It was the winter of 2015 that I was introduced to the extreme shitfest that is a gingerbread house kit. There I was, strolling the grocery store, having my ears assaulted by Mariah Carey’s “All I want for Christmas is You,” when I happened upon the supposed confectionary holiday magic in a box. I thought of my son and how his face would light up with a big, doofy smile. “Mommy, you’re the best! There is, and has never been another mother as great and perfect as you!” he would exclaim, in a British accent, because for some reason my brain decided to give him a British accent in this daydream. We would make childhood memories that my son would tell his children about someday. Oh, yeah, I was about to make it rain all kinds of holiday cheer up in this motherfucker. That was when I gently placed the nervous breakdown in a box inside of my shopping cart. What an asshole.
Much like everything else that has to do with parenting, the
gingerbread kit came with some general instructions that wound up being a bunch
of sugar-coated bullshit. But, hindsight is 20/20 (that is $20 I can never get back, and at least 20 WTF’s muttered under my breath).
What the instructions fail to mention, is that in order to
erect the gingerbread house, you need to be an actual licensed general
contractor. Then again, the instructions fail to mention a lot, so I’ve taken
it upon myself to rewrite them entirely.
