I hate the RMV

The paperwork arrived from NH, signed by Mr Toyota (or at least, his US representative), saying that there exists a Prius with a certain VIN. I’m still not entirely sure what essential purpose the Certificate of Origin serves, since it doesn’t have a price marked on it or anything; did they once have a lot of trouble with people maliciously paying tax on nonexistent vehicles?

Anyway, I went down to the RMV. There, I discovered two things: firstly, that they take credit cards for payment of everything except vehicle registrations; and secondly, that I had used the last check in my checkbook when I purchased the car, and in the delirious excitement I had been too excited to refill the checkbook holder when we got home.

Passing sailors blushed as I stormed back to the T station. One round trip to Cambridge later, I returned with a new checkbook. My bank account was graciously lightened further, and I was given two Massachusetts license plates. I was also informed that I would need to get the vehicle inspected.

I looked at the woman behind the counter incredulously. I reminded her that it was a brand new car, already certified to meet the toughest emissions standards in every state of the USA. She reaffirmed that nevertheless, I’d have to get it inspected. So, that’ll be a task for next week.

The truck with the transport containers arrives tomorrow. Everything’s now packed except cookware, china and cutlery. The air conditioners are sold, someone’s coming to buy one of the desks tonight, and once we have the car we’ll take all the junk to Goodwill and other similar emporia. The truck returns on Monday to pick everything up.

I’ve reserved us a ‘deluxe’ apartment at an extended stay hotel in Austin. It works out to cost about $400 a month less than we’re currently paying in rent. The location is described as ‘Arboretum’, which in fact means it’s near the junction of Route 183 and Burnet Road, a fairly grotty place to spend any significant amount of time. However, it does mean it’s about 5 minutes from IBM; I could even get the bus there if sara needs to go somewhere in the car. Supposedly there’s broadband Internet in the room if you pay a one-time connection fee, but who knows how flaky it is?

As the things to worry about get crossed off the list, my brain naturally finds new things to fret over. Currently I’m worrying about whether all our stuff will fit in the three containers we ordered, whether we’ll have time to load it all in, and whether I’ll destroy my back in the process.

Actually, his name’s Eiji Toyoda with a ‘d’.