Birds of a Feather (Oswald Cobblepot)

The Lady is a Tramp and '66SS

 The oven door slams shut as Liza takes a sigh of relief. She takes off the over-sized mittens before leaning against the marble counter of the breakfast bar.

"Chicken, in the oven...cheese plate set out in the foyer...wine uncorked and ready with the glasses...we've got everything, right?"

I come through the garden door with a large chocolate cake still in it's baking dish, "'Mother Falcone's Special Chocolate Fudge Cake', remember? You left it out on the outdoor windowsill to cool."

She sighs, "Of course! I could've left that cake out to freeze! Thanks."

We hand over the rest of the food to Falcone's servants, who bring it over to the dining room down the hall.

Liza and I take seats at the breakfast bar, and she asks me, "If Falcone has all that help, why did he want me to cook all the food? And choose the decorations? And the color of table napkins?"

I recall something Barbara told me on one of our superhero escapades, "I'm not quite sure...but a friend of mine describes it as being 'the lady of the house'. You're in charge of hosting, so things like...picking out food and decorations. It feels more authentic and personal when the food is prepared by one or two individuals rather than a staff of cooks."

She leans her elbow on the countertop, "Well, we've got a little time to kill before the first guests arrive. I don't want to get into my dress right away..."

I shake my head, "Me neither. Some women claim that heels are comfortable, but I'm unconvinced."

"Yeah, especially those 'high society' girls Carmine keeps introducing me too," she puffs out her chest and puckers her lips, "well deary, I don't know what barn you were raised in but Basil Karlo pictures are simply bottom drawer entertainment. You really should see an opera at the Gotham Memorial darling, it'll do you good."

I laugh, thinking of Veronica in Liza's impression, "Yeah, that about sums them up."

"But the thing is, I feel like I should act like those girls. You know, snobbish and fake," she confesses, "after all, I have an image to keep up now. Especially with Carmine around."

I wave her off, "No, no, Liza, you can be classy and still be yourself. Take it from me."

I jump off of the breakfast bar, and start walking across the kitchen as I sing, "I've wined and dined on Mulligan stew, and never wished for turkey. As I hitched and hiked and grifted, too, from Maine to Albuquerque."

I slow down, leaning against the kitchen counter and tossing my hand back over my head, "Alas, I missed the Beaux Arts Ball, and what is twice as sad, I was never at a party where they honored Noel Ca' ad."

"But social circles spin too fast for me...my Hobohemia is the place to be," I flit my arms around and twirl the skirt of my dress as I start trouncing around the kitchen.

"I get too hungry for dinner at eight. I like the theater but never come late. I never bother with people I hate...that's why the lady is a tramp."

Liza chuckles, and joins in, "I don't like crap games with barons and earls."

"Won't go to Harlem, in ermine and pearls," I sing as Liza and I lean against the breakfast bar.

She rests her arms on the bar, and smiles, "Won't dish the dirt with the rest of the girls..."

"That's why the lady is a tramp," I finish.

Liza spins around, undoing her apron and hanging it up on the coatrack, "I like the free, fresh, wind in my hair."

"Life without care," I respond.