Tranny Claus: The Tale of the Cross-Dressing Santa

Tranny Claus

Today was a day I was rendered speechless as a parent. Thanks, in all parts, to a Walmart Santa.

Let’s begin…

The day started with two items on the agenda: 1. Driving an hour away to see a famous Christmas light display and 2. See Santa. Now, there was a Santa scheduled to appear at the Christmas light show, but after a quick search on their website I discovered Santa was quite the swindler. I mean, $20 for a picture? That’s one picture. They had packages on their topping $60-$100 dollars. Santa better have his bag o’ tricks stuffed with more than a germy lap for those prices.

Maybe I am just spoiled. Last year, when we lived on the West Coast we had a glorious experience with a FREE Santa. This Santa’s birth certificate said Jolly Old Saint Nicholas, for sure. The urge for me to curl into his lap and whisper wishes of naps and free boob lifts was cataclysmic. He was the real deal. The photographer was a professional. There was warm milk and cookies. It WAS The North Pole.

Here’s a reminder of last years’s picture:

Christmas 2014

Now, the kids look like I just slapped them in a weird man’s lap, but if you look past that you can see this Santa is no joke.

Let’s get back to today…

I was not about to drop a hundred to get a snapshot of my kids looking weirded out in anyone’s lap, no matter how authentic their garb and personal aura. So, I Googled “free Santa” and found, miracle of all miracles, there was to be one this very day at the local Walmart! Now, with hindsight being 20/20, I should have preemptively known that Walmart Santa was really never going to live up to the sugar plum fairies dancing in my head, but I was too far gone. We were going to see Walmart Santa.

I quickly got the kids in complimentary Christmas-colored clothing, put ribbons in hair, made them actually bath in fear the camera will pick up dirt rings and we were off. We pulled into Walmart and eagerly darted inside. My first “sign” of things being less than authentic could have been the handwritten, half-warped sign at the door claiming Santa was inside for free. But, hey, I am not Princess Diana. I can redneck with the best of the Walmart Santas. I am not above Walmart Santas.

The sign, as eye-catching as it was, did not say where Santa’s over-sized arse was located in the Super Walmart. He was just there…somewhere. As we dove into the packs of Walmart shoppers I flagged down an employee.

“Hi, could you tell me where Santa is?” I asked.

She looked at me like I asked where they kept their live ponies. Her stare continued for five to ten grueling seconds when she pointed to lawn and garden. Hmmm…not as romantic as the North Pole, but, again, I am trying to embrace this situation.

As we stroll up to Lawn and Garden, I am expecting a line clear to the grocery section. I mean, free Santa at Walmart just screams mass chaos. But, no, we walked right in and right to the front of the line.

That’s odd.

As I’m quickly stripping the coats off the kids I’m catching glances over to ol’ Father Christmas and wondering if this is a small Asian man with a fake beard and a tremendous amount of stuffing packed into his velour ensemble. I’m not above an Asian Santa — so I quickly usher the kids onto the bench next to Santa and take in the full picture.

Christmas 2015

My daughter’s face says it all.

Yes. This was a woman. Not even a more masculine woman. This was a tiny, butterfly of a woman packed into a Santa suit with a voice as frail and feminine as my grandmother.

Maybe they won’t notice?

So, I just played along. What else could I do? I had to force this farce down my children’s throats because there was no turning back. We were in too far.

This female imposter was the sweetest woman. She would have made a great Mrs. Claus. But, the more she talked, the more questions I could see dancing across my son’s face. After we wrapped up, my son (who is three, by the way, I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, Walmart) asked me, “Mom? Why does Mrs. Claus have a beard? Where’s Mister Claus? Why was Mrs. Claus in his clothes?”

“She just let herself go a little bit this year, honey. But, don’t worry, she’s going to tell Santa exactly what you want.”

So, now my kids think Mrs. Claus is a transvestite and have the photograph to prove it. I feel like this might come up in a future therapy session.

Dear Santa: Bring Me Some Metamucil

Dear Santa Mrsmommymack.com

So, being pregnant with twins AND in my first trimester right up until the holidays is quite fun. Nothing like double the feeling of: nausea, heartburn, pure, bone-numbing exhaustion and raw, unedited emotion just in time to see your entire family.

I’ve harnessed this tornado of emotional and physical pain into a letter to my man, Santa Claus. Please, I’ve been remotely good? I am begging you.

  1. So much poop. As I have told everyone, including my hairdresser and someone I scared by the cucumbers at the store, I have to poop. No, I NEED to poop. Being pregnant slows all trains to Poopsville down to a crawl and the exit is fruitless at best. I want an ate-Taco-Bell-all-night-and-drowned-it-with-tequila sized poop. So many things are happening internally right now, but poop is not one of them.
  2. A longer fuse. I have noticed my husband’s white-eyed, twitchy glances towards me when I enter a room. This is similar to a rabbit in a bush next to 5,000 foxes. He is afraid and I don’t blame him. The rage in me is hideous. Out of dish soap? I’m going to lose it. Favorite yoga pants are dirty? Watch the fuck out. Scandal is on Thanksgiving hiatus and I was unaware? SWAT team, now.
  3. The ability to puke until my eyes bleed, then eat until I cry. This might be a tall order. But, daily I just wish I could retch this nausea completely gone and then stuff my mouth, ears, eyes, etc with egg rolls. Can’t this be a thing?
  4. A dishwasher. Sure, this is a tangible object. However, I do need to voice that it is December 1st and I am still working through the casserole dishes from Thanksgiving. Scraping congealed, slightly burnt (sorry, Mom) green bean casserole for hours while simultaneously dry heaving should be sent to Guantanamo as a new torture strategy.
  5. So many tissues. Kleenex is obsolete in my house due to the fact that I cried for four hours this week after my husband asked me to fold some laundry.
  6. A vice. Booze? Nope. Trampolines? Na-da. Sushi? Out of the question. Cigarettes? This isn’t Mad Men. What is a pregnant woman to do if she can’t drink wine and smoke at the trampoline sushi bar? How am I supposed to “celebrate” the upcoming Armageddon of having four kids under five?!
  7. An internet filter. When I’m pregnant, I have an incredibly hard time not wanting to kill everyone on the internet. I will write seething letters of semi-hatred to people I would normally ignore. I spent way too many hours (or maybe NOT ENOUGH!? See, there I go again.) one night hating the woman who was photoed duct taping her sweet, helpless chocolate lab’s mouth shut.
  8. More time. Santa, let’s just cut to the chase. Shouldn’t you be pregnant for 18 months with twins? I mean, I’m no scientist, but this shit makes sense. I’m not ready. HOW IS THIS GOING TO WORK?!

So, Santa, I will be waiting patiently at about one minute past minute on Christmas morning for your arrival. I will be the one crying on the toilet in dirty pajamas.

 

-Mrs. Mommy Mack.