This day marks the end of my road rage . . . because I’m retiring my car.

So . . . for the last several months, I’ve had horrible noises emanating from my car when I make sharp turns — or just turns in general. Lately, I’ve come to the realization that this noise could no longer be ignored, lest I end up stranded in some seedy neighborhood — or any neighborhood for that matter. I thought about taking the car to the dealer like I normally do, but that was a majorly unappealing proposition, given that my dealer is in Alsip, IL — AKA bumblefuck. Nope. My father wanted to send me to his mechanic, only to find out that his mechanic is no longer employed at that particular shop. Kyra suggested Midas, so I hightailed my ass down to Midas on Grand and LaSalle this morning at 8:00, when they opened.

I originally thought that I had power steering issues because, well, what the hell do I know? As it turns out, the noise that I was hearing had to do with the tie rods and the ball joints. Something about the potential to break. Whatever. They gave me an estimate of $650, which I wasn’t in love with, but would have paid to make driving less of a deadly experience.

I knew I was in trouble when I received a call at 10:40 am instead of at the promised time (closer to 2:00 or 3:00). The mechanic found additional problems when doing the brake check. Something about springs digging into my rear tire, grinding brakes and needing new struts.

The new estimate was $2,077. And as soon as I received that estimate, I told John-the-Midas-Man to take my car off the racks and return it to me in its original state. I carefully drove it home and parked it in the garage, where it will remain until I figure out what to do with it.

Let me be clear . . . I don’t even think that I could sell that car for $2,000. It’s a 2000 Ford Taurus that I never liked. My father talked me into buying it in 2000 when I was a freelance writer because Ford had a 0.0% financing deal. As soon as I drove it off the lot and realized how un-luxurious it was I knew I’d had a grave dad-induced error in judgment.

So, what am I gonna do? Most people assume that I’m buying a new car. WRONG!

I HATE spending money on cars. A car is not an asset. It’s the only thing that can move two feet and lose thousands in worth. I have absolutely no energy around incurring that kind of monthly debt — particularly when i was used to having a car that has been paid for for about 3-4 years.

So, again, what am I gonna do? I’m going to try life w/out a car. I’m going to take buses and cabs, and use Peapod, and spend less time going out. I’m going to rent cars when it’s not practical to take a cab. I’m not sure that this is the best decision, or the one that will ultimately make me happy (because I remain in a bad mood, and am still not playing well with others), but it’s the one that I’ve made because I absolutely refuse to write that kind of check for a seven year old car that I don’t like.

I started my carless life today. I took the bus downtown and went to River East 21 theatre to see a movie. I missed everything I really wanted to see, so I ended up seeing whatever was playing at 6:00. The Heartbreak Kid was the lucky pick. I thought it would at least make me laugh, but I couldn’t really concentrate. I couldn’t get my mind off of the car, or something that I screwed up at work on Friday.

And then, here’s the big rant (yes, there’s one bigger than what I’ve just complained about) — people who are late to movies. Does that drive anyone else insane? Seriously, you have about 10 minutes of previews after the listed start time of a film, so if you’re walking in during the actual start of the movie, that means that you’re really about 15 minutes late — too late to waltz into a movie without disturbing someone.

I walked in during the first preview and quickly found a seat on the aisle toward the front. The theatre was crowded and I hate crawling over people. Stinky Boy, who was sitting toward the middle of my row, needed to get out to get popcorn (leaving a trail of funk in his path). He returned to his seat, but not without stomping on my feet.

Two girls entered about 5 minutes after the start of the film. Instead of giving a play-by-annoying-play, let’s illustrate the rules of walking in late to a film:

1. Don’t do it.

2. If you must — if you’re that damned inconsiderate — at least try not to inconvenience the people who had the presence of mind and human decency to be on time. You can do this by:

a. Entering quietly. Nobody else thinks it’s cute that you’re late and giggling is highly inappropriate.

b. Not making special requests. It’s nobody else’s problem that you’re late to a crowded movie and can’t find two or more seats next to one another. Don’t ask people to move down to accommodate you and your late ass friends.

c. Remaining in your seat once you’re seated. You’ve already missed the early plotline . . . do you REALLY need to compound it by getting up to get popcorn, which you will only spill on your pissed off neighbors as you return to your seat.

d. NOT answering your cell phone if it rings! If you’re that important, you should have skipped the movie and thrilled the rest of the audience.

e. Not smuggling smelly food. It’s bad enough that you’re late and disruptive, but you’re really pushing limits when you pull a pungent onion-laden italian sub sandwich out of your oversized purse and begin chomping. Gross.

f. Keeping your damned feet off the back of my chair — unless you want to pull back a nub. If I want to rock, I’m perfectly capable of rocking myself.

It’s so much easier to be on time, don’tcha think?