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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

Late September 2006 Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. I sat at my desk, scratching my head, up to my boobs in catalogues and line sheets, trying to source the perfect pair of casual blue socks with the following specifications from an actor, and the costume designer, for “the magic foot” number of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee running at the Circle in the Square theater on West 50th Street: not too thick, but not too thin; not a dress sock, and not an athletic sock; not wool, 100% cotton; more Midnight Blue than Admiral Blue, but not Oxford blue; no seams in the toes; non binding elastic top, cheap; fast; good quality. The character uses an unusual technique of spelling words on the floor with his foot during the Spelling Bee -“an alphabetic way to spell,” so the sock had the spotlight. Whatever socks had worked for the previous actors in that role, seemed not to meet the approval of the current dude, so the wardrobe head called me and asked me to investigate “options.” My work, my life, is always about finding more, better, different options for the picayune peculiarities of the personalities trodding the boards on and off Broadway. Perhaps it’s an occupational hazard that, when I see a show, I’m looking for, or focus on, the base layers beneath the costumes, or in the case of Spelling Bee, a single sock. I couldn’t tell one sock from another from my seat in the audience, but then again, I wasn’t the one wearing them. I see the bra where others see only cleavage. Wardrobe and design people I know are even more narrowly focused on whether zippers or buttons are period appropriate. When I saw Freud’s Last Session, the actor’s wig kept shrinking back on his skull throughout the first act, revealing more and more of his bald pate, and I wondered if other audience members saw the slippage, or if only theater insiders saw the Topstick failure. My detective work was happily interrupted when we got a phone call with an extraordinary invitation. “Hey Lori! It’s Brendan, long time no speak.” Brendan was a sweet young man from the midwest who came to New York to work in the theater business. He was a wardrobe professional, mainly for touring productions of large and small shows, and other live entertainment. Wardrobe supervisors are the keepers of the clothes, and they were my primary contact once the design team moved out of the picture. “Brendan, hi, yes, it has been a long time. You were working on Hairspray last time I heard from you. Whatcha been up to? Still on the road, touring?” “I’m working with Barbra Streisand now! Her voice is still A- May-zing. Listen, that’s why I’m calling. I need to memo some undergarments for her, some slimmers, you know? But more importantly, I have some exciting news! ”So we’re in Philly and she’s giving her first live concert in many years, and taking her show on the road. Her stage fright is legendary, right? Well, for the first time e-v-e-r she’s agreed to an invited dress rehearsal. The crew, well, I have been asked to invite a friendly, theater loving crowd of insiders so she can rehearse in front of live bodies, give her a feel for it before she has to perform in front of thousands of people! “Would you like to come to see Barbra? I have 4 tickets I can give you. It’s next Wednesday afternoon at the Wachovia Center in Philly.” “Brilliant. Brendan, that’s brilliant. You’re in the big time now, very impressive! You know, Al and and I have only been out of the shop together once, and that was to attend Steve Kleiser’s funeral a few years ago. Did you know Steve from Urinetown?” “No. Never met him.” “Helluva nice guy. Died from liver failure from the chemical cocktail he took to keep his HIV under control. Shame.” “That’s too bad. I’m sorry to hear it. So do you guys want to see Barbra?” “Holy crap! That’s awesome! Thank you so much for thinking of us!” We chatted a while, and Brendan caught us up on his life with the bus and trucks. “So you’ll come? You guys take such good care of us on the road, and I wanted to do something for you.” That touched me; we rarely got recognition for our efforts, and