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The ambulance bounced, shimmied and shook over the pitted and pothole riddenstreets of Coney Island, and the old woman strapped into the stretcher winced as herfrail body was jarred by the bumps. I hoped her bones weren’t so brittle that they couldbe easily snapped. It hurts, she mumbled to no one.When the ride smoothed out, she pursed her lips into a sneer of disapproval, a veryfamiliar look for me, and asked when’s someone going to fix this?The once fabled wooden roller coaster, The Cyclone, grew smaller as we continueddown Surf Avenue, and my mother squinted her eyes, as if she was seeing me for thefirst time, though we’d been riding for 40 minutes already.My memory recalled the screams and ensuing shrieks, terror and laughter, from theroller coaster as summertime riders experienced that first, precipitous drop, the fear anddread building on the slow ascent, the release and feeling of flying as the coasterswooped, slowed and sped up along the twists and turns, hills and valleys of rickety,slippery tracks. I loved riding the coaster as a teen. The Adrenalin rush lasted a week.After we’d driven a dozen blocks further away, Mom asked, “Where are we?”“On the way to the rehab Mom. We’ll be there soon.” This was the elder adult version of Are We There Yet, except Mom would notremember the answer this time, or next. I grabbed the edge of my seat with bothhands as we hit a deep pothole, and Mom turned her head and looked at me withrheumy green-grey eyes. But she didn’t see me- as they say, the lights were on butnobody was home. She seemed to look through me, at something beyond our physicalconfines. One withered hand with raised blue veins grasped the side of the stretcher asshe tried to turn her rail thin body toward me. Her body had lost its entirety of muscletone, she literally could not move one. One of her common, punitive admonishmentswhen we were little, was don’t move a muscle. Oh, the irony.She had been wheelchair bound for a couple of years, declining steadily,preferring to be sedentary rather than moving. She stopped using a walker and goingout regularly for short walks, and only went out for an occasional mani/pedi, haircut, orfamily dinner. She made no effort to keep her body vital. She was a lifelonghypochondriac, and whatever deficiency or ailment they discussed on Talk Radio, or Dr.Phil that day, amazingly, she was afflicted with it.While I lived with her after divorcing Sami, she woke me at least a dozen times ayear, in the middle of the night, to drive her to the hospital ER, because she was alwayshaving a heart attack. There was never anything wrong with her, tests showed noillness or ailments. Her heart was strong and regular, her blood pressure and othervitals, always stable. indigestion was a usual scapegoat.then, after she retired from work too early, she filled her days with visits to variousdoctors offices, always seeking the source of phantom sickness. It was the same tacticher mother had used- feign illness to get attention from the family, otherwise they wereprone to negligence. For me and my siblings, and our mother as the child of ahypochondriac, these incidents became a case of crying wolf. We no longer trusted thatthere was an actual medical problem when our mother announced she had one. And she doubted her own 85 year old mother when she called at 3:09 a.mdemanding we come over, and bring an ambulance with us. 99% of the time there wasnothing physically wrong. It was in those wee hours that the terrors flooded back, thepograms, and fires, and people burning, screaming and dying. The lifetime of traumaweighed heavily on my grandmother’s heart, and sometimes, it crushed her.Mom took too many prescription drugs, and nobody tested for drug interactionsthen. She had a pill for everything, it was so easy to get prescriptions before opioidsbecame epidemic. She settled into a self medicating routine of vodka, Vicodin, andValium for several years, and when she quit booze, added more, other, different pills forher menu of ailments. No wonder she had indigestion, all those pills were eating herstomach lining. None of the pills softened her jagged edges, or tamed her vicioustongue.None of us, her middle aged children, had the required strength to lift 89 years,and 150 pounds of virtually dead weight, without risking hurting ourselves. We had notraining, or skills on how to care for an elder, infirm patient. My brother, the youngest,was 54, and I was the oldest at 60. I’d had several accidents and injuries, living in NYCis dangerous, and suffered from chronic sciatica, so lifting and schlepping was off thetable for me. It was all I could do most days to take care of my own body.On special celebration days, her aide would get her bathed, groomed anddressed for a car