Tag Archives: Pontiac Grand Prix

Buyer’s Remorse

Whenever I find a girlfriend, she's going to like riding in this infinitely better than she would have in my Pontiac.

Whenever I find a girlfriend, she’s going to like riding in this infinitely better than she would have in my Pontiac Grand Prix.

And just like that <insert dramatic hand motion here>, she was gone.

I don’t have the Girlfriend Litmus Test anymore. I am now in total jeopardy of attracting a woman who only wants me for my money—and by my money, I mean the $500 or so I have left in my checking account now. Settle down, ladies!

Because my brain doesn’t work like regular human beings, I used a bad wheel bearing in my inexpensive 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix with only 46,000 miles on it as an excuse to go buy a brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee yesterday. Like a total dick.

If Dave Ramsey finds out I read his excellent personal finance book AND still did what I did yesterday, I could be murdered by nightfall by a Financial Peace University minion. If this ends up being my last post, just assume that’s what happened.

Since acquiring the new Jeep, I’ve put 15 miles on it. During those 15 miles, I never felt any better about my life than I did in my crappy car over the past few months.

My family didn’t reappear at home.

I still got stuck at red lights on my morning commute.

When my soon-to-be ex asked me today whether I bought a new car, I didn’t even feel better after telling her that I now have a nicer Jeep than she does.

Who sits around worrying about personal finances, then goes out and buys a brand new semi-expensive vehicle?

This guy.

Stephanie, the girl who invited me to The Bruno Mars Wedding, is encouraging me to think of it as part of my new beginning. To simply embrace and enjoy this new part of my life and take pleasure in all the good aspects of having a new vehicle while leaving behind the sadness of the old one.

And hell, maybe she’s right.

Maybe I should enjoy, for the first time in my life, having one of the nicer cars on the road. After all, the thing is pretty sweet. The nicest thing I’ve ever had, certainly.

I guess when I think back on the past three or four years of my life—dealing with a job loss, marital turmoil, and now my pending divorce—what’s a little buyer’s remorse compared to that stress?

Piece of freaking cake, that’s what.

Screw it. Steph’s right. I’m just going to try and enjoy it.

After all, now that I’m not driving that Pontiac anymore, I’m going to get more female attention than I know what to do with.



It’s foolproof.

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I May Have Serious Issues

My face cut doesn't look awesome and badass like Bruce Lee's. It looks stupid and weaksauce.

My face cut doesn’t look awesome and badass like Bruce Lee’s. It looks stupid and weaksauce.

I have a small cut on my right cheek due to a shaving accident yesterday morning that I may let affect my entire weekend.

While it represents the worst cut of my shaving career, in the grand scheme of wounds, it’s not exactly a conversation piece.

Might be a centimeter wide. Like this freaking guy. Whatever.

It took me 90 minutes to stop the bleeding yesterday. I actually came in late to work because of it. At least three co-workers gave me shit about it.

However, when I look in the mirror, it’s the only thing I see. Like when you have a large blemish. Or a small coffee stain on your shirt.

My brain is savvy enough to understand that most people aren’t really paying attention to it. But it’s not savvy enough to not care.

When God was handing out I-don’t-give-a-fuck genes, He gave my share to someone else. Someone who is probably living in Turks and Caicos earning 20 percent on self-made millions and drinking fine tequila every day like a boss. Or my wife’s boyfriend. One of the two.

The Thought Process

I totally care about shit like this. All the time.

I’m not Men’s Health-cover hard bodied like I want to be. So I talk about being fat, even though I’m not really fat.

I’m not 6’2” like I want to be. So I talk about being short, even though I’m not THAT short.

My house isn’t 5,000 square feet with an in-ground pool and theater room like what I want to live in. So I talk about it being old, humble and shitty, even though it really is a decent and pleasant home.

My car isn’t a fully restored and resto-modded 1961 Chevy Impala like I want to drive. So I talk about how shitty my Pontiac Grand Prix is, even though there’s plenty of shittier cars on the road.

