush out looking like busy little ants in their yellow t-shirts, to assess the damage -- thumbs up meant the rider was OK -- and to roll the bike down to the nearest hump to a side track down the hill.

Over and over, all day long this went, and as silly as it sounds, one couldn't help but turn and watch each time you heard the roaring start of the engine. I even started critiquing. Half of me was hoping they would make it to the top, and half was hoping they wouldn't. That half was also hoping they would crash. Not a bad crash, just a little one. And, no, I'm not mean or sick. I'm just saying aloud what everyone else is secretly thinking. If it wasn't dangerous it wouldn't be nearly as fun.

I'm already planning on going again next year. The only down side was that we only found out once we got there that you had to bring your own beer. No bottles allowed.

This past weekend, a family dressed in period costume gathered at the village square for East Bloomfield History Days. As they sprawled on a picnic blanket, the image was quintessentially American, and set the tone for the day. Cannons stood guard like sentinels on all four sides of the mound leading up to the Civil War monument -- an obelisk engraved with names and battles, with a pondering Union soldier perched atop. The square was also home to displays of local Civil War-era history, including quilt-making demonstrations, "veterans," and telegraph equipment.

As I made my way around the square, I stopped at Abraham Lincoln Camp No. 6 to chat with the vets. One of the pamphlets on display was on "The Language of Nineteenth Century Etiquette Books" with "Basic Social Rules for Gentlemen." I pointed out that they were currently breaking the first three rules: wear gloves, stand up when a lady enters, offer the lady your seat. Falling over each other in an attempt to oblige ensued.

Entering the "Lincoln Flag" exhibit -- which purports to include the American flag used to mop up some of the blood from Lincoln's head the night he was assassinated at Ford's Theater -- I encountered the man portraying the late president. He seemed to be a bit full of himself, exhibiting an arrogance absent from the historical accounts of Lincoln himself. Gazing at the life mask -- a mold made of Lincoln's face while he was still alive -- another attendee asked if it was the original. "Mr. Lincoln" replied, "Yes." I interjected that on the description it stated it was one of three copies of the original. He then re-stated that it was one of three copies of the original, all without missing a beat. Thank goodness he wasn't portraying the first U.S. president, who reportedly couldn't tell a lie.

Ignoring the irritating actor, the life mask was pretty eerie. Yes, it was a copy, but every crease on the former president's face was revealed. It may not have been the exact plaster that touched his face, but it felt like it. Lending to the eeriness,  beside the mask was the Rochester Daily Democrat's Monday, April 17, 1865, account of the assassination. Peculiarly lacking was any mention of Mrs. Lincoln's condition. I mean, she did just have a shot go off beside her head, hitting her husband. Alas, this was prior to the "infotainment" movement, where we all now know every facet of celebrities' lives.

The flag itself was huge. Eight feet high, rolled up in a coffin-shaped box, revealing only the bloodied portion, it leaned against the wall. Old striped wool with dark blood stains. Ew.

Next up: Walnut Hill Driving Competition

It wasn't just the T&A that piqued my curiosity about Frank De Blase's "Peel & Squeal Appeal" lecture last night at the Dryden Theatre. I had spent many an hour in the Williams Research Center while in New Orleans, rolling through microfiche looking at the old Blue Book bordello menus. I've often had the feeling that, in a past life, I was once a madam managing such an establishment in New Orleans. And, although a burlesque story doesn't have the same ending as one set in a bordello, they both begin with a tease.

I was also excited about hearing De Blase speak, something I do everyday (he works across from me as City's music editor) -- but not with an audience, and him at the podium. Add to that the subject matter, and the knowledge that both his mother and his in-laws would be in attendance, and I knew this would be, as Ed Sullivan used to put it, a "really good shew."

A good turnout of Rochester's lowlifes -- a.k.a. our friends -- filled the seats to hear a subject new to the big house. I don't think anyone turned in their graves, but I'm pretty sure I heard a few oohs and ahhs as De Blase feasted our eyes and ears on not only a general history of burlesque, but his history of infatuation with it. Slide after slide of beauties -- some voluptuous and some cheesy -- slid from the projector as we traveled through torrid times. But, once all clothes are off, all holes bared, there's nothing left to show. Hence, the death of true tease.

De Blase is a fountain of knowledge about any subject he enjoys, and he shares his background with pulsing passion and theatrics. It's a joy to observe. With that in mind, I can only imagine how exciting it would have been to hear his discourses on each photo. Perhaps another lecture?

Next up: Lincoln Flag Exhibit & Civil War Artifacts

In years past, the Rochester Public Market offered its summertime Community Garage Sales and Super Fleas once a month. They are now held every Sunday, and that might explain why only a portion of the available vendor spaces were in use.

The day was bright and sunny, and upon entering the compound I was struck by the amount of doggy bags. That's dogs in bags, a practice that has become somewhat of an epidemic since "Legally Blonde." After questioning one such pet carrier, I was told the practice saves the pooch's paws from being trampled upon. However, I also wonder if this is a way around the "no dogs allowed" rules, a possibility that both excites and concerns me. Breaking rules can be exciting. Dogs where dogs shouldn't be is a concern. Are itsy-bitsy canines that yip rather than bark not considered dogs anymore? I digress...

Although there were some stalls of fruit and veggies, the majority were full of garage sale finds. At first not being drawn to explore any spot more fully, I soon found myself rummaging through vintage dinner and silver wares, frayed quilts, and taste-testing some of the best sweet potato pie I've ever had.