ride. The Aide du Jour did the heavy lifting, got her situated in, andthen out of a car. She also wrangled the wheelchair and made bathroom runs anddiaper changes at whatever location we were in.It’s not like Mom appreciated it. I was anxious around her, because, without fail,even though so many people had made a Herculean effort to include her, to show herthat she was loved, she bad mouthed everyone and everything, and appreciated nothing. I had often experienced her as a spiteful, envious, jealous, mean spirited,angry, negative 9 year old Brat, the age where her development was arrested.Once at the party, she’d ensconce herself in a desired spot, among the relativesand various in-laws. She gave running commentary on how shitty everyone looked.She criticized the kid who’s birthday it was. She hated the cake, the other kids, thenoise, the parent people, the inconvenience of the 2 hour car ride. The coffee was tooweak. The space was too crowded.She didn’t consider the unpleasantness everyone else experienced because shewouldn’t just be quiet.I knew all she wanted, longed for, was to spend time with the family. But shesabotaged herself with the hurtful commentary, the total lack of gratitude, and overallmeanness that punctuated whatever

Opening Monologue – Tits UpSo.Here we are.If you’re wondering about the title—yes. It’s literal. It’s metaphorical. It’s historical. And at acertain age, it’s also aspirational.I’m the Fairy Bra Mother of Broadway.That means I’ve spent fifty years lifting, hoisting, engineering hope out of elastic and wire forpeople who sing eight shows a week and call it “living the dream.”I’ve held things up for a living. Things that did not want to be held.Backstage, we say “tits up” when something’s gone wrong, a missed cue, Ba broken zipper. aCareer detour. Life.But sailors say it when the ship goes down.And women say it when gravity finally wins.This is a one-woman show, which means there’s no one to blame but me.No understudy. No corset. No place to hide.Just a body that has lived.And a voice that’s done whispering.I came of age in a world that told women to stay upright, stay useful, stay quiet. To keepeverything supported- our families, men, institutions, illusions, even as we disappeared insidethat mandate.But here’s the thing no one tells you: when everything finally goes tits up, you get your handsback.This is not a nostalgia piece.This is not a cautionary tale.This is a reclamation project.So welcome.Sit back. Breathe.If anything falls, I promise, it’s supposed to.

“Let’s get away for a few days, Al.  Everything will be fine at the shop without us. It’s quiet now, Kristen can manage, and you have your cell phone if there’s an emergency. Please, let’s just go away.  I need a break. It’s just one weekend!” “I don’t know honey, I don’t feel comfortable leaving our baby,” he said. “Al, if I don’t get a break, you’ll have to worry about this baby!  I can’t talk about, or look at another bra or pair of tights!  I’m suffocating from it already. Everything will wait until we get back. All work and no play you know…” After some deliberation, Al said “Book it, Dano,” so I did some research and booked the weekend at the Darby Field Inn in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, 333 miles north of NYC.  I loved long car rides, and hadn’t been on one in long time, and looked forward to our adventure, as well as a break from the 24/7 demands of our customers and other inquiring minds. It was quite early in the morning that Friday when we picked up our rental car.  An icy mix of sleet and snow was already falling and the temperature was below freezing. Weather reports advised of an impending blizzard, with the potential for more than 20 inches of snowfall in the city, more north and west.  We hoped to make it to our destination before any significant accumulation, and that our drive would be leisurely, fun and safe.  I thought it could be romantic to snuggle in front of a fireplace with a hot toddy, tucked away in some snowy winter wonderland. We listened to a classic rock station as we drove, singing along and reminiscing about where we were when these songs topped the charts so many years ago. In many ways I still felt spirited like that bikini-clad, Beatles-bopping beach babe, even though I was now nearing my 50th birthday. All the physical aches and pains I endured daily, including a wonky knee that had recently undergone several surgeries, and was now getting stiff from hours in the car, assured me that I had officially become a middle aged woman from the heart and soul of that teenage girl. We made good time on I-95, and after several hours of driving turned onto the 2 lane Route 16.  We drove past shuttered lakefront camp grounds, where trees lush in summer were now barren and skeletal.   