miriam maisel’s costumes per episode: 1x02 Ya Shivu v Bolshom Dome Na Kholme
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@maisellous
miriam maisel’s costumes per episode: 1x02 Ya Shivu v Bolshom Dome Na Kholme

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Midge behind the microphone
MEMORYSERVED:
After they sat at Midge’s table and realized it was Midge’s table, Kennedy sort of looked her over to see would she complain about the closeness of their seats. There’s one chair left between them, but there’s only one chair left between them, depending on how you look at it. If you look at it at all. She hardly seems to have noticed them sitting down, and why should she, it’s a public venue with many seats and Kennedy is in a suit the colour of the carpet. They were bumped from the lineup tonight and it just felt right dressing down from their stage outfit into something so modest. It’s an ugly carpet. They go a whole song looking at Midge, not looking at Midge, looking at the back of her neck where the curls barely part, and looking down in shame remembering what it’s like to be looked at by a man. But they have looked. And it would be terrible to say nothing, but it would be worse to apologize as if they have done something shameful, and make Midge feel like she has been a victim of something shameful. They ought to give her an escape route from this non-situation. Hi. How many years have I been sitting here? I was bumped from the lineup.
“I know I’ve been sitting here all of five minutes already, but is it alright if I sit here?”
Midge has been taking notes. This is what you do when you’ve got a notepad and a pen and there’s a variety stream of acts passing by in front of your eyes, changing every eight to ten minutes. Her head’s been on a vertical swivel since she doesn’t trust herself to write legibly if she’s staring at the stage the whole time. Last time she did that she spent two hours lying awake in bed trying to work out why she’d written that a guitar-playing bearded man was “robust veal for Jonathan” and who exactly Jonathan was before she’d realised she’d just been writing about her own powerful need to use the bathroom. Her notes on this particular individual read:
MALE COMEDIAN #12, JOSEPH(?) ALDMAN ALTMAN(?) • Hold for laughs BUT! not too often. Seems desperate • Have fun with the mic! The mic is your friend! • Hard to make jokes about The Funny Things Dogs Do actually funny • Pot roast for dinner tomorrow? • Bored
She’s dimly aware she has company. This doesn’t bother her – tables are tables, chairs are chairs, none of these things have her name on them and if they did she’d only be too happy to offer. Besides, whoever it is has been quiet, unobtrusive, maybe a little stare-y but haven’t we all. Midge has the end of her pen thoughtfully pressed to her bottom lip when that changes, which is lucky for the both of them because Joseph(?) Altman(?) just finished and now she has nothing to write.
“If I said no I’d be a terrible host. Welcome to the table, would you like a mini pretzel?” She’s been selfishly hoarding the bowl up until this point, and she pushes it neatly towards them. “Not that I think whatever’s ailing you could be cured by a mini pretzel, but you know, sometimes you see a small version of a thing that’s usually much bigger and it just makes you feel better.”
Write that down.
let me think — fuck you. no, i do not want any iced tea. / written by theo.

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@seriouslyaliens · starter call.
“—a slug?”
This is the face of a woman who’s just not having it, and yet simultaneously, a woman who’s rooted in place by morbid curiosity. It’s something about the earnestness of the question that keeps Midge from making a dash.
“Let’s move past your initial question, briefly, just for a moment, because I was going to ask what it is about me that makes it look like I’ve seen an enormous greenish slug anywhere nearby, but I suppose anyone who has working eyes could be a person who’s seen an enormous greenish slug. It’s not as if enormous greenish slugs are selectively invisible.” Listen to her, talking as if enormous greenish slugs are visible at all, to anyone, in the sense that they exist, because they don’t. Please can they not exist. Eugh. She shudders. “How big? Do you mean big for a slug,” she holds her index finger and thumb about three inches apart, “or the size of a car?” Not that the answer will make any difference to the fact that Midge has not seen any slugs recently, never mind enormous greenish ones. She’s hoping that doesn’t change.
@timetear · starter call.
“Hold on, wait, slow down.” This may be the first time Midge has ever told someone else to slow down in her life. This just all seems like a little much. “A doctor? You? No, no, that can’t be right.” She’s flapping a hand dismissively as she speaks, shaking her head, lips pressed together into something close to a grimace. “You’re three years old. You’re a child, an admittedly particularly tall child, but a child nonetheless. Are they letting just anyone qualify now? Can I call myself Dr Maisel because I prescribed myself aspirin last night?”
@withbox im SCREAMING at tumblr flagging that ask reply...did he say f*ck.......
Why are you mad? I didn’t do anything wrong.
@saintburned · starter call.
“Don’t you think it’s too shallow?” The couch. Midge is meant to be proud of the apartment, and she is, largely. The wallpaper, the carpets, the rugs, the enormous abundance of stuff. The couch, though, the couch is a real bugbear. Needless to say, it was Joel’s choice.
“Every time I sit on this thing I feel like I’m sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon only hours after the last murder by the notorious Grand Canyon Pusher who comes up behind people sitting on the edge of the Grand Canyon and pushes them off. I feel like I’m about to fall to my death. I have this constant impulse to declare myself of sound mind and body and write my will on the back of my hand so when they find my body they know who gets my dresses.”
“Are you sure you don’t want an iced tea?”

