1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?
A sleepy hat because afternoon rays are not a game. Definitely something OshKosh B’gosh because I like saying OshKosh B’gosh. A pair of Oh Baby London, Fair Isle, drop crotch trousers. For sure a burp cloth to drape over the shoulder of whomever is holding said bébé because I do not, I repeat DO NOT want to get any on me. A diaper because again… And finally, lactating breasts or a Mr. Milker, whichever’s on hand. Homegirl’s gotta eat (a lot, as it turns out) and earth-shattering, hunger cries is not a good look in me. *Interviewer (that’s me) sniffles* Um… Are you okay?
2. I’m so sorry. It’s just that you reminded me of the fact that my own mother refused to breast feed me. She said my brother, he’s older, kept snapping her nipple and so once I rolled out she didn’t even make the attempt; just figured I’d be a snapper too. Don’t you see? I wasn’t even given a chance. My god, listen to me. I’m starting to sound like Mama Rose. Do you think that’s my problem in life? Do you think I’m still hunting around, searching for that errant nipple to suckle from? Figuratively speaking of course. Or should the search be literal? Yeah, maybe that’s it! I do reside in Los Angeles after all! I’m sure someone’s created adult, breast-feeding therapy in this bozo town, right?!
I don’t… So… Well… Okay, here’s the thing. I’m just a baby shoe and so this might be a tad outside my wheelhouse. But something germane to what you mentioned that could possibly help and that is Patty Lupone was, by far, my favorite Mama Rose.
3. Right you are. Aaaand I’m back. Ha! I don’t know what came over me there. (Pssst! This is me putting on a brave face while continuing to die on the inside). Okay, if you could be worn by anyone whom would it be?
Since I sometimes enjoy hanging out on little tykes who prefer to oft go rogue and or rage against the machine, the wee one who wants no parts of the car seat her novice father’s trying to wedge her into and so she lets her feelings be known by debuting a brilliantly choreographed back arch, rapid kicks and screams so severe they travel from blood curdling to silent and back again. Unbeknownst to her, sitting at a table a few feet away, with rapt focus trained on the meltdown, is none other than thee Twyla Tharp dining alfresco! Oh, once again that Twyla’s up against a nasty deadline and thought the fresh air would aid in bringing inspiration to the surface. Boy did she get more than she bargained for. She begins to excitedly mimic the little one’s moves. Until she sees it! Bebe Miller sitting at a neighboring cafe also dining alfresco, also up against a waning deadline, also witnessing the same meltdown and also mimicking the same moves! A moment passes before Bebe spots Twyla. Bebe stops mid back arch. Straightens up. Both woman narrow glares. It’s on, as they used to say long ago. Suddenly, the lionesses of dance stand and rush the novice father. Upon reaching him, they simultaneously beg for just a few minutes with the child. The father oscillates “The hell?” looks between the squalling choreographers, each one drowning out what are, to me at least, some pretty convincing arguments. Then, with the sweat beads perched atop his forehead starting a “Chariots of Fire” race down his face and his blood pressure steadily increasing, the father takes a swift and firm pom-pom Lanvin to the nuts. He lurches over, sucks back the searing pain with an “EFFFF…” while internally telling himself, “F-bombs are not suitable for kids. F-bombs are not suitable for kids.” We’ll discuss his continued usage of “F-bomb” and why he started in the first place later. Eesh… Now back to drama! With the searing pain to his scrotum showing no signs of stopping, the response to Twyla and Bebe jettisons right out of him, “LADIES! DO YOU EFFING MIND?!” And just like that, with the weight of the world back on their shoulders, Twyla and Bebe are gone. Gone back to their studios to put together a mix of ballet, modern jazz, virtuosic movements, social consciousness, flexed feet, blah, blah, blah… You get it. And with them, there goes my chance to shine on the child while she shines for them. I hate the father. My conservator is too young to know what dreams were shattered that day. But I know. I will always know.
4. What is a dream you’re working on realizing?
A class-action brought on by all children against those parents compelled to post videos of their kids in hopes of getting 1 million+ hits, endorsement deals and a chance to sit across from a nonplussed Ann Curry at an ungodly hour and say something akin to, “Ann, I tell ya, we just woke up one morning to the tune of her playing Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ But the crazy part is how all of this has led to her currently doing a page one re-write on a very, hush-hush, contemporary retelling of ‘King Leopold’s Ghost’ set in Tampa. And all this while still in utero. Here! Put your hand right there and you can feel her typing away. She usually gets inspired after I eat pickles and ice cream. Feel that?! That was a ‘g.’ No, wait. Now she’s backspacing right over it.”
5. Where can we find you most days?
The Barnes ‘N Noble children’s section. It’s a pretty bourgeois scene but the kids seem to like it and the nannies get to take a respite while internally rolling their eyes and asking themselves, “When the hell did I turn into a See ‘n Say?” as a faction of moms test out their beginner Spanish skills on them, while another faction of moms undress Dan Zane with one eye while the other eye gets some much needed zzzzzzzs, while another faction, thee MOST sleep-deprived of the lot, wishes it was Yo Gaba Gaba up there romping around instead of ol’ Dan. All the while, my keeper’s dreaming of bustin’ out and heading over to the Nokia Theater to take in the fresh beats of the aptly named Fresh Beats Band.
6. What is your idea of a waking nightmare?
Being handed down. Period. The mere thought gives me chills. My shelf life isn’t long, that we know. Kids grow. Fine. I have to get in and make a statement before I’m outgrown and or Christine comes over with little Starwarz in tow, sniffing around for free loot which will be moi. I’m not to be handed down, see. And if this world was a fair one, which it is not, I’d be encased and placed in a grand foyer for all to see and celebrate and not the subject of, “Oh my god, Beth. Thank you-uh so much. Warz is gonna get so much wear and tear outta thez. I mean, how cuh-ute are thez?! Not as cute as the 1st generation, limited edition, baby Jordans but still so, insanely cuh-ute!” Christine breaks into tears. “Oh my god, Christine! What’s wrong?!” “Ah thenk Dylan’s cheating on–” Anyway, it gets real uninteresting from there. The point is, my friend, that’s a conversation I wants no parts of.
7. Baby slippers smoke?
They do when they’re stressed, okay?! That last question has me keyed up. Just give me a minute.
ONE MINUTE LATER
8. What is something you’re happy you weren’t around to see?
Barney. Oof… What the hell was that about? *blows out a stream of smoke; coughs* I really need to quit.
9. When you find yourself alone at the end of the day, is there a song you like to unwind to?
You’re kidding, right? And because I like you, I’ll bust out a few signature moves. And just to be clear, booty-pops are my métier. Yes, a baby, ballet slipper avec tulle accents can make a booty pop. Hit it.