The expanse of the lake was covered with an icy sheen, and motels boasting recreational water sports were closed up for the season.  Downhill and cross country ski resorts dotted the mountains and hills, and we saw brightly clothed skiers swaying across the slopes.  The outside temperature hovered around the 30 degree mark, though as we climbed north we had to crank up the heater. The snow began to fall more heavily, fat, wet flakes, and the wipers had to work double time to keep the windshield clean.  The road started to become slick and slippery, and I became edgy wondering if the tires would maintain their traction.  I hoped all the skiers were happy right now, ‘cause I sure wasn’t. By the time we arrived at the Inn and parked the car, I was shin deep in perfect snowball- making powder.  Icy particles bit and stung my cheeks. My breath plumed in front of me, and I tasted frost at the back of my palette. There was only one other car in the lot, and the whole area was hushed by the blanket of snow. A burly young man in a red plaid flannel jacket greeted us and carried our bags inside.  A fire crackled in the fireplace, casting an inviting glow in the rustic room, replete with deer head above the mahogany mantle.  The room was toasty and smelled of wood crisping into cinders. “Well, folks, seems like you got the place all to yourselves!  Lots of cancellations due to the storm coming, so it’s just us. I’m Jim, my girlfriend Donna’s here, too. You need anything at all, just let us know. Oh, I’m also the chef, so feel free to join me in the kitchen any time.  Fully stocked bar and library over there, help yourselves.”  He pointed to a casual den, furnished with poufy sofas upholstered in brown corduroy, a TV, card table, library of books and videos, and the gleaming 100 year old bar, which occupied an entire wall. After checking in, we followed Jim as he carried our bags up a dimly lit, creaky flight of stairs, with polished wooden banisters, redolent with oil soap. Our room had its own small fireplace, a king size bed dressed in 400 thread count sheets, and a hot tub.  We unpacked, and then took advantage of our lone guest status, wandering through the building, exploring its details and history.  I had not been anyplace without throngs of people around me in a very long time, and while it was odd for a moment; I began to relax into the serenity of the secluded and silent inn. The snow continued to fall throughout the day and all through the night.  When we woke the next morning, more than 42 inches had blanketed the area, a complete white out.  I had never seen so much snow in my life, especially this pure, pristine version, unsullied by city shmutz.  I felt like the little figure in the center of a snow globe. Our car was buried, the roads were too, and we were confined to the premises. We enjoyed tasty meals, prepared and served by Jim and Donna, who then dined with us at a large table facing a panoramic view of the mountains. She baked brownies and apple pie, and the aromas of cloves and cinnamon mingled with the earthy warmth of cocoa, and wafted throughout the inn. We read, napped, played Monopoly and cards, and practiced yoga.  We did, indeed, drink brandy in front

For twenty-five years, we’ve Uplifted the town,From A cups to K cups, we don’t let you down.UpLifting the ladies, their chests and their pride,With bras or with binders, that, they decideThe stories we’ve heard, the tales they’ve told,Of heartbreak and joy, of daring and bold.The fitting room secrets, the laughs and the cries,The hunt for a unicorn, Does it come in my size?From brides on a mission to Drag Star queens,To grannies just wanting to look seventeen.We’ve strapped them and shaped them, smoothed every line,Taught them the art of the shape and the lineBut New York’s a beast with a landlord’s grip,A squeeze tighter than a LuPone quip….The rent got too high, the margins too thin,Even our girdles can’t hold it all in.So here’s to the memories, the lace and the laughs,The lives we supported, and so many gaffs!We’re closing the doors, but don’t shed a tear—The spirit of BraTenders just may appear!So stand tall, my friends, with shoulders pulled back,Face the world boldly, with confidence stacked.For under the clothes, there’s power and poise—And a damn good bra is the proudest of joys

