Author name: Admin

Dear Diary I sent this to Alan on Valentine’s Day 2015 Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. His response: “Do you think we’re soul mates then?” In a perfect world or relationship, I would say, “yes.” But within the imperfection of our tortured marriage, I’m not sure. The mirror has become so cloudy with anger and resentments, it no longer reflects. The resistance to let go of the grip of the past is too strong. A tortured being cannot bring peace or clarity to any relationship because they lack that in themselves. We have shaken each other up, torn each other apart. And where the cracks in my being have been thrust wide open, welcoming light and love, Alan’s have sealed themselves up. I cannot penetrate the wall that exists between us, can’t help him to see that while he keeps me out, he’s also locked himself inside, alone, in that darkness. He prefers to stay asleep in a misery of his own mental making. I sit writing each night, looking at photos, wandering through memory, seeking answers to long forgotten questions. It is both ironic and sad that everything, which not so long ago seemed new and fresh, is now old and ending. My cat Twitchy is 18, and she’s been with me since 6 months before Alan moved in. She’s gone deaf and yowls for hours on end, staring at something that used to be familiar. Our marriage spawned our business, and now the baby is mature and the parents can’t stand its demands or each other. Our lives together have become a fruit so bitter neither of us wants to taste it. The sundering apart of a life that’s 16 years in the building, won’t be pretty or easy, and will be expensive and messy. There won’t be any winners, just survivors. Lawyers and mediators will talk of BraTenders, and how we evolved from the Alan and Lori show, to a small business triumph whose underlying mission is to help make the world a better place. We employ 6 female heads of households. We own a New York City co-op that’s in the center of the world; Central Park is our back yard. We co-parent one cat at work, and 2 at home. We own everything in our apartment, and our business, we have no debt. There is no his or hers, everything is in one pot. We’ll have to sell the apartment and split the proceeds so we can live apart in places half the size of what we’ve now got, with a longer commute than the current 10 minute door to door walk. The transition will take time and we’ll still be here, in each other’s faces 24/7. We’ll be suffocating in the space between us, waiting for the day to finally come when we can breathe again. He’ll go his way, and get a puppy. I’ll get a few more cats. I’ll be able to invite friends over when I feel like it, and never have to ask for “permission” again. He’ll go home alone, pick up a rotisserie chicken for dinner a few times a week, and eat in front of the TV, a roll of paper towels by his side. A glass filled with vodka too. Before long he’ll nod in his chair, bits of chicken spilling from his drunk mouth onto his chest. He’ll miss Twitchy begging for food, and Kitty Kitty purring in his lap when it’s late and he’s snoozing in his chair. I’ll be happy to not wake up to a sink full of spoons and dishes, and be done with folding his boxers into squares. I’ll be able to expand, stretch, and listen to music other than Singers and Standards. I could play Rap if I wished. I’ll be sad for a while, maybe, and will keep busy with workshops, writing, friends and films. I will not miss holding my breath. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. ​2015, the game begins   

Solstice, Evermore On the longest, lingering evening when the sun forgets to die When the gold of day rests heavy on a quiet, bluish sky I wandered where the driftwood comes to dry along the shore Looking for something half-remembered, something lost, something more. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Through the hush of heat and stillness thick as breath that won’t release Came a feeling soft and certain like a truth that brings no peace And the light, though bright and burning seemed to whisper to the shore that the dark is calm and patient waiting, evermore. Then I felt it, faint and fleeting like a feather, like a sigh Something whispered to my soul though no living thing was nigh So I spoke, though none had asked me to the silence at my core Is this wisdom, is it madness? Nothing answered. Nothing more. And the sun in bright defiance would not yield to coming night It held the sky with molten lava would not loose it from its sight And time slowed down its breathing are we bound to something more? To sustain, remain unending, ever, evermore? Then I knew with sudden knowing, clear and true and just as plain, That the solstice is no moment but a crossing we can’t name That the light we hold and carry is not ours to keep or store It is ours to use to light the way forever, evermore Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. ​evermore   

