Last July, the day before I was slated to begin work a 20-minute commute away, my burgundy 1989 Camry squealed to a metal-on-metal end. Apparently everything in my power steering setup needed replacement, to the Bay Area tune of nine hundred dollars, and so my parents sponsored the purchase of the second non-Toyota in our family in 16 years.

My family's involvement with Toyota Motor Corporation is an quietly epic and steadfastly loyal one. When we moved to the US in 1988 my parents bought a new Corolla, followed by a new Camry, followed by a secondhand Camry, followed by a Camry wagon for my cousin, followed by another new Camry for my mother (the purchase of which sent Beast—thus named for carrying Alex and Ross up dirt roads to the ridgelines at the Lost Coast in torrential rain—westward to me), and then an employer-issued Avalon for my dad.

Toyotae (I pluralize it that way in my head, so please bear with me here) are relatively efficient and strikingly unstriking cars that drive forever and ever, two factors which very much appeal to my very much pragmatic parent. So the default of any parent-sponsored auto for me would be manufactured by the same illustrous corporation. Personally, I only rage against the predominance of Camrys amongst the family fleet. And as a concession to my youth (tongue! in! cheek!) and Californication, the options were expanded to the Scion xA, the Matrix, and the Prius. For reasons of timeline and pragmatism we ended up un-veering to the middle of the road, and one early July night for the first time in my life I handed over the biggest check I've written in my life, provided social security numbers and addresses and driver's licenses, signed my name about thirteen times, and walked out in possession of a California-licensed vehicle. Two days later I called and created an insurance policy using that same information. I obligingly pay my $106.31 every month for peace of mind and compliance with the law.

Last week I received the following notice from my insurance provider:

According to rigorous review of the California DMV's online information, however, what I'm doing isn't currently illegal. A California license must be obtained within 10 days of residency in California; residency is established by "voting in a California election, paying resident tuition, filing for a homeowner's property tax exemption, or any other privilege or benefit not ordinarily extended to nonresidents." Which I clearly haven't. But clearly will in September. Even though I'm planning on being in the first flock of UI designers at the New York office around March—which means I'd be a California resident for a grand total of 6 months. Which means it's really not worth all the paper-pushing.

Since the insurance peepz are hollering at me, though, I've decided to suck it up and get a California license. And that, my friends, is why I have a 10:40 appointment with the local DMV to take a written test for Regular Driver, Class C License on Friday. I'm so not studying.