Share Share Lori’s Substack I’ve spent the last 45 years of my life in small rooms with naked people. As the Fairy Bra Mother of Broadway, I’ve helped thousands of humans arrange and rearrange their human skins and bits and parts, into more pleasing or acceptable (to them) shapes and sizes with the use of undergarments. My unusual skill is looking at someone’s body, and being able to tell their bra size without the use of tapes, formulas or equipment. I expertly help them shapeshift by adding pads for curves, binders to compress breasts, cinchers for hourglass waists, corsets, bloomers, girdles and garters, oh my! Over the course of my illustrious career I have had hundreds of celebrities come through my shop, BraTenders NYC, for help with costumes and their personal wardrobes. We’ve assisted thousands of brides from places like Dubai, Shanghai, or Beverly Hills, and tens of thousands of women in need of proper support, lift and shape. We’ve worked with costume designers for stage and screen, and stylists for Pop, rock and hip hop stars, as well as many drag artists, opera singers, & Alvin Ailey dancers. We have the solutions for wrangling breasts in cut out clothes and costumes on red carpets and runways. We have tights to fit 6’7 Marilyn Monhoe in her perfect skin hue for her drag act. Writing is the one thing I do better than bra tending, and it’s my passion and salvation. I’ve learned so much about who I am by journaling, Morning Pages, Evening Pages, and this is my first attempt at putting myself out there with my work. The Covid pandemic changed the world, and my business, forever. We haven’t fully recovered from the 21 month shutdown, and the demographic that the business was built to serve, Broadway, film and Television, which was 60% of our revenue, now finds it easier to point and click than to support their local brick and mortar vendor who has faithfully served them for decades. The entertainment and performing arts industry is now struggling with an unsustainable business model, and sky high ticket prices most people can’t afford. Let’s face it, 2500 bucks for 1 night out for 4 people, if you include travel, food, and tickets is an extravagance any way you look at it. And sitting in a Broadway relic of a theater is anything but a luxurious experience. The entertainment industry is going through massive upheavals that have changed the way people consume culture. I can’t remember the last time I was in a movie theater to see a really excellent grown up film, or even a theater that ran a movie that didn’t involve super heroes. From the time Sex &The City was an HBO hit, and caused women to stop wearing pantyhose and bare their skin instead, morphed into And Just Like That, New York, fashion, and the world changed forever. What was the relevance of these women now, still comfy in their privilege, whining over which multi million dollar property to buy? I lost my taste for it in the ensuing years. I do miss the business we used to get from these productions, before Amazon guaranteed same day delivery. And before they started to “borrow” items, use them in scenes or skits, and then return them, swearing they weren’t used, and they have no idea where that glitter came from. Life goes on. We live, we change, we adapt, we grow, we shed, we peel away all the layers of life that no longer serve us. Somehow we manage, one foot in front of the other, one breath at a time. Join me as I post weekly in an attempt to make sense of the world we find ourselves in, and entertain you with tales from My Life Behind Bras. I’ll also provide tips and info to help get the undergarment situation under control. and yes, it includes shapewear. Bodies change over time, which means that what we wear beneath our clothes needs to be updated, upgraded periodically as our lives and needs change. Since the pandemic, women are now insisting on more wire free options than before, comfort is the trend. We’re getting more requests for chest binders, tucking kits, and other items requested by non binary, trans, and all types of humans who want to feel more comfortable in their bodies. I’ve been helping people explore their gender and sexuality with intimate apparel for almost 50 years. We are about to embark on a new collaboration with Lola Olivia, and just like we offer bra fittings, we will be a fitting store for Lola Olivia’s binders. We’re currently working on finding a certain print for tights used in Wicked Worldwide. What was available in the hosiery world in 2002, is a far cry from the much more minimal selections available now. Emerald green and yellow diamond print, which is transfered to a specific denier of sheer to waist white opaque tight, was first produced for the show when they opened. Now they will have to buy enough to last for another 20 years, or the job can’t be done at all. What BraTenders does, did, is way beyond just fitting bras. And in a post covid world, what used to be easy, simple, is now, not. Some things are still worth doing, and some are not. I want to expend my time and effort helping people who appreciate and want that help. My job description is unusual- if you go to a social function with 250 people, how many BraTenders will you encounter? I have a very specific set of skills that have endured for 47 years. BraTenders outlived Barney’s! Who’d a thunk it? We’re in the laboratory, and everything is an experiment. Failure has been the surest road to our success. Sometimes I feel like the little choo choo train, I think I can, I think I can, and use that as a mantra to manifest, and keep going when I want