JACK THE BLACK CAT Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. 2/2015-6/6/2023 2015-2023 June 6, 2023 I woke up this morning at first light, slightly past 5:00, to Kitty’s rubbing and nudging for breakfast. I immediately wondered where Jack was, because he’s usually the first one begging for food. I got out of bed to look for him, heart beating hard, needing to pee, and upon entering the kitchen, saw him lying on the floor beside his water bowl. I bent to rub his belly, and said good morning Jackie, and noticed he wasn’t moving, or breathing. His eyes were open, his tongue lolling in the side of his slackened jaw. He was still warm, the floor around him was wet with his own bodily fluids. My heart thudded and my mind started buzzing, thoughts like busy, pissed off bees. No, no, no, no no, no. This is impossible, nope, not real, can’t be real. I couldn’t breathe. someone, anyone, help me, I don’t know what to do. I can’t think. In my panic I started throwing on clothes, call a car! go to vet ER! and then, with a mouth full of toothpaste, I came to a full stop. There was no emergency. Jack was dead The only emergency would be how I’d deal with it. My soul companion was gone. His cycle with me was complete. I bent and picked him up gingerly, my precious gift, and wrapped him in a cozy, soft flannel sheet, placed him in his favorite spot on the desk in front of the living room window. This empty shell was not Jack. This limp mass of flesh and fur was not alive. Jack was spirited away to wherever all the best souls go. I called my brother and asked him to come help me figure out where to take the body. He found a crematory not too far away in Hartsdale, and we called to see when they opened. The woman who answered said, come on over. We drove for about 30 minutes, not an unpleasant ride through green suburbs, but all I could think about was the hole in my heart. Jack. He was only 8. Like that mattered now any more than it mattered when dad dropped dead at 41. Like age ever matters. When you have learned what you came here to learn, or done what your soul required, human age does not matter a whit. The soul has its own agenda. We met when he was 3 months old, and 1 of 6 juveniles in need of homes that day. I went to CAP to adopt a kitten for Kitty, who seemed sad, bored and lonely since Bo and Twitchy had passed away. Giacomo, Jack, chose me, and it was a joy to know such a spirited and intentional soul. Jack arrived to usher me through a major life transition. That transition was complete. 8 years of my life. Jack’s entire life. Upon arriving we learned the crematory was attached to a small church and a pet cemetery, where we were invited to either bury the remains or sprinkle the ashes. I didn’t want to do either, but acquiesced, and agreed to take the ashes in a small, simple urn, which would be mailed to me. I was shown into a small room with a table covered with a sheet, and a chair, and the technician placed Jack’s body upon it for me to say my final farewells. He told me to take as much time as I needed. I was not one for long, drawn out good byes, or emotional displays in public. There would be plenty of time to deal with the grief and other emotions. A FEW WEEKS BEFORE In early May, both cats got sick. Kitty started sneezing, and after a few days, whatever it was hadn’t subsided and I called the vet to make an appointment. Their first open slot was in 3 days, and if it became an emergency, I could walk in by paying the $200 fee. Kitty’s sneezing didn’t alarm me, she was eating, drinking enough water, was playful, and acting like herself, except for the sneezing. It seemed like her nasal passages were irritated, and I questioned if I’d used some new cleaning product in the house that could be making them sneeze, even though I was always supremely careful with cleaning products, and anything that’s fragranced or toxic to animals or people. But then Jack too started sneezing, big, wet sneezes, a lot, frequently. If he were a human, he’d be the one who’s sneezes could be heard and felt a mile away. Every hour I cleaned and disinfected all the surfaces. His sneezing seemed different from Kitty, and I could tell he was not himself. He nibbled at his dinner, but didn’t finish it. His ears were hot, eyes were watery, and his tail was low when he walked. He snuggled into my leg at night, a hot lump of sickness. I brought small cups of water to him, sometimes his tongue poked at it, mostly not. He’d