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[ad_1] 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

Lori Kaplan is a New York–based entrepreneur, advocate, storyteller, and the founder of My Life Behind Bras. Known by many as “The Fairy Bra Mother of Broadway,” Lori has spent decades helping women feel more confident, comfortable, and seen through deeply personal experiences and meaningful conversations. Her work combines storytelling, advocacy, and women’s empowerment with a strong understanding of human behavior, confidence, and emotional connection. Through her platform, Lori Kaplan continues to share real stories and lived experiences that resonate with women from all walks of life. The Story Behind My Life Behind Bras My Life Behind Bras was created from years of firsthand experiences working closely with women during some of their most personal and transformative moments. Lori Kaplan recognized that conversations surrounding confidence, body image, comfort, and identity were often overlooked or treated superficially. Rather than building a traditional lifestyle brand, Lori focused on creating a space rooted in honesty, vulnerability, and human connection. Her memoir, My Life Behind Bras: Tales from the Titty, reflects many of these experiences and explores the moments, challenges, and truths she encountered throughout her career. Lori Kaplan’s Background & Experience Lori brings a thoughtful and grounded perspective shaped by both education and real-world experience. With a background in psychology and organizational studies, she developed a career centered around understanding people, relationships, and personal transformation. She is the founder and former CEO of Bra Tenders NYC, where she built a pioneering service business focused on personalized care, long-term relationships, and hands-on leadership. Over the years, Lori Kaplan became widely recognized for helping women feel more comfortable and confident through expert bra fittings and compassionate guidance. Advocacy and Community Impact Advocacy plays an important role in Lori Kaplan’s work. Her efforts have included organizing donations of essential clothing for individuals affected by disasters such as Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Sandy. She has also supported organizations including: Lori’s approach has always been rooted in dignity, empathy, and the belief that small acts of care can create meaningful impact. Why Lori Kaplan’s Voice Connects With Women What makes Lori Kaplan stand out is authenticity. Her work does not rely on polished marketing language or unrealistic messaging. Instead, she speaks openly about confidence, aging, identity, self-image, and the emotional experiences women often carry quietly. Readers connect with Lori because her perspective feels personal, human, and relatable. Through My Life Behind Bras, she has created a platform where women can feel understood without judgment. Final Thoughts Lori Kaplan has built a personal brand centered around compassion, storytelling, advocacy, and confidence. Through decades of experience and meaningful human connection, she continues to inspire conversations that many women rarely see represented honestly online. As My Life Behind Bras continues to grow, Lori Kaplan remains a trusted voice for women seeking authenticity, confidence, and real-life perspective.

Where It All Started Before the brand, before the spotlight there was this. My first catalogue, designed and printed at home in the Y2K era. Raw, experimental, and driven purely by passion it marked the beginning of everything

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