Share Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Living in the Twilight Zone Inside the Upside Down what’s real is fake what’s fake is awake or woke I cannot tell Spam or a scam or email from a friend an alert to act now tik tok, times up, me too, fake news, who’s who buy this, but wait, there’s more! TFG got shot on live TV one of their own, homegrown or did he or was he and wait, what? where am I? ain’t nothing real its all surreal inside the upside down Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Source link

The tip of the candle’s flame barely kissed the mattress, but it was enough to ignite a furious inferno that shot crackling flames across our beds and climbing up the walls. There was a notorious city wide blackout, and our family became one of its unintended victims. “Lor, come here”, Sue whisper-shouted to me from the bedroom, and as I entered the room, gasped and thought, she’s in big trouble now!  She, my sister Susan, both was blamed for most of the trouble our family suffered, and the cause of it.   Susan was defiant, and even young as she was, pushed the buttons of both parents until they reacted with anger and emotional, verbal, and sometimes physical violence. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Panicked, unsure what to do, I was only 10, I jumped to my feet, ran into the bathroom, grabbed a small paper dixie cup, the kind we used to rinse our mouths after brushing our teeth, filled it with water, and raced back to the bedroom.  In the few seconds I’d been gone, the fire had consumed our two beds, and was on its way to devour the other two.  This cup was useless. 8 year old Sue sat on the floor, bug eyed, mouth agape, enthralled and paralyzed by the dancing flames. Butchie Boy looked sleepily between the bars of his crib, and Joy-Joy in her bed, inches separating her from the building inferno, remained still, except for the slow and steady bumping of her head against her balled up schmata, humming the Ring Ding jingle. Mom shouted from the living room,  “What’s going on in there?” “Fire, Ma, there’s a fire! Come quick!” “What are you talking about….”Her voice trailed off as she and Dad flew into the bedroom. “Christ almighty!”  Dad plucked Butch from his crib/bed with one arm, turned  and  grabbed Joy with the other, thrust them at Mom, then grabbed a coat hanging on the corner of the door, began beating the flames. “Get the hell out of here,” he shouted, picking Sue and I up by the scruffs of our necks, pushing us along, out of the blazing bedroom, “Move, move, move. Get out!” “Go pull the fire alarm on the corner” Dad shouted to Mom, or anyone. I watched his silhouette, raising and slamming the coat against the flames, a matador battling the beast. A man’s voice called,  “Fire trucks on the way”  and I could faintly hear the shrill alarm, but the fire was growing bigger, roaring now.  The heat was so intense I could feel it in the foyer, near the front door to our apartment.  Thick smoke filled the hallways and rooms, and the noise, who knew fire was so loud. Neighbors crowded around, “what’s going on? Is everything alright?” No, nothing was alright. “Daddy, Daddy,” I yelled, scared, for him, and for my Sleepy Dog, my stuffed animal companion, my security blanket, to whom I whispered all my fears,  hopes, and dreams, and without whom I could not go to sleep.  I ran toward the inferno,  “Daddy, Daddy. Sleepy….” “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE! The room was a kaleidoscopic mélange of chaos, orange, red, yellow flames, crackling, black smoke billowing, the roaring, so deafeningly loud, the air so thick, and stiflingly hot. “Daddy!” please, please, please be OK.  “Daddy!” A great whoosh of fire claimed the bedroom doorway. Mom backpedaled, pushed us out of the apartment, into the hallway, out of the building, into the cold, dark November night.  We hurried around the corner, to where our windows faced the street.  Sue and I had only recently come home after our Hebrew School lessons, and wore only our slips. The little kids wore pajamas, and we stood, nearly naked, shivering, barefoot, huddled on the street corner, holding our breath, watching flames lap at the exterior brick walls, painting them black. Daddy… And then there he was!  Climbing out of the bedroom window, jumping, then limping toward us, coughing, sweaty, blistered, wearing only a t-shirt and work pants.  Firetrucks screamed their arrival, and fireman sprung into action, opening hydrants and unraveling hoses.   Someone draped scratchy wool blankets over our shoulders. We watched, horrified, as our meager possessions went up in smoke.  Dad hugged me tight and put Sleepy in my arms. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Source link