hardly ever got thanked. And what could be more perfect than getting freebies to see BarBRA? “Well hell yes we will come! Oh my god, Barbra Streisand! If we have to close for the day, we will be there. I’m looking forward to seeing you. Hey, does the diva need anything else in the way of underwear?” “Yes, we need help, but I’ve only just looked at all the clothes today. I’ll have to call you later when I have a better idea what we need. Just some shapers, for now.” “We can hand deliver for you Brendan! Thank you so much. I’m very excited!” I jotted down the sizes La Diva said she wore, with the caveat, she hated wearing bras. I thought 36D. She liked 38C. Though they be sister sizes, the 38 band size, alas, would be too big, and thus, unsupportive, and yes, the word I hate, “comfortable.” A bra is only uncomfortable when it is the wrong fit! I had been a Streisand fan since I was a little girl and heard her songs on AM radio. Then Barbra on Ed Sullivan. Then Funny Girl. My parents had a few of her albums, and when they played her records instead of watching TV, Dad was more than likely feeling frisky. Barbra was a Brooklyn girl, Erasmus Hall graduate, Flatbush. My Grandma Helen kvelled over Barbra, whose voice melted the ice of Helen’s heart. As a teenager, when my parents went out for the night and

NYMAG.COMVULTURETHE CUTSELECT ALLGRUB STREETTHE STRATEGISTSTYLESELFCULTUREPOWERNO MAN‘S LANDThe Bra Ladies of New YorkByNatalie ShutlerSHARETWEETPIN ITEMAILCOMMENTNEW YORK MAGAZINEDAILY INTELLIGENCERNOVEMBER 16, 20171:38 PMNYMAG.COMVULTURETHE CUTSELECT ALLGRUB STREETTHE STRATEGISTSTYLESELFCULTUREPOWERNO MAN‘S LANDThe Bra Ladies of New YorkByNatalie ShutlerSHARETWEETPIN ITEMAILCOMMENTNEW YORK MAGAZINEDAILY INTELLIGENCERNOVEMBER 16, 20171:38 PMNYMAG.COMVULTURETHE CUTSELECT ALLGRUB STREETTHE STRATEGISTSTYLESELFCULTUREPOWERNO MAN‘S LANDThe Bra Ladies of New YorkByNatalie ShutlerSHARETWEETPIN ITEMAILCOMMENTNEW YORK MAGAZINEDAILY INTELLIGENCERNOVEMBER 16, 20171:38 PMNYMAG.COMVULTURETHE CUTSELECT ALLGRUB STREETTHE STRATEGISTSTYLESELFCULTUREPOWERNO MAN‘S LANDThe Bra Ladies of New YorkByNatalie ShutlerSHARETWEETPIN ITEMAILCOMMENTNEW YORK MAGAZINEDAILY INTELLIGENCERNOVEMBER 16, 20171:38 PMNYMAG.COMVULTURETHE CUTSELECT ALLGRUB STREETTHE STRATEGISTSTYLESELFCULTUREPOWERNO MAN‘S LANDThe Bra Ladies of New YorkByNatalie ShutlerSHARETWEETPIN ITEMAILCOMMENTNEW YORK MAGAZINEDAILY INTELLIGENCERNOVEMBER 16, 20171:38 PMNYMAG.COMVULTURETHE CUTSELECT ALLGRUB STREETTHE STRATEGISTSTYLESELFCULTUREPOWERNO MAN‘S LANDThe Bra Ladies of New YorkByNatalie ShutlerSHARETWEETPIN ITEMAILCOMMENTNEW YORK MAGAZINEDAILY INTELLIGENCERNOVEMBER 16, 20171:38 PMNYMAG.COMVULTURETHE CUTSELECT ALLGRUB STREETTHE STRATEGISTSTYLESELFCULTUREPOWERNO MAN‘S LANDThe Bra Ladies of New YorkByNatalie ShutlerSHARETWEETPIN ITEMAILCOMMENTNEW YORK MAGAZINEDAILY INTELLIGENCERNOVEMBER 16, 20171:38 PMNYMAG.COMVULTURETHE CUTSELECT ALLGRUB STREETTHE STRATEGISTSTYLESELFCULTUREPOWERNO MAN‘S LANDThe Bra Ladies of New YorkByNatalie ShutlerSHARETWEETPIN ITEMAILCOMMENTNEW YORK MAGAZINEDAILY INTELLIGENCERNOVEMBER 16, 20171:38 PMNYMAG.COMVULTURETHE CUTSELECT ALLGRUB STREETTHE STRATEGISTSTYLESELFCULTUREPOWERNO MAN‘S LANDThe Bra Ladies of New YorkByNatalie ShutlerSHARETWEETPIN ITEMAILCOMMENTNEW YORK MAGAZINEDAILY INTELLIGENCERNOVEMBER 16, 20171:38 PMThe Best Bra Fitters in New York on Finding the Perfect Size.pdfSaved to Dropbox • Nov 16, 2017, 8G02 PMThe Best Bra Fitters in New York on Finding the Perfect Size.pdfThis week, women’s social clubThe WinglaunchesNo Man’sLand, its first print magazine, with stories rolling out exclusivelyon the Cut.It’s hard to keep a straight face and complain about being too skinny for your bigboobs — try it around any gathering of girlfriends, you’ll see — but this is an oddlycommon problem. I found myself facing this strange dilemma when my once-flatchest, which had begun to swell rapidly during college, wouldn’t stop growing.There was a problem with every bra I tried on: Either the band was loose enoughthat any sudden movement sent everything swinging, or the cup size was so smallthat I felt my cleavage spill out like a medieval-looking beer wench’s. What’s more:My chest was out of proportion with the rest of my body — I