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@folkangel · starter call.
Standing next to Edith isn’t exactly making Midge feel overdressed, but she definitely feels flashy and much too pink. That’s largely her dress’s fault – fuchsia is the colour of the summer, after all, and anyone who’s even heard of Edith knows her penchant for simple, neutral colours. Midge flattens out her skirt a little nervously. This is rare for her, but Edith Walls is a big name in the way Lenny Bruce is a big name, only Edith’s never bailed Midge out of prison or vice versa, so she can’t lean on that familiarity.
“Do you ever get nervous?” It’s not an out-of-nowhere question but it sounds like it, in the abrupt way it leaves her mouth. “I mean, before you get up on stage. It’s as if, all the way there you’ve never been so confident, nothing could possibly go wrong, and then just before they call your name it’s like you’ve forgotten you even have feet, never mind how to walk.”
@bettercoward · starter call.
“ — Jack Harkness. Now that’s what you call a name! Don’t tell me it’s your real name because either I won’t believe you, or I will and I’ll be insanely jealous for the rest of my life.”
@sovietperil · starter call.
“I’m sorry, I just have to ask. Because this is untenable.” Midge has a light but firm hold on his sleeve. She’s surprisingly good at keeping a person within earshot when she wants to be. “Are you three children standing on each other’s shoulders to get into an adult movie? Are you on stilts?” She gestures up and down at him with her free hand. “I mean, how did this happen to you?”
@sackrats · starter call.
“Joel?” Oh no. Oh shit. What the hell is she supposed to say. “He’s...” Esther audibly is not crying, if anything the apartment is too quiet, but for a second Midge considers pretending she is and running off to tend to her. The only thing stopping her is the amount of time it took to get her to lie down and go to sleep. It’s not that Midge doesn’t want to tell Kitty that Joel’s gone, it’s just. Well. The part of her conscience that shares her mother’s voice says Don’t!!! Tell her!!! Anything!!! in the sort of hushed tone you’d apply to a child about to start yelling about racecars in the synagogue.
Out of spite: “Joel left me.”
My name, my real name - that is not the point. The name I chose is the Doctor. The name you choose, is like… it’s like a promise you make.

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BONNMOT:
Three good reasons Susie can easily shrug off, ‘well, what should I say? You enter like Princess Grace into Monaco, after much deliberation, you make your grand entrance. Then, boy, you’re in there.’
“I’m just saying, if you keep talking me down like that I’m gonna get a complex. And I’ll be too embarrassed to go on stage and my career will fester and die, and I’ll move to Ohio and start selling beets out of the back of a cart and you’ll have nobody else to manage and you’ll move to Ohio and start selling beets out of the back of a cart and we’ll be rival beet-sellers on opposite sides of the same street and one day during one of our beet fights you’ll throw a beet at my head and kill me and you’ll have to bury my body in your beet supplier’s farm and the runoff from my decaying corpse will poison your beets and you’ll be sent to prison after your beets kill a whole family of Ohioans and as you’re leaning against the bars of your cell and dragging a cup backwards and forwards or breaking big stones with big hammers and singing prison ditties you’ll think to yourself, oh, if only I hadn’t said that thing about Midge, this could all have been avoided.”
And breathe. Midge stands with her hands on her hips. “I still want a key.”