I’ve been working since I was 15 years old. First jobs were the usual mothers’ helper/babysitter jobs, progressing to selling snacks on the beach in summer while school was out, to grocery store cashier and retail clerk, and incremental steps up the food chain over time, to where I am now, the owner and still operator of a New York based small business that has had its 15 minutes of fame, and who’s future is entirely uncertain. We never really recovered from Covid, having lost over 50% of the business, as Broadway has gone the Amazon shopping route, and is struggling itself with its antiquated business model, finding their audience, and ridiculous costs to mount any production. It’s rumored that a small play without big casts, sets or costumes cost 5 million to stage. BraTenders was born as a resource for the costume industry for Broadway, film and television. Before Google, I was the one they turned to for a balconette bra in 38F, or an open bottomed girdle. We still got the “I can’t find it anywhere” calls, and by this point, I was tired of accommodating a clientele of people who only wanted to borrow items, and who rarely purchased. I couldn’t have predicted that between 2019 and 2024, the quality of people working in the costume industry would change so drastically, to become filled with rude, entitled people who literally did not know the difference between socks and stockings, and who would argue with us about how they were right, rather than give us information to help them get what they were after. In February 2020 we knew things were getting bad. I worked on a photo shoot with the shoe designer LaDuca, featuring an upcoming Broadway star, who would appear in the new remake of West Side Story, directed by Spielberg. My friend Zinda Williams, the stylist and fashion maven, and also a wardrobe head for Ailey, brought some items for the shoot. While carrying an armful of clothing to a fitting room, I slipped when my foot landed on a beaded gown, against a slippery tile floor, and my legs flew out from under me in opposite directions. I jammed on the breaks so to speak, and dug my heels into the floor. At that point I felt a pop, and flash of pain & knew my hamstring was torn. As soon as I stopped seeing stars, I limped onward, the show must go on. I never received medical attention, because 2 weeks later, it was impossible to get an appointment with any doctor, and I was not inclined to go to a hospital emergency room, giving that they were seeing a lot of Covid action. So I hobbled around, hoping that in time I would heal. Around this time too, Maggie, my nieces’ Bathsheba and Erika’s mom, was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. Her treatment was delayed because of Covid, and sadly, that proved to be fatal. My brother and his daughter cared for Maggie at home, moving her into Erika’s old room in Ford’s apartment in Queens. They had to be especially careful where they went and who they saw because Maggie was now an exceptionally high risk patient. Anyone who had a weakened immune system was what the CDC called high risk, as Covid ravaged the organs, and shut down the body’s ability to protect and defend itself. I felt helpless that I couldn’t help. BraTenders closed its doors on March 12, 2020, the day Broadway shut down in response to the surging Covid virus. Since the beginning of the year we’d been paying close attention to the stories coming out of China, and Italy, and already saw blips in the supply chain with goods and services from Asia and Europe. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. But when one of the ushers at a Broadway theater got sick, and had been at a packed house, it became clear that until anyone was sure about what this new airborn illness was, it definitely wasn’t a good idea to pack 1500 people sitting tit to tit into an old relic of a poorly ventilated theater. Researchers were testing how far droplets in breath traveled, and told people to stay 6 feet apart for each other to be extra safe. Broadway went dark and so did BraTenders. I truly thought the world was ending. Plague was not on the bingo card of ways to perish. Nukes was at the top of the list. Being shot was high on the list, because Murica loves its guns more than its citizens, especially its female ones. And because I live in NYC, dying from a gargoyle falling off a building onto my head was also a possible scenario for demise. But plague wasn’t a concern. Hell, I lived through the 80s and survived using the bathroom at CBGB. This felt unlike anything I’d ever