unravelling

I want to make a surprise ball. Heck, I want to receive a surprise ball. From Kiosk. Check out the unravelling video.

happy (belated) mother's day

My mum, my sissy and me in Genting, circa 1985.

Due to some stupid glitch, I could not post this photo yesterday, when the three of us celebrated a low-key Mother's Day with Vietnamese food for lunch.

I just like this snapshot; it cracks me up. And by the way, I still have that red quilted jacket and I can still fit into it. *Smug face*

bad picture, good meatballs

The recipe for these baked chicken meatballs is the first I've tried from Smitten Kitchen and it won't be the last.

Not only were they easy to make, they were also healthily baked and succulent and juicy, thanks to the dollop of tomato paste on top of each. And they tasted cheesy without the addition of cheese, which is pretty amazing in my books.

My inner Martha is well pleased.

i heart pancakes

I needed an excuse to use my new exceedingly impractical but pretty measuring cups.



So I modified the IHOP recipe and insisted on feeding my family a pancake breakfast.



Topped with my fave fruit -- raspberries.



And my non-fave fruit -- bananas -- and golden syrup. Of course, IHOP's were fluffier but mine were pretty yums too.

pengerang

The heavy marble-topped table was cold and sticky as I rested my forearms on it, already aching from lugging a camera forged from steel, or so it felt, for an hour.

I tuned out my friends' excited chatter -- about prime lenses and bokeh and bak kut teh and the watered down teh si -- and cast my eyes around for something to shoot to make this shoulder ache worthwhile.

Mosaic tiles caked with decades of grime, fluttering day-by-day calendar with ultra large numerals, kopi tiam auntie pouring hot beverages ungracefully into beer mugs. Click, click, click.

Motioning to my bag, I tasked my friends to look after it while I wandered out into the drizzle to see if I could capture scenes of what Singapore must have looked like in the early 1980s, somewhat unenthusiastic because, clearly, the 1970s was my preferred era.

Just across the two-lane road, I spied another kopi tiam. On the second-storey of the shophouse, the windows were gaping holes that framed the sky. The skeleton of the rafters was still there, but the roof was nearly all gone. The sky was not as vivid a blue as I would have liked, and the pathetic wisp of a cloud was not particularly picturesque, but what to do. I decided to make the best of it.

I crossed the two lanes without even looking right, left, right. There were no cars. As I got closer, I saw that the metal grills on the front of the kopi tiam were pushed apart. Inside was a food stall, with gleaming stainless steel counters, spotless glass shelves displaying wantons, char siew and bundles of thin floury noodles.

Behind the wall of steam rising from the pot was a wan-looking woman of indeterminate age with a pinched but kindly face, dressed in an overly-large pair of bermudas and a T-shirt which spelled out, rather incongruously, "Jurong Bird Park" in faded rainbow colours.

Pasting on my best asking-favours-from-strangers face -- eyes widened, mouth slightly upturned, shoulders shrugged haplessly -- I opened my mouth, but before I could greet her "auntie", she was bustling towards me with her own version of my face. Turned out that she wanted me to help her translate the English instructions on the back of a pack of plant fertilisers. I seemed to remember that they mentioned Lily of the Valley, although there were no plants to be seen in the entire place.

In fact, despite the large interior, there was just her wanton mee stall and one unoccupied large table under the lazily revolving fan. No Jaz beer posters with Gillian Chung, no golden cat with upraised paw, no calendar with ultra large numerals. As I fumbled through the instructions in my faltering Mandarin -- how do you say sprinkle fertiliser around the circumference? -- a guy who looked to be in his 20s walked in. Pleasingly plump and bespectacled, with a messenger bag slung across his body, he struck me as one of those graphic designer types. He seemed taken aback at my presence and examined at me curiously, making me wonder if my denim shorts were too scandalously short.

I quickly took the chance to gesture towards the flight of stairs at the back of the room and asked if I could take a look upstairs, hoisting my camera to my face to indicate click, click, click.

There was a flimsy accordion-type door stretched across the stairway and a single naked lightbulb was switched on, as it was dark that deep inside the hall, even at 9am. The auntie made short work of the four or five hook-and-eye catches securing the door, swooshed the door open
efficiently and stepped aside to let me up. As I brushed past her, she grasped my arm with a surprisingly strong claw-like hand and said, in Mandarin: "Be careful."

The floorboards must be rotting and may not withstand my weight, I thought, reminded of my grandmother's pre-war shophouse which we were never allowed off the ground floor. So imagine to my surprise when I creaked my way to the top, that I saw another stall in the far corner.

A ruddy-faced man was chopping vigorously behind the counter while another, equally ruddy and also clad in a similar uniform of thin white tee, loose black shorts and Tat Sing slippers, flip-flopped around hurriedly with plates of chicken rice. A couple of girls in uniforms and plaits, who looked like sisters, were picking up their haversacks, getting ready for school.

I took in all of this in five seconds flat. My first thought was: How would customers know that there was chicken rice upstairs if the door was latched? It was followed quickly by: But there are no customers here at all, who are they serving?

