rolanni | The blood of a thousand gypsies runs through my veins

So, a couple weeks ago, it being the Season an' all, I sent my father and stepmother a Real!Maine!Wreath!, tracked it 'til it was delivered and forgot about it.

A week after delivery, my dad calls me up to thank me for the wreath, which had been left on the enclosed porch of their trailer, only...they're not living at the trailer anymore; they've moved Yet Again (fifth time in the last eight years). They're now living with my stepmother's daughter, a woman I know only by the name of 'Ruth' (who discovered the wreath when she stopped by the trailer to pick up the mail).

When my dad was going to tell me this, if he hadn't been prompted by the arrival of said wreath, God, She Knows. But anyway.

He gives me the new address. He gives me the new phone number. I dutifully write them down. Today, as I'm making up the holiday card list, I realize that I need to check the zip, go over to the USPS site, and? The address my dad gave me -- there's no such a one, or any variation thereof. So, OK, fine, he's been known to muddle street names from time to time. I call the number he gave me to ask where on earth he really lives, and? The phone hasn't been installed yet, though the number has been issued.

*drums fingertips on desk top*

All righty, then. I'm sending the card to the old address. That should at least eventually get me a phone call.

I'm flashing back, here, to all the parental wails of, "I called. Where WERE you?" "Aren't you EVER home?" and "You moved AGAIN?" that marked my twenties and early thirties...