Good luck? What kind of a shitty thing is that to say?

Sundays are lonely for me now that football has started. The boy usually takes off to sit with his friends watching the game in some lousy bar with lousy service and lousy food that I have to hear an incessant amount of bitching about when he comes home. Meanwhile I'm trapped in the house most of the day (because I equate going out with spending money and now that I am married I seem to have no money) with a TV that I can't work because there are way too many remotes and I have no clue which is which.

This past Sunday the boy was feeling guilty for working an overnight on Friday and losing Saturday night to a family gathering so he decided he would stay home Sunday and spend some time with me. Here's how spending time with each other goes these days. I play Sims in one corner of the living room while he sits behind me and watched football.

But, we're together, right?

I began dropping hints around 2:30 that I was starving. So, he did what any football fan would do whose wife said she was starving more than 6 times in 10 minutes. He took me to a bar he knew would have food AND TVs. I don't mind, I actually happen to like this place and frequent it at least 2 times a week during every season, not just football. I ordered the usual, a salad pizza and some wings. Now, for those of you not familiar with a salad pizza, it's pretty much thin crust with cheese melted on top and layer of cold tossed greens with vinegar. I particularly love dousing it in grated cheese, crushed pepper and salt. Actually, sad to say, I smuggle this in in my purse.

Try it and seasoning will never be the same.

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So, anyway, where was I?

We're sitting there munching on wings and the bartender brings over the salad pizza.

Two men to right remark, "I've never seen that before."

I didn't think they were saying anything to us so I continued my ritual of grated cheese and Hot Rocks.

Again, the man says, "I've never seen that before. What is it?"

I looked up and he was pointing at our pizza. I said, "It's salad pizza." And the man asked again what it is because apparently he never heard of a salad and a pizza. DUH! I explained (fighting the urge to speak slowly, loudly and use small words), "It's a salad on a pizza. It's good."

"Interesting," he says, "Good luck."

Good luck?

I thought it was the strangest thing I ever heard. The last time someone saw my salad pizza they ordered it and quickly became fans. But "good luck"? Exactly what did that mean? I thought about it for my entire meal. The only thing I could think of was the guy thought I was on a diet hence why I ordered salad on a pizza and he was wishing me luck on my diet.

This upset me for a couple of reasons. I know I put on a few pounds since the wedding but I reigned myself in with 135 grams of protein a day and under 50 carbs. So, this was my splurge day. Actually, despite the fact I was eating a salad, I was still being bad because my salad was on a crust. That rationale led me to think the man thought I was fat and SHOULD be on a diet so I got really self-conscious. But, hello, he just saw me shovel some wings down my gullet and I was pouring grated cheese on it thus canceling all the good out of it being a salad. Hmm . . . Maybe he meant good luck because I was OBVIOUSLY failing at my diet by doing this.

I wanted to ask Stew what the guy meant. Sometimes I think Stew can translate guy-ese better because he's a guy and therefore he must know what men are thinking all the time. However, with the guy sitting so close I couldn't ask Stew. So, I waited the whole meal (which felt like forfuckingever) and when Stew and I were safely in the car (okay, so it was really right when the door to the bar closed behind me), I asked Stew what the guy meant by saying good luck. Of course, Stew being a guy, forgot the whole event even transpired and I had to give him a play-by-play of something that happened twenty minutes ago. Ignorance is bliss. I wish i was a guy and forgot about shit like that so easy.

This was Stew's explanation.

"Maybe he doesn't like vegetables so he was wishing you good luck eating it." Like I was eating something exotic you'd find on a menu in some foreign country. Good luck with that plate of live worms and side of fried locusts.

"You know, Lulu, some men just don't like vegetables."

I patted Stew's sweet face. I think his baseball hat was too tight and cutting off circulation to his brain with that explanation. "Well, I guess I'm lucky to have found the only guy out there who will eat vegetables with me."

He made the face. You know the face. The face that almost looks pained because he is only doing something because I want to do it but he doesn't have the heart to tell me. "It's different," he explained, "those vegetables are sitting on cheese and crust so they're okay."

So, it's official. The guy at the bar thought I was fat and should be on a diet. However, he wishes me all the luck in the world.