Gingerbread Dreams: The Rise and Fall of an American Home

They came from hardworking people.
After many years of saving, they bought what would be their future home- their legacy- from Target, with a 20% off coupon.

It was a $6.99 dream realized.

Until they opened the box and found that all but two of the effing pieces of their house were broken.

True, they could have collected the pieces and returned them to Target, shoving them across the customer service desk and demanding a refund.  But when one is in her early thirties, she feels slightly pathetic demanding a refund on a house constructed from baked goods.

Oddly enough, that same thirty year old has no qualms about writing a epic account of building a gingerbread house and publishing it for all the world to see.

Ironic.  Moving on.

But they were fighters.  With their good-natured optimism, they pushed on, saying, "Nothing that a little frosting can't fix!" so they began the construction, rebuilding their future one gingerbreaded wall at a time, using only the broken pieces of their dreams, the literally broken building materials,  and the fortitude inherited from their ancestors.

Slowly, the home took on the shape of their dreams.

.

And then that mf'er fell.  

When the last strip of sugared mortar gave way, and the walls hit the table with a not-quite deafening thud, they shook their fists at the heavens, asking WHYYYYYY?!  Hadn't they clipped their coupons?  Hadn't they rolled out the fondant with the precision of skilled builders?

Those were dark times.  The junior partner lost hope and began hitting the mortar to numb the pain.

  

He was in a dark place, but he soon regained perspective when the team leader told him in no uncertain terms Freaking stop that or you're not going to help.

And because they were fighters, and because it was Sunday afternoon and they didn't have crap else to do, they picked up the shattered pieces of their life and began to rebuild.

And, faster than Ty Pennington could Move That Bus, the home once again rose before them.

They were a little older now, and a little wiser.  A little more jaded.  And so they made due with what they had.  They adjusted their expectations to the cruel reality of the world.
They found new meaning in the once-discarded wisdom of their ancestors; in particular, Grandma's favorite saying: "If life gives you a shattered gingerbread wall, turn it into a doggy door."

And soon, they found themselves not in the gutter, but once again looking up at the stars through their unexpected skylight.

And when the middle of the roof gave way, as cracked-in-half roofs are wont to do, they did not cry, but instead declared it the world's first convertible house and ate the roof to celebrate!

When they'd finished- their hearts full, mouths sugar-coated, and every possession soaking wet from the previous night's rain- they called on the city building inspector to make it official.

From the moment he arrived, they knew he would do everything he could to stand between them and their dream.

"What's that hole for?" he asked
"It's a doggy door", they replied.

"You don't even have a dog," he answered.
"You're a snowman made out of gingerbread.  Like that makes any damn sense", they retorted.

He walked the perimeter of the house, grumbling about structural integrity.  And that's when they left, and that's the last they saw of him.  Seriously.

But when they returned the next morning, their jaws dropped in horror to find his lifeless snowman (gingerbread? Snowbread?) body smothered beneath a perfectly rolled oval of fondant.

The very fondant they'd planned to use to decorate their front door, per the directions, before they thought, Why the hell would I take the time to cut that fondant out in the shape of a door?
And that's all anyone knows about that.  

The end.