experienced, the uncertainty all but crippled me with anxiety. We saw one last bride on Saturday the 14th, and one last costume designer, the gregarious genius Gregg Barnes who needed something, maybe, for a personal project, a costume for a small show, that may, or may not have been going on. We reminisced that it was crazy to think we’d known each other for over 25 years. So many shows. So much underwear! Now, nobody knew anything. We thought it would be a few weeks, and back to biz as usual. Nobody anticipated what would follow. We hadn’t started wearing masks yet. I called some customers with whom I had friendly relationships to wish them well and say toodle loo. I didn’t expect to see them again. Lee Austin, the wardrobe head at Jersey Boys, stopped by my apartment to return a bag of goods from the show that he’d borrowed. He was leaving town until something, anything changed. We hugged, for what we both believed was the last time. I

The months of April, May and June are Bra Tender’s busiest, with proms, weddings, graduations, numerous theatrical awards shows and galas.  The fitting rooms are booked from open to close, and we even just changed our shop hours because more folks want to shop after work than before. We accommodate walkins when possible. Today we had a walk in. a tiny wisp of a  woman,  4’10, maybe 80 pounds.  She mentioned that she’s a costumer, and all the folks she works with have been telling her for years to visit Bra Tenders to solve her brablems.  I agreed to help her, if she was OK working in the stock room corner.  She was. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Grace was upbeat and chatty.  She wears, and designs her own vintage style dresses from the 40’s and 50’s, and likes the torpedo tit look of sweater girls like Lana Turner and Kate Hepburn. She wanted the impossible:  a circular stitched, cone shaped cup, in her proper size, that was also smooth and didn’t have seams or texture in the cup.  Well, that is a mouth full of contradictions! First, those bullet bras are shaped that way because of the circular stitching.  It isn’t possible to create such a pronounced forward projection without the circular stitching.  The “sweater girls” of the 1950’s became known as such  because they wore them under sweaters, the fashion of the time. Second, those old fashioned bras weren’t made in a size 28 anything, they started at size 34.  Grace’s best size was 28DD.  She has a very petite frame. Surprisingly, I had 17 different bras in her size.  Many were the one-piece-left at the end of a season that didn’t sell, and 3 were core product for us.  2 actually gave her the forward projection she wanted, and fit her perfectly!  She was happily uplifted. She mentioned she was on tour, and was on a layover in NYC, catching up on many things she wanted to do.   I asked, “what tour are you on?” She said, “Cher.” I said, “The Cher show has a tour already?”   It’s common for a Broadway show to put out a tour, but this seemed early in the run for that step. The Cher Show only opened a few months ago on Broadway, with Bob Mackie designing the costumes. One of my Broadway favorites, the Pirate Queen herself, Stephanie J Block, starred as  one of the 3 Chers.  Every night people jumped out of their seats and danced in the aisles.  I mean c’mon, it’s Cher!  When I was a kid, Cher and Sonny were a pair. I Got You Babe was a huge hit. Grace smiled and said, “No, not the Broadway Cher Show.  Cher Cher, the  actual Cher. Tony nominations this week” Just a snippet from my life behind bras. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Source link

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published it’s as if the whole world is holding its breath. waiting BraTenders needs another reinvention a new iteration for a different generation It’s been too long a while since I had a smile grace my face in the place I created and have carried. Business isn’t about good service or good prices or the latest trends, or good quality, No. Business is now influenced to death and social media content creators are the next generation of Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published unpaid labor hawking products for pennies or likes or views or follows and shares the internet, worldwide web, is an overloaded global marketplace oversaturated with an overabundance of too much of everything i always believed that business is/was about people and relationship and the best compliment I ever got was when someone said, I trust you and that seems to no longer be the case. i miss the community that shopped and schlepped and shared a laugh over tea until an unknown bug caught us off guard and changed everything and everyone forever. Thanks for reading Lori’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Source link