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High (pants) GI

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Ever wondered what parenthood looks like?

Some might think it looks like this.

baby 1

Or this.

bug 1

Or even this.

w c

Well folks, La’m here to tell you They Would Be Wrong. Because parenthood, my friends, looks like this.


And, often, like this.


And, even more frequently, like this:


Parenthood, you see, is about two things, and two things only:  funds and raising.

However, in an effort to Raise said Funds, ladyfolk are under no circumstances allowed near one of these:


No-one’s really able to articulate why, but it’s possibly to do with paternalistic fears that female parents, most of whom in the normal course of their lives do so little cooking, might harm others or themselves (“Ouch! This big black thingamy-wotsit is hot! We need big strong men to manage these scary contraptions!”)

Yes, this timely reminder of the meaning of parenthood (and the place of women at a charity bbq event: prep buns, take orders, issue change but under no circumstances whatsoever touch los manstoves) took place yesterday at La City to Surf, at the gods’s own beach, Bondi.


Thankfully, had none with me, therefore none to lose.

All went well, despite the suspicion that L’odeur de Snag would be stuck in my hair and clothes for weeks, until I faced this:


See los black and yellow barricades? That’s where La had to be. And fast: Seriousimo was waiting at home with the loin fruits, but had to be at work sharpish. (Yep. On a Sunday. Like five weekdays of lawyers emitting their hot air and legal briefs into the atmosphere isn’t enough, then they have to go and pollute the blue planet on the weekends too!)

So: La waited and waited for a break in the phalanx of runners. Or at least for the heavily overweight, novelty dressed and walkers to come through. Alas, it didn’t look like it was happening anytime soon, so I had to jump into the mob, run a bit (in ballet flats — the horror!) then frogger my way to my right and toward GOS’s palazzo, where my wheels were parked (thanks GOS!).


This was the view from the right side of the road. Believe me, I don’t plan on taking la life in los hands like that again anytime soon.


After all that smelly Sport Billy craziness, order, beauty and a sense of internal calm were restored pronto when I spotted this window display at Mud in Edgecliff on la way home. Gorgeballs, non?

Between you and me, am srsly worried about Seriousimo. Something is happening on los weekends, and it’s none of it good.

He pops on his Lucky Brand jeans — no problem there. But then he proceeds to Tuck in His Shirt. This is not a good look, particularly as we live in the über-casual Harbour City. Fear I am going to have to shift along the spectrum from “subtly disapproving look” toward “overt comment re inappropriateness”. What’s worse is he stuffs his pants pockets full of BlackBerries (still the Camilla in our relationship), over-chocked wallets, change and various other accoutrements of manhood. This Cannot Continue, not least of all because los trousers have begun to Ride a Little Too High vis-à-vis the man’s natural waistline.

Obviously, a man bag is Out of the Question*.

What to do? And more importantly, if I tuck my shirt into my strides on a Sunday, pop lots of goodies in my pockets and mutter about legal briefs, would I get to work one of those manstoves next time?


*Distress obvious through extreme use of initial caps.

7 responses »

  1. Loved this La!!! On Sunrise they commented the amazing smell of the sausage sizzle!!!

  2. Yeah but the best part of the sizzle is not handling the man stove. It’s buttering all the those yummy bread rolls. Swap!

  3. The Tuck-Shirt-in-Jeans malaise is common further up the Eastern seaboard too, even in the land which made famous short-sleeved safari suits which are NEVER tucked. Have found firm but repeated reminders delivered with a caring and concerned smile seem to have a short-term positive effect … as long as one is present at the time of tucking. It’s tough.


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