When I’m embarrassed about something, I call attention to it. I want everyone to know that I know I have some personal defect, or that some room in my house is cluttered, or that my grass needs mowed, or that my car needs washed. I want everyone to know that I’m not oblivious. That I’m totally self-aware. As if it’s going to excuse the thing I’m embarrassed about, when every wise person knows you should either NOT be embarrassed, or fix whatever condition is embarrassing you.

The Decision

So, as many of you know, I’m trying to get back in the game. I’m dating and look forward to new opportunities to meet women as they arise.

Tonight was supposed to be another great opportunity. We have an Italian Festival in the town I live in. It will be going on all weekend. That means the downtown bars will be packed. And since my son is with his mom, this is exactly the type of situation I’ve been trying to take advantage of.

Additionally, I promised you more courage—that I would introduce myself to strangers when I want to meet them and trust that rejection won’t be as bad as my mind predicts it will be, and being conscious of the fact that the rewards of being bold could be great.

But I have this damn cut on my face. It’s not like I got it taking out some ninja assassin. I cut it shaving. Like an asshole.

How can I act confident and be myself when I don’t feel confident?

“Hi, I’m Matt. Sorry about this big cut on my face. For the purposes of this conversation, try to imagine me cut-free like I am most of the time. Thanks. Oh, and also pretend I’m not a total freaking spaz,” is what I’d want to say.

Because of a one-centimeter-length cut on my cheek, I may skip going out and having fun tonight with friends and girls I might want to meet.

What if my friends ask why I’m staying home? Do I tell them the truth? Or do I make something up?

Despite my strong desire to always be honest, this falls within the realm of “little white lies.”

And I don’t really have a problem with little white lies because they’re the ones you tell when you don’t want to hurt people’s feelings. So, I do that sometimes.

A girl I know said staying home because of this cut is stupid. That I should go out and make up a rad story about how I got it.

“Make up a total badass story about the gash,” she said. “GO OUT. Nothing happens to those who choose to stay in. The Domino’s delivery girl will not be the woman of your dreams.”

  1. I don’t want to lie about the gash. That wouldn’t be a white lie. That would be a regular lie.
  2. I would never order Domino’s. I’m kind of a food snob. Even with pizza.

I’m not sure what the right play is here.

Go out with the cut and feel self conscious all night until I drink enough to not care?

Or stay in and use some early morning responsibilities tomorrow as a cover for my chicken-shit decision?

Jury’s still out.

Hi. My name’s Matt. Nice to meet you. I make bad decisions.

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The Girlfriend Litmus Test


Bask in the averageness. Bask in it.

I drive a 2005 Pontiac Grand Prix.

Waiting for the punch line? That’s the punch line.

I drive the most-average car in America. It’s like eating a Louis Rich cold-cut turkey sandwich for lunch. With no condiments.

It’s like eating bran flakes. Or drinking tap water. Room-temperature tap water.

Driving an eight-year-old Pontiac Grand Prix is, on a scale of 1-10, a 5.

So, here’s the deal: I’m 34. I’m single. I need to attract a mate.

And I’m constantly embarrassed at the idea of meeting someone out or picking them up in my Pontiac. In fact, as I type, I’m planning to meet someone out for drinks tomorrow.

What will she think of my car?

I have a thing for Grand Cherokees and Jeep Wrangler Unlimiteds. And I dig on the Cadillac CTS as well. Those are the vehicles on my very short list.

I’m often heard these days using the line: “I could DEFINITELY get a girlfriend with one of those,” referring to some amazing car I happen upon.

I could totally get a girl in a fly Caddy.

Then it hit me: Do I really want the kind of girl in my life that’s going to evaluate my worth based on my car?

Of course I don’t.

So, now the Pontiac has purpose. It’s more than just a car to get me from Point A to Point B at a totally average pace.

It’s the Girlfriend Litmus Test.

If I roll up in my Pontiac, and she’s still like: “Ohhhh Matt, you’re the best ever,” then I know I have a keeper.



It’s foolproof.

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