       I dragged Mary Ann out today to find a pressure washer. Yeah, it's a guy thing. The first stop was Wal*Mart. That's where the upscale bottom-feeders go to shop. We were once nearly run over by some kid riding a display bicycle down the aisle. We only go there when left with no choice.
       Some background about the need for a pressure washer: We recently got this nifty textured concrete front walk and patio. Looks like dark red slate with charcoal highlights. It was all shiny and new after the concrete guys left.
       We then called in the landscapers to put the front and backyards in order. They did, but left the walk and the drive dirty. Sure, they hosed things down, but the dirt is still in the texture of the concrete so I have to wash it out.
       I was never one to let my muscles to something that electricity or gasoline engines do instead, thus the pressure washer. I looked online and Wal*Mart said they had a small Campbell-Hausfeld for about $70. C-H is a name in the pressure business – the make compressors, airtools, and such – so I was willing to give their pee-wee washer a try.
       Got to Wal*Mart and found that the one in Brook Park doesn't carry them. That screeching sound is the gnashing of my teeth. Wal*Mart is my least favorite place to visit. It's full of women wearing sweatpants like they're clothes that should be worn outside of a gym, guys wearing every sport-team endorsable piece of apparel possible, and both bring all of their kids under 10 as well as any neighborhood whelps that want to race around the store while their parents insist on blocking the aisles looking like sheep in the abattoir just after they've been conked in the head.
       Did I say I didn't care for Wal*Mart?
       Next stop was Home Depot. They had a couple of models. A modest 1300 psi model for $89.95 and a 1600 psi for $169.95. Yep, I went for the big one. In my defense, it did come with a turbo nozzle – INCREASES Effectiveness by 50%! – whereas I'd have to buy that attachment for the pee-wee version.
       A hint on hitting home improvement store and restaurants to avoid crowds: Go when The Big Game is televised locally. All of the silverbacks stay home to yell at the TV and don't clutter up places buying stuff they don't need. Hey, I need a pressure washer.
       As a sop to the missus, I told her I'd take her to lunch. Like I was taking her anywhere since she was driving. We decided to try this place her boss and my sister-in-law raved about: Danny Boy's.
       "Oh, it's on Lake Road in Rocky River," says Mary Ann.
       Well, Rocky River's not that big a place and my S-I-L said they had big portions. Sounds fine. Off we go.
       We circumnavigated Rocky River, Lakewood, and points west for an hour looking for it. I went so far as to call my S-I-L and ask for directions. Now, I dearly like my S-I-L, but her idea of directions is to tell you how to find a place by citing landmarks only she knows. "Make a left three blocks before you get to the house with brick-red trim."
       We finally found a Danny Boy's Pizza and Ribs spot in a narrow storefront between a auto repair joint and someplace that will re-align you chakras – both you and your car can be fixed within 50 feet of each other to move forthrightly.
       This can't be it. It looks like the pizza-and-beer joints that line the street across from college. The way these folks were talking about it we expected something much better. We searched some more. Yep, that's the place. We parked next door in the independent food market parking lot since this place didn't have any parking. It made the Donato's chain pizza joints look like Wolfgang Puck's latest Beverly Hills effort.
       I went to open the door and gave it a yank, locked. The place was dark – not unusual for a dive like that – but it was also empty. We found a sign behind a bench in front showing their hours. No hours listed on Sunday. Back in the car.
       Let's try Outback, says I. Another trip around Lakewood, Rocky River, and Westlake. Gee, only one car in the lot. The sign says they don't open until 3. It's 1:45. Oh well, we passed an Italian place just 500 feet back. They're closed until 3:30. I guess everyplace figures that on Sunday people are just so chock full of communion wafers that they won't be hungry until late afternoon. Those of us who want more for lunch than bread and wine are out of luck.
       We finally went back to one of our watering holes – Longhorn Steak House – and got seafood, just as it started to rain. Yes, for a national chain, Longhorn does an excellent grilled salmon. Best I've ever had. Top it with fried cheesecake – my 16-year-old niece calls it decadent – and 75 miles of driving in circles seems worth it.