I looked up, fully expecting to see the sky. The roof was completely intact. I could not see the sky.

My feet moved of their own volition and bounded down the stairs so fast, I didn't even have time to worry about tripping and falling. My pale face must have said everything I could not even put into words, because the auntie, with sorrow in her eyes, patted me once on my shoulder and said: "You saw them."

My entire body was ice cold and stiff. I could only nod.

"You better leave."

As I forced my legs to function and walked out onto the sidewalk, something made me turn back. Through the grills that were now drawn shut, I glimpsed the entire family gathered around the table, getting ready to eat. At that moment, the fear in my heart evaporated, leaving behind an almost unbearable sadness.

Footnote: I later learnt that the kopi tiam had burned down 20 years ago and the only survivor was a toddler, the youngest boy in the family.

verminator: they'll be back

For the past couple of months, I have been plagued by vermin -- and other foreign objects -- in my food.



First was a long-legged insect in my broccoli. That will teach me to try to eat more veggies.



On a quest for buffalo wings, I made M have dinner with me at Dan Ryan's, only to be rewarded with a long strand of plastic in my clam chowder. The wings weren't that hot either.



Two weeks later, my chicken horfun had a little extra something something in it -- protein from a worm.



On a day trip to Pengerang to partake of seafood, I was merrily digging in when a flying creature insect thingy decided to dive headlong onto my plate. Five minutes later, its counterpart decided to land on my gravy-covered fingers and commit kamikaze. The 11 other people at the table were not affected by vermin at all.

obviously, we are not christians part II

Conversation this morning:

Dad: Today is Good Friday. It's the day he rose from the dead.
Me: No, it's the day he died. He rose on Easter.
Dad: No, he died on Christmas day.
Me: No, he was born on Christmas day.
Mum: Who died?
Me: [both an answer and an exclamation] JESUS CHRIST!

obviously, we are not christians

Mum and I had this conversation on Monday morning:

Mum: This Thursday is a public holiday.
Me: No, it's this Friday. It's Good Friday.
Mum: No, Good Friday is on Thursday.
Me: ?!?!?

twenty ten

It's almost April, which means I have had this blog post brewing at the back of my mind for three months. Procrastination rawks (or maybe nawt).

So instead of a laundry list of things to accomplish this year (cf. 34 Things To Do Before 35), I've decided to keep it simple for 2010:

Read 20 books: Am already past the mid point, but reading more will not hurt, right? I'm on the lookout for new authors to read, please leave suggestions of your favourite books.
Cook 10 meals: Made pancakes based on the IHOP recipe, but I still can't stop thinking about the real thing.

Perform 20 random acts of kindness: Work in progress.
Meet up with 10 old friends: Soon, soon! We've been meaning to meet up for months, I know.

Buy 20 items of clothing: Everyone gives me disbelieving stares when I tell them that, even when I clarify that bags, shoes and accessories do not qualify as clothes. Loot so far: two skirts, one pair of culottes and one romper. (Shopping haul from New York and Tokyo at the beginning of this year does not count. Why? Because I said so.)
Make 10 crafty things: So far, I have made some pom pom flowers. Oh, and arranged some instant photos on the wall above my bed into a shape that is either a heart or a lady part, depending on how dirty your mind is.

palpitations

This will make your heart beat really fast -- but in an awesome way.

property fever

I almost committed the rash act of retail therapy by clicking on "buy" for these two pieces.



Child-like and innocent but with a touch of sinister. It's a canvas by Danielle Rizzolo for Urban Outfitters. Methinks my nesting instinct is kicking in.



Similarly, there is something innocent yet sensual and foreboding about this print by Samantha French. I can almost visualise how I would frame it -- dark wood frame, extra wide matting -- and where I would display it -- next to my typewriter and vase, both in various shades of pastel blue.

In related news, instead of buying cheap art, I went to an alldressedup warehouse sale and bought two skirts, two bags, one pair of culottes and a romper. The best buy was a $1,000 daylight-robbery skirt, marked down to $99. (More on this subject later.)

And in other also related news, I'm searching in earnest for a flat to buy, now that I have come of age -- as determined by HDB. Besides feverishly adding decor pix to my other blog, I've also been trawling property sites. Those property agents' snapshots of disorganised kitchens, dingy rooms and toilets in their "original condition" are slowly but surely destroying my soul. So much ugly contained within 645 sq ft!

Going to bed now to dream about how I would do up this amazing Tiong Bahru walk-up I saw online with a balcony adjoining two bedrooms and airy kitchen with its original mosaic tiles. Alas, it is out of my reach at a ridiculous $700,000. I'm sad beyond words.

wtd

I adore this acerbic camera-toting duck from What The Duck.

blogbooking

This one's for The Pukesome Mummy Blog: You can even publish your blog as a book, thanks to Blurb. Scrapbooking is so last year.

