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

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.



Double the Wowza: Two Toddlers AND Twins on the Way

Blog Twins

Where have I been? Wow, that’s a loaded question. I have still been here. But, more or less in a stress-induced zombie state due to the fact that I am pregnant, again. For those of you who don’t recall, I have a three year old son and two year old daughter. But, before you give me the obligatory, “You’re going to be so busy!” Let me just hit you with this bitch slap… I am pregnant with twins.

Merciful mother of God.


Two babies.

One and two.

I blame this all on my mother. Firstly, for giving me the genetic makeup to create two fetuses the good ol’ fashioned way (because I know you’re DYING to know if we tried to have twins — because I have sadly been asked that more than once).  Also, I am almost sure she did some type of Native American sorcery with locks of my hair and an old pigeon. She wanted twins so bad she wasn’t taking any prisoners. As I left with my husband to our first ultrasound, the last words out of her witch doctor lips were, “Two heartbeats!”

She did this to me.

Now, I had a feeling I was packing some heat before I ever went to the doctor. I told my husband it felt like twins and he laughed at me like I told him I think the world is going to end — he didn’t believe it, but would put a bomb shelter together, just in case.

When we got the ultrasound, the tech quickly asked, “Are you ready for a surprise?” She then switched to her data entry screen and switched “fetuses” from one to two. Nothing registered in my head until I saw that drop down click for two babies.

I yelled, “What did you just say?!”

“You’re having twins.”

“Holy hell. I TOLD YOU SO!!!!!!” I screamed while slapping my husband in the most glorious “I told you so” of my life.

He laughed. Then he winced. Then he held my hand like we were about to be flung overboard on the Titanic.

We sat there, gripping hands and watching these two beautiful blurbs glob around in my stomach for what seemed like forever. I cried. I laughed. I immediately started rattling off all the things we needed to buy in a manic overshare in front of the technician.

“We need a van! More beds! I need to potty train Sissy! I better be able to breastfeed! Imagine two babies on formula! So many diapers! When will I sleep? We are never having sex again!”

And here we sit. Weeks later and I am still reeling from the reality of having FOUR children under five. Might even be four kids under four depending on how fast these kids want to exit. I can’t even imagine what the next year has in store for my sweet, naive family. But, I can say, this is going to be one helluva ride.

-Mrs. Mommy Mack

You Go, Kim Kardashian!

Dear Moms,

Please put down your pitchforks.

I know the whole world has seen Kim Kardashian’s #breaktheinternet photo shoot. All I can say is I am happy for her.

After hearing radio DJs this morning slamming her for being an irresponsible mother, I got pissed. If you are a mom, you know the struggle of body image after kids. I have seen Kim on her show cry over what her little girl has done to her body. Haven’t we all been there, moms? At the hospital after my second child I cried naked in the bathroom for a half an hour looking at the war zone that was my body. I threw in the towel on dreams of bikinis and just embraced Spanx and moved on, sadly.

I would give a king’s ransom to have a glistening body on the cover of a magazine. Look at how proud she is? Why would you ruin this for her?

I mean, I initially wanted to smother her with her shimmering butt cheeks and yell from the rooftops how outraged I was at the audacity. How could she?! But, we shouldn’t be jealous. We should be happy that people like Kim are keeping moms “hot.” We don’t have to chop our hair off and hide under Mickey Mouse sweatshirts!

But what will her daughter do when she is old enough to stumble across these photos? Well, hopefully, her parents will explain that this is a human body and everyone has one and you should never be ashamed.

Well, that’s my two cents.

But, really, relax.


– Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Dating Your Weight

I have been stalling writing this blog for fear that I was being punked, but alas, I am BELOW 300 pounds! Sitting at 298 and happy as a clam.

The fact that I am so excited about being 298 really got me thinking. I came to the conclusion that my years of: yo-yo dieting, tears at the scale, starvation, all cigarette diet, binge eating, stretch marks, etc are very similar to my dating years. I mean, isn’t your weight nothing more than a relationship? Think about it, you never get it right the first time, you appreciate every lost pound when you finally do it right, you do some very bad things in the beginning…Doesn’t that sound about right? I mean, my all cigarette diet can be compared to the guy I dated in college who pretended I wasn’t his girlfriend,

I mean, let’s be real, I wouldn’t be excited about 298 pounds if this was my first go-round with weight loss. I remember when I lost 75 pounds in college and all I could think about was the next goal. I never appreciated where I was and how much work it took to get there. It was a disgusting, cancerous obsession that racked my mind day-in and day-out. My best friend lost 100 pounds last year eating in a way that she has since changed. However, when she was in the middle of this weight loss battle it was nearly impossible to talk to her. You could see her eyes racing like a caged beast eyeing the cupboards. She literally got up mid-conversation and ran three miles out of pure guilt and then felt guilty because she didn’t run six miles. Doesn’t that sound like that guy that you sat around waiting for him to call you? You missed out on endless fun nights with the girls or even just mental stability because all you could think about was if and when he would finally call.

Woof. What a realization.

Now, I can HONESTLY say I feel like a switch clicked in my head. I am not obsessed about what my next meal is going to be and when. I am not crying because I went up in weight instead of down. Yes, I am celebrating my wins but I know I’m not perfect. Just like I appreciate the amazing man I married. The same man who told me how skinny my face looked yesterday. I wouldn’t have known how lucky I was to be at 298 or how lucky I am to have my husband 10 years ago. Now, I wouldn’t trade him or this weight-win for the world.

Pre-Pregnancy Weight!!!

301!!! God save the Queen!!!!! I am back to where I started!!! And it only took me a month!!!

(Thank God for breastfeeding).