was still smalleverywhere else, so the disproportionate weight up top felt uneven and excessive.In the past few decades, boobs have started to get much bigger, and the bra industryhas been slow to catch up. Even though Victoria’s Secret still has the largest share ofthe lingerie market, the biggest size the company offers is a DDD (and, still, only inselect styles).Linda Becker of Linda’s Bra Salon in Murray Hill runs two bra salons, in Manhattan and in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. “In 30 years, I’ve seenmore breasts than Hugh Hefner,” she jokes. “But I’m focused on the problems that really big-breasted women face.”Photo: Amy LombardADVERTISEMENTThis week, women’s social clubThe WinglaunchesNo Man’sLand, its first print magazine, with stories rolling out exclusivelyon the Cut.It’s hard to keep a straight face and complain about being too skinny for your bigboobs — try it around any gathering of girlfriends, you’ll see — but this is an oddlycommon problem. I found myself facing this strange dilemma when my once-flatchest, which had begun to swell rapidly during college, wouldn’t stop growing.There was a problem with every bra I tried on: Either the band was loose enoughthat any sudden movement sent everything swinging, or the cup size was so smallthat I felt my cleavage spill out like a medieval-looking beer wench’s. What’s more:My chest was out of proportion with the rest of my body — I was still smalleverywhere else, so the disproportionate weight up top felt uneven and excessive.In the past few decades, boobs have started to get much bigger, and the bra industryhas been slow to catch up. Even though Victoria’s Secret still has the largest share ofthe lingerie market, the biggest size the company offers is a DDD (and, still, only inselect styles).Linda Becker of Linda’s Bra Salon in Murray Hill runs two bra salons, in Manhattan and in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. “In 30 years, I’ve seenmore breasts than Hugh Hefner,” she jokes. “But I’m focused on the problems that really big-breasted women face.”Photo: Amy LombardADVERTISEMENTThis week, women’s social clubThe WinglaunchesNo Man’sLand, its first print magazine, with stories rolling out exclusivelyon the Cut.It’s hard to keep a straight face and complain about being too skinny for your bigboobs — try it around any gathering of girlfriends, you’ll see — but this is an oddlycommon problem. I found myself facing this strange dilemma when my once-flatchest, which had begun to swell rapidly during college, wouldn’t stop growing.There was a problem with every bra I tried on: Either the band was loose enoughthat any sudden movement sent everything swinging, or the cup size was so smallthat I felt my cleavage spill out like a medieval-looking beer wench’s. What’s more:My chest was out of proportion with the rest of my body — I was still smalleverywhere else, so the disproportionate weight up top felt uneven and excessive.In the past few decades, boobs have started to get much bigger, and the bra industryhas been slow to catch up. Even though Victoria’s Secret still has the largest share ofthe lingerie market, the biggest size the company offers is a DDD (and, still, only inselect styles).Linda Becker of Linda’s Bra Salon in Murray Hill runs two bra salons, in Manhattan and in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. “In 30 years, I’ve seenmore breasts than Hugh Hefner,” she jokes. “But I’m focused on the problems that really big-breasted women face.”Photo: Amy LombardADVERTISEMENTThis week, women’s social clubThe WinglaunchesNo Man’sLand, its first print magazine, with stories rolling out exclusivelyon the Cut.It’s hard to keep a straight face and complain about being too skinny for your bigboobs — try it around any gathering of girlfriends, you’ll see — but this is an oddlycommon problem. I found myself facing this strange dilemma when my once-flatchest, which had begun to swell rapidly during college, wouldn’t stop growing.There was a problem with every bra I tried on: Either the band was loose enoughthat any sudden movement sent everything swinging, or the cup size was so smallthat I felt my cleavage spill out like a medieval-looking beer wench’s. What’s more:My chest was