After years of unrestrained collecting, I have a self-imposed rule regarding purchases. If I don't want to take care of it for the rest of my life, I don't buy it. I appease myself by telling myself I can come look at it anytime and therefore don't need to own it. I found nothing that I wanted to dust or move with me forever. My friend, on the other hand, set herself up for disappointment. She told herself she wasn't going to get anything, but left carrying two paintings, a lamp, and some plates, all from the 1950-60s.

The security guards get to drive around in cute little electric carts. They told me it was similar to a golf cart with a top speed of 26 mph.

I'll be back to visit my non-purchased items -- and to get another piece of that sweet potato pie.

Next up: "Peels & Squeals"

It's challenging to find anything good about the rising cost of gas. However, as I am a woman who loves words, the addition of two new words to the Urban Dictionary created by the soaring oil prices gives me the self-delusion of finding something redeeming about it. Daycation and staycation, while now admitted only into a rogue dictionary, may well someday end up in The Oxford.

This past weekend I went on a staycation at a cottage on Canandaigua Lake. Arriving late afternoon on Friday, and having established the Top Secret House Rules, me and four of my gal pals proceeded to eat, drink, sleep, float, soak, sloth, and giggle our way through Sunday.

All of us are pet owners, so we were pleased with the kitty who entered the open door the first night and proceeded to come and go as she pleased for the weekend. We named her Matilda, gave her bowls of half and half, bits of leftovers, and speculated about her permanent living arrangements ad nauseum. She slept on our beds, usually on our heads.

Set on the eastside of the lake, we watched the sun go down nightly, had a campfire and the mandatory yearly s'more, and discussed such highbrow subjects as women TV personalities. Kelly Ripa - mixed. Elizabeth Hasselbeck - ick. Rachael Ray - nice, but no neck. Across the lake, wonderful illegal fireworks were set off nightly.

As the gal in charge of bringing the vodka brought raspberry flavored -- we have yet to find out why -- we experimented. Raspberry vodka does not a good lemon drop make. And no, it does not make a new cool shot. Better to stick with mixers; in our case, pink lemonade and ice tea.

Sunday, we decided to venture out and pretend to be tourists in downtown Canandaigua at the Art & Music Festival. On our way from the parking lot we got sidetracked by the huge blown glass birds in the window of Nadal Glass Gallery. Struck by the beautiful rounded glass brick columns and aluminum awning that belonged to Wally's Pub next door, we decided it would be the perfect place for Bloody Marys. Inside was a well-worn wooden, horseshoe-shaped bar with a glass brick kick. Being told we had to wait two minutes until we could be served - it was 11:58 a.m. - we checked out the rest of the place. A dive, but a beautiful old art deco dive. We were treated to homemade BM's -- not a mix -- with the barmaid making a great show of the libations. After quickly slurping them down through straws, we headed to the fest. We lasted about a half hour in the humid hot and headed back to lakeside, making a quick stop for ice cream cones. Mine: chocolate soft-serve with cherry dip. Yum!

Home, we began the rotation of eat, drink, sleep, float, soak, sloth, and giggle once again. Leaving was sad.

Next up: Garage Sale & Super Flea at the Public Market

Last week I ran into a woman who told me that reading a City's Choice on an altered book workshop inspired her to attend. Neither of us knew the other had been there, but we discussed how cool we thought the books were, and also our own pitiful attempts at the workshop to make one. I blogged about it here. I say this because when I learned that the Memorial Art Gallery's "Rochester Biennial" was to include a book artist, I was excited.

First, a gripe. The $10 admission seems a bit steep considering I can go to Buffalo's Albright-Knox, which IMHO has a far superior permanent collection, for the same price.

And on to the dogs. Juan Perdiguero's doggy drawings are the kind of art that makes me see what I view as mistakes. "You smudged it there. You forgot to erase your pencil outline." They reminded me a bit of Tim Burton creations, with their glowing eyes.

Next was Susan Lakin's photographs of peoples' reflections in their television sets. Initially interesting, like TV-obscura, it quickly became boring. I found the settings and the posed smiling faces lacking any interesting features. The placements, high and low on the walls, while giving the idea that the settings were to seem life-like, were a bit annoying. It mattered not, as I was just about to turn the corner to see what I really came to see -- the books.

The books. Some were like murals painted on accordion-like folding pages. Others were collages. One had piano-hinged pages. They were pretty. They were well made, beautiful even. But not at all what I expected. These were more the art of bookbinding and bookmaking. They were art books. I was expecting altered books -- books made into artworks. I was bitterly disappointed.

Then, I turned the corner...

Gigantic, 800 lb. bronze sculptures of black birds are impressive. "I model these forms to contain a taut equilibrium, a balanced pressure from inside and out -- like a breath held in," says Todd McGrain's artist statement. Mission accomplished. I would gladly take one home to live with me. There was a living essence in them that made them feel like old friends to me.

Imagine things wired to a wired stand. That's Ronald Gonzalez's installation. Wiry stands with odd objects like antique toys and tools connected on top. I didn't understand the artist's statement about the "...shared psychic indeterminacy, tragic consciousness..." of the objects, but I did feel like I was channeling Ty Pennington giving a lecture on grouping objects by theme.

By far the most surprising to me were Melissa Sarat's paintings. At first I thought they were quilted. They are so bright and plump that they seem almost three-dimensional. Brimming with symbolism, they transported me to a steamy bayou, replete with drug-induced dancing. I don't know much about art, other than what I like and don't like. But her work, I just know it is good.

Next up: Stay-cation on Canandaigua Lake