We Chicagoans have seen this happen to our beloved Gino’s and Pizzeria Uno’s.  And now, my pizza loving friends, I’m sorry to announce it’s happening to Lou Malnati’s.

At its best Lou’s is buttery crust, fresh chunks of tomatoes, cheesy cheese, a perfect mix of herbs and spices, and it’s such a mouthful that at times a knife and fork are required.  But at its worst, it’s a soggy or burned, over-cheesed, under-sauced $20 mess.  The latter has been the case as of late.   Which is unfortunate considering that the company seems to be expanding.  Lou’s are popping up all around the Chicagoland area.

We all know I can’t afford to pay that much for a medium pizza, let alone one that ain’t right.  I’ve taken to complaining, and they’ve acquiesced by offering me a free pizza the next time I order.  But even the free pizzas suck.  They clearly aren’t keeping track of just how dissatisfied I’ve become, if so you’d think they’d want to make it right.

It all comes down to principal for me, when I pay for someone to make my food, I expect it to be RIGHT.  And when it isn’t, I expect them to make it right.  Perhaps I’m asking too much of my pizza makers.  Is it just me, or should consistent excellence be the primary goal for a restaurant?

Is it too much to ask that the crust be crisp, but not burned?  That the cheese and sauce have a perfect balance? Who wants to choke down a mouthful of thick cheese and dry crust?

So I guess I’m looking for a new pizza place?  Preferably one that doesn’t cost an arm & a leg and that is good EVERY TIME… any suggestions?

Calling all of the stores in Illinois to see if my bad luck has finally bid me ado proved futile.  Something akin to me calling up Steven Speilberg, on his cell phone, asking for a gig and him actually being happy to hear from me.  You should hear the sales clerk on the other end, voice laced with an air of pity for my naivete… if not precisely an “in your dreams, loser”, then something definitely on par with that reaction.

I have a history with these boots, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s just not meant to be.  Back when I was gainfully employed and couldn’t come up with enough ways to throw away my money, I set my sights on a pair of these boots.  It had been a while since I owned a pair of UGGs, call it a little boycott against the boot that was on basically every female foot in the country.  So when I searched Zappos I couldn’t remember which size to get.  I’m typically wear a 7.5, but UGGs don’t run in half sizes.

I didn’t want to run the risk of getting the wrong size, so I put the purchase on the back burner until I could get into a store to try them on.  Before that happened, the season changed and there was no longer a need to spend my money on some boots.

CUT TO: Chicago, Fall 2009.

UGG season has returned with a vengeance and I still think the Cardy’s are the cutest item in the UGGly boot family.  I finally get into a store and try them on and it turns out I wear a 7, which they actually have in stock.  They’re as cute on my feet as I’d imagined they’d be… problem… I’m B-R-O-K-E.

So when that super Dad of mine asks what I want for Christmas, I seize the chance to get the boot I’ve been coveting for two seasons.  When he asks me what size I need… I’m stumped… I can’t remember if I need a 7 or an 8.  My dad proceeds to go on a virtual wild goose chase for either a 7 or 8, because under normal circumstance I could probably fit either one.  But if we’ve learned nothing over the last few months, we’ve learned that my circumstances are rebelling against normal… And unforch, my dad was not alone in his UGG search.  These things are basically SOLD OUT everywhere.

On Christmas day, I’m not expecting anything when all of a sudden my dad hands me a big UGG-sized box from under the tree.  My heart is pumping… did he pull it off?  Really?

Like a kid 20 years my junior, I ripped off the wrapping paper, to see that paper-bag colored box with U-G-G in big letters. Thrilled is an understatement.  My dad tells me that the store didn’t have a 7, which made the which size dilemma pretty simple, an 8 it was.  So I slipped my feet into the warm lambs wool…

And they’re HUGE.  But I want them to fit soooooo badly.  I flop around in them for a while, trying to make them work, but the fact remains they are just too big.  On one hand I’m eternally grateful that my Dad even bothered to search high and low for a boot that’s apparently as popular as the Sony PlayStation, on the other I’m bummed I can’t rock them on what turned out to be a very white Christmas.

The day after Christmas, armed with my 8s,  I searched for a 7… this is the part where the sales clerks basically laughed in my face.  Before I could even get the Ug-… out of my mouth, I’m informed that “they’re, like, sold out nationwide“.

Hoping against hope, that somewhere in the tri-state area, there is a person with a 7 wishing they had an 8, I tried again this morning, calling every store from Ohio to Indiana to no avail.

So today I blog to you so close, yet so far… with boots too big and job prospects too little… 2009 (the year of hard knocks) truly can not end soon enough.

I’ve decided to set my sights on temp agencies.  This, apparently, is not a novel idea… seems I should take a number and stand in line behind all of the other formerly employed geniuses.

I can see right now that I’m setting myself up for disappointment.  Yet another scenario in which I go to stalker-like lengths to get a recruiter to call me back.

And in the event that I do get a call, I’m sure it will be to inform me that “they’ll keep my resume on file”.  Do you know how many people have my resume on “file”?  It doesn’t take an Einstein to figure out that “on file” is code for “in the trash”.

Seriously, I challenge these recruiters to be honest and really tell me what they’re going to do with my resume…  Or not be honest, humor me… be creative.  I could use a laugh.

Am I a fool to think that having me as a receptionist would be quite a coup for a company?  Evidently so…

1. I don’t like standing up… in heels… with no real purpose, other than to talk to people who don’t want to be talked to. (The curt I’m fine, just looking, let’s me know they hate me and will only start liking me if, and only if, they need a size or color they can’t find.)
2. I don’t like convincing people to buy things at ridiculously high prices that will be on sale for ridiculously low prices tomorrow.
3. I don’t like pretending that I care… when I don’t.
4. I don’t even fold or hang my own clothes (unless of course it’s time to write my epic screenplay)
5. Store managers always have more problems than the President – (she’s convinced of this, we haven’t actually talked about it, but I can tell.  She goes through a pack of cigs an hour and is falling out of a double zero Ursula pant.)
6. War, famine, H1N1… and how many boyfriend blazers did you sell today?
7. It just ain’t me.

Honestly, my house would be jealous with the amount of deep-cleaning and elbow grease I’ve bestowed upon this place.  And they fooled me during my training week… swiffering 3000 sq ft. in 30 minutes, with another person, is actually kinda fun… especially when your manager is a living, breathing Stylist Barbie.

No one told me that my training week was fun Stylist Barbie’s last and that scary Goth Barbie would be taking over for her.  They also neglected to tell me that dusting, windexing, changing light bulbs 20ft in the air, and taking human-sized garbage bags through the labyrinth, to the basement-dungeon would be my job… and mine, ALONE.

I did manage to get a scrape on my hand today, that actually drew blood… I wonder if I can file for workman’s comp?

DEAR DANA,

We need you to donate to a fundraiser…

Full stop.

Really?  That’s funny, perhaps you can help me… because I need some funds raised too, and while you’re at it how ’bout a job, and maybe a side of I’m sorry for stabbing you in the back and then having the audacity to ask for money and/or lacking the class to know any better.

(I know, I know… broke and bitter, not a winning combo. I’m working on it)

So after I cooled down, I thought about giving versus receiving.

DEAR FORMER EMPLOYER,

I’m doing great, thanks for asking.  I’m blogging now, which doesn’t pay anything, so unfortunately I will be unable to donate to your cause.  BUT there’s a dollar that I tragically lost in a battle with a toilet bowl, and believe me, if things had been different, that dollar would have your name written all over it.

All the best to you and yours,

Me