sleep, like cats do, for short naps, and awaken sneezing. I didn’t know how to help him. I noticed one of his back paws had a slight tremor. Did he have some neuro episode? A stroke? Was his sickness worse than just allergies or a respiratory infection? I left a message at the vets office that I’d be bringing Jack in the morning, not Kitty. We waited a long time before being seen. It was raining, and the office was busy and filled with cranky people and sick animals. The vet tech took Jack from me, and returned 10 minutes later after a cursory check up. They told me it wasn’t a respiratory infection, he wasn’t coughing, lungs were clear blah blah. It was an allergy, possibly. They said to make sure he eats, give him anything, even poor quality

Ms Kitty turns 16 this month In late spring 2010, a year after Moonbeam died unexpectedly, we had been unsuccessful at adopting a shop cat. Having a feline helper made the workday more bearable for me, especially on days when the customers were challenging, the demands were high, and the sales were low. Our search continued. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. In June, I got a call from an actor who lived in the neighborhood, asking if we were still looking for a cat. He and husband were in a touring production of Chicago, The Musical, on their way to costume fittings with our friend Kevin – the Production Wardrobe Supervisor who oversaw the costumes and clothes for Chicago worldwide. Kevin told them we were looking for a cat. As they walked their dogs that morning, on West 42 St opposite the morass of vehicles entering and exiting the Lincoln Tunnel, they saw a car open the passenger side front door, and toss a tiny kitten into the roadway. Appalled, one of the boys dodged the traffic to heroically rescue the cat from becoming road kill. After notifying Kevin that they’d be late for their fittings, the actors arrived at BraTenders, dogs and cat in hand. They were only in town for a few days for the fittings, then they were back on the road, and they wanted to find a good home for the cat before leaving the city. It would be a win-win they cajoled. I believed in the cat distribution system, and that this was a happy synchronicity, even though I was skeptical about leaving such a young kitten alone in the shop. Kittens were adorable, sure, but they could be holy little terrors too. THe walls were covered with bras and panties and shapewear, and articles of mass seduction with frills, and ribbons and strings, which kitties thought were for their entertainment and amusement. I could just see the stock room in the morning, with hosiery boxes toppled, and packages of pantyhose spilled and scattered across the floor. Was this a good idea? Turns out, it was a good idea. Kitty was mischievous but not destructive. I had forgotten how much fun kittens could be. And a month later, in July, I was toppled in Times Square by a texting tourist and broke my ankle. After being home for a week, Alan said, “your cat misses you.” None of the employees would feed the cat or clean its box, or give it any attention. Alan hated doing it, and he expected Angela, his assistant, to do those things as part of her daily duties. She flat out refused. And that is how Kitty came to live with me. We had 2 senior cats at home, and I was relieved to be able to supervise their introduction and socialization. Cats are exceptionally territorial, and while Bo and Twitchy were on the mellow side, a little whippersnapper invading their space was not on their agenda. There was some hissing and screaming for a few days, then some pussyfooting around each other, and within a month, Kitty and Bo became friends. Twitchy came around eventually, and they lived happily together until they passed. KittyKitty is going strong for 16, despite occasional flare ups of IBD and late stage renal disease. She suffered no ill effects after our companion Jack the Black Cat left this realm 3 years ago on June 6. That is another story. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. ​A New York City Cat Tale   