#3, 5, 6, 9, 10, 15, 18, 21, 22, 23, 30, 31, 33

Take your pick from the above numbers for the next Toto draw — these are the items on my list I failed to fulfill before I turned 35.

#3 I did not learn to use Photoshop (but I did borrow a bootleg copy and installed it).

#5 I did not sell a photo (but my twin and I did set up an Etsy account for that purpose).

#6 I did not shoot one good photo on film (but there were quite a few which I liked personally).

#9 I did not build a Lego house according to its plan (yeah, I've got no excuse for this one).

#10 I did not finish painting all the pictures in the Paint By Numbers kit (ditto).

#15 I did not add my own drawings to an old painting (but I couldn't even find one).

#18 I did not teach Randolph to do the Downward Dog (but we discovered he knew how to fetch and play ball).

#21 I did not sew a new bathrobe (but bought one instead).

#22 I could not fix the stopped cuckoo clock (but I'm still keeping it as an ornament).

#23 I did not make a banner for the blog (but I will, soon! Promise! Those mini teacups will be history.)

#30 I did not even think about the Semi-Successful Social Experiment (but I did other boliao projects).

#31 I did not complete my Tintin collection (but I bought and read adult books instead).

#33 I did not use the words "anachronism", "quotidian" and "paradigm" (but I did throw out "ceteris paribus" in casual conversation. That has to count for something).

A 61.7% success rate ain't bad (obviously I aim my sights really high, huh). No, there are no consequences for getting a C- in this annual life goal list. And no, I will not be carrying over the unchecked items, because I have a new list for the new year (yes, I am aware it is coming to the end of February).

P.S. The photos above of Baby Rosemary, part of my mother's dowry, aren't really related to this post, but I'm a sentimental fool. She used to be snowy white and she has been mine for as long as I can remember. Her stomach decided one fine day to explode and expel its spongy contents. She would have been 37 years old this year. RIP, Rosemary.

#17

In case you haven't realised: I went somewhere with snow.

#28

Sure, it was full of typos and arrived way too late, but I typed a letter on my cursive typewriter.

a control freak looks for love

This piece by Jon Richardson in The Guardian is dedicated to all my fellow OCD sufferers this Valentine's Day. Oh, and at the risk of sounding as stupid as the bilingual editor I mocked so mercilessly, here's wishing you Gong Xi Fa Cai Je T'aime.

A Control Freak Looks For Love

My last girlfriend was a loser. Literally. A wonderful and beautiful person, but prone to losing things; keys, money, credit cards, mobile phones. Each time she lost something, she would get upset and come to me for help and reassurance.

I, on the other hand, am a keeper. Not in the American sense that women throw themselves at me, rather that if you were to ask me to lay my hands on a receipt for a pair of shoes I bought in 1997, I would be angry if it took me more than 90 seconds to locate it. Over to the filing cabinet I would stroll, R for Receipts, S for Shoes, and work through chronologically.

Had our relationship taken place in a sitcom, this juxtaposition would have led to hilarious consequences, as we laughed and joked about what a couple of cards we were and what kind of mixed-­up world could ever have brought us together. Instead, we argued frequently over what she saw as something she was powerless to change, and I saw as a correctable weakness in her character.

In general I would say I find it difficult to accept other people's shortcomings. I am not an unfair person but I do think more effort is the solution to most problems. Not losing things is simply a matter of trying harder to remember where you put them, isn't it? Popular music is no help here, telling us:

If you love something,

Let it go,

If it comes back it's yours,

That's how you kno-o-ow

Nonsense, Christina Aguilera! I say, "If you love it, file it away under 'Things I love'. If it's required at a later date, you'll know exactly where it i-i-i-is."

Wanting things my own way is not something I like about myself. From my love of right angles to my stubborn, black and white views on complex issues, I recognise I can be a very difficult person to be around. I also cannot fail to recognise many symptoms of obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. I have countless habits that I know serve no purpose but am powerless to avoid. I arrange my coins into ascending size in my pockets, for example, and nothing gives me more comfort than the knowledge that my forks, knives and spoons are all in the correct place, tessellating magnificently in their drawer.

I like to think that we're all on a scale where these tendencies are concerned. I am sure many people find it difficult to settle down to watch a DVD with a cobweb hanging behind the TV. But what if the cobweb isn't behind the TV – or even in the same room – but lurking nauseatingly in the room next door? Could you still relax and enjoy the film? As a child I remember marvelling at how neatly my dad's sponge used to fit into the sponge-nook in his Ford Escort, but I don't know whether this was an early warning of who I would become or the reason for it.

If I were to have a catchphrase (and I like to think I don't), it would be, "Fun must be sacrificed for efficiency." It's harder to try all the time, it's harder to be monogamous than to sleep with whoever you want and it's harder to be disappointed by failure than it is to laugh and move on. That said, I have definitely crossed a line.

I no longer attempt new things because I am too afraid of failing. In my garage there exists a shrine to the person I promised I would become; scores of broken musical instruments, squash rackets and computers carefully boxed up to prevent them from hurting me any longer. I enjoy