I teetered on 302 for a couple days waiting patiently and weighing myself every time I went to the bathroom to see if that last pound was shaken loose and I AM FREE AT LAST! For some reason, this seems wayyyy more of an accomplishment than last time. Maybe because this time I gained 5 more pounds than my last pregnancy and the weight seemed to come off more quickly. But, that’s what getting old does to you!!!

I have been thinking about starting a running routine. I believe I mentioned this multiple times before to both you and anyone else who will listen and haven’t so much as gone for a walk. But, it’s the thought that counts, right? But, no, I am just stalling because I am still healing from my c-section and I know it’s going to be horrifyingly difficult and I don’t need to add my incision ripping open and my kidneys falling out in front of someone’s mailbox.

I have been Pinning all sorts of running inspiration since I joined Pinterest so I should be well prepared on a routine and do’s and don’ts but it’s all about pulling the trigger, I suppose!

Ashley, Food and God

I just finished reading the book Women, Food and God. I say “finished” because I started reading it

Buy this immediately.

four years ago (back when I was single and living along) and had to put it away because every time I read a paragraph I ended up sobbing hysterically into a pillow. That is how many aha moments are in there. Honestly, I don’t care if you weight 100 pounds; that book will change your life.

The biggest takeaway I got from the book this time is: I don’t have to count calories, starve myself, only eat kale for 30 days, etc in order to “succeed” in dieting. Really, all I need to do is eat when I’m hungry and stop when I’m full. I wish I could have raked in the bucks that author Geneen Roth did by stating such an obvious feat. It’s much easier said than done though.

Roth also talks about eating what your body is asking for. Yes, if your body is dying for a hot fudge sundae, eat it. But your body is not dying for 12 sundaes 30 days in a row. It’s funny, I have been going by this mentality for the past few days and the amount of food I eat is probably cut in half and the quality is probably doubled. I had eggs and oatmeal for dinner last night. No cheese on my eggs either. I have never eaten eggs without cheese. But, I asked myself, “Do you really want the cheese?” And it didn’t sound all that great. The eggs however, were calling my name.

With this newfound confidence, the impending holidays don’t make me want to pop a Xanax and hide in my bed. I can have Thanksgiving dinner without following it up with a suicide note. I don’t have to eat until I look like a stuffed turkey and I can just eat the things I really want. Do I really want cranberry sauce? Nah. Do I really want 16 pieces of pumpkin pie? No. Do I want turkey, potatoes and stuffing? Yes, but I think I have the ability to eat less than epic proportions.

Also, I have been eating so much salad it’s unreal. I have always loved salads, but always felt I was missing out on something if I ate them. How seriously messed up is my brain? I WANT a salad. I hardly ever WANT Burger King but always choose it because I think that’s the exciting part about life…eating deep-fried everything. Good God, I need therapy.

Fat Girls

I have had a problem with fat girls all my life. Not that I hate them for being fat. Not at all. But, I hate

If anyone ever buys me this shirt I will commit murder.

them for always thinking because I am chubby, that makes us confidantes. I can’t tell you how many times I met a fellow chunkster and within the first couple meetings she bashes some skinny girl and says something like, “Us big girls need to stick together, amirite?”


I mean, why do we need to bring up the fact that I am fat? I don’t think the fact that we are both overweight means we are buddies. Or did I miss something? All that is accomplished by saying something like that is me feeling completely unflattering and disliking you for pointing out that it is mega obvious how fat I am. I like to live in a beautiful state of denial sometimes.

In my experience, any mention or back-handed compliment referring to my weight has been stored in a mental filing cabinet to scar me for the rest of my life.

For instance: my mother is a beautiful woman. To put it in perspective, she was voted Ms. Centerfold in high school. So, that’s a lot to live up to. But, I remember getting dressed for my 6th grade Christmas concert in front of her and her making mention that I get my “poochy belly” from her. Up until that point, I had not really considered my belly that “poochy.” Now, 15 years later that’s all I think about when I look in the mirror and the first thing I want to fix if I ever go under the knife.

People just don’t understand that you should never make mention to a woman about her weight even if you are as vague as possible. Another example: my darling Grandmother. My whole life every time I see her she either mentions that I look like I have lost weight or she doesn’t. The fact that she says I look good makes me feel wonderful. But, when I don’t hear it, that’s the equivalent of oinking at me upon entrance in my book.

So please, even if your intentions are meant to make me feel like you and I have something in common, please do not. I don’t need the constant reminder that I am overweight. I am very much aware.

Post Baby Body

I have been de-babied.

I gave birth to a beautiful little girl. Looks like her dad. Such a magical moment. But, this is a weight-loss blog, not a here’s-how-much-I-love-my-kids blog. So, I will cut to the chase…

The whole four days I was in the hospital I could not wait to get home to my scale. I couldn’t wait to see the numbers soar downward after 7 lbs 4 oz of baby meat and 9 months worth of baby juices left my body. I know this doesn’t count as “real” weight loss, but the fact that I was all the way up to my heaviest at 322 pounds, I was praying for a miracle.

So, before I even got Little Girl out of her carseat, I was on the scale. And, wouldn’t I be the only person in the history of the world who has a 7 pound baby and only loses THREE POUNDS??!!!

What a sick joke.

Photo Courtesy:

Of course I burst into tears immediately while looking at my bruised, stitched, sagging post-baby body. I also kept having visions of Kim Kardashians white bikini-clad post-baby body about a minute after giving birth and felt even more like a sack of human Silly Putty.

I have never felt more homicidal in my life.

But, to my absolute shock, the pounds have been dropping at an amazing pace. I am two weeks post-partum and down to 305. I never thought I would be so happy with such a disgusting number, but it is much prettier than 322. I know breast-feeding is a mega calorie burner, so I might just keep pumping until menopause to keep myself in check…