Moonbeam When we first opened our shop BraTenders, it sat above a meat market, a produce market, and a pizza shop at 400 West 42nd St. This block was being hailed as an extension of the theater district to the far west side, and a perfect starter home for my burgeoning business. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. We decided early on that we needed a resident exterminator — and thought, why not give a home to an animal in need? My vet connected us with Companion Animal Placement (CAP), who put me in touch with one of their foster moms. That’s how I met Moonbeam. Maryanne, his foster mom, told me he was a “special boy” looking for a special home. She explained that Moonbeam’s story with CAP began when he was just a kitten. Somehow, he had scrambled out onto the ledge of a sixth-floor apartment. A woman across the way happened to be gazing out her window at a brilliant full moon and saw the tiny figure perched there. The moonlight caught his startling blue eyes — and that’s how he got his name. As a kitten, Moonbeam was easily adoptable. But every home that took him in soon lost him — he was an escape artist of the highest order. Each time he vanished, CAP volunteers took to the streets calling his name, peering under cars and up trees, chanting, “Moonbeam, c’mon boy, Moooon-eeeeee.” And, clever fellow that he was, he always came running. By the time I met him, he was three years old, labeled with “behavior problems,” and no longer anyone’s first choice. Maryanne was a remarkable foster. She lived in a huge loft in the Flatiron District with more than fifteen cats and even hired an animal communicator to figure out what Moonbeam wanted from life. According to this psychic, Moonbeam wasn’t trying to be naughty — he was curious and needed guidance. He hated harsh punishment, disliked houses with dogs (they got to go on walks while he was stuck inside), and didn’t get along with other cats — especially since, being so handsome, they tended to pick fights with him. What he wanted was to be an only child, to have freedom, and to be adored. Closets were his safe haven. When Mary told him he might live in a shop, not a house, he supposedly thought that was just fine. In fact, he revealed — at least through the psychic — that he’d been a Latin lover in a past life, and was delighted by the idea of living in a lingerie shop surrounded by women. Customers adored him, and he basked in the attention. I even thought of renaming him “Romeow.” Some customers stopped in just to say hello to him! Moonbeam’s coat was tawny, white, and silver, but it was his brilliant blue eyes — courtesy of a Siamese parent — that won hearts. He could be quite vocal, following us around the shop, parking himself on top of whatever project we were working on, as if to supervise. He was fast, prone to bolting out the door, so we began walking him up and down the stairs of our building and even trained him on a harness. He was, in so many ways, a dog in a cat’s body. He knew if someone was a cat hater, he’d met many, and liked to stroll into the fitting room in the midst of me doing a bra fitting. One client was so freaked out, she jumped into my arms, and almost sent us both toppling. I loved him fiercely. Though I resisted the urge to smother, he grew into a lap cat, curling up on Al’s lap in our lipstick-red lingerie lounge chairs, or gazing at me with such intensity I sometimes felt he saw my soul. And then, suddenly, it all unraveled. We had just returned from a grueling trip to Florida, visiting Al’s mother as dementia slowly claimed her. We were at the point where her short term memory no longer functioned, and every time she looked at me, said, I know you! If she turned around, and focused on something else for a moment, then noticed me, she’d repeat that mantra. I felt sad, also intrigued, that this woman remembered me, out of all the children, their spouses, the greats and grands, (whom she no longer recognized) the people nearest and dearest to her, who protected and defended their place in the pecking order, she remembered me, a mere daughter in law. When we came back, Moonbeam was limping. We packed him into his carrier and hit the rush hour streets of NYC, en route to the east side vets’ office. The vet thought it was a soft tissue injury, and told us to keep an eye on it. Exhausted, our flight back from Florida was a nightmare, I considered taking him home, but my other cats would have harassed him, and I thought he’d be more comfortable in his own space. I nearly stayed the night at the shop with him, but soon succumbed to emotional exhaustion and went home for a few hours sleep. The next morning, our employee Angela called: Moonbeam was sitting in the fitting room, unresponsive. We rushed to him, and after hours at the ER, the news was devastating. He had suffered a series of strokes, was blind, and for all intents and purposes, brain-dead. The doctors explained the measures we could take, but I stopped listening after those words. I could not torture him with needles and interventions. A vet tech brought him to me. I held him, whispering, “Moonie, my beautiful boy,” stroking his ears as tears poured down my face. We stayed with him as the final injection brought him peace. I buried my face in his fur until his body went slack. Moonbeam taught me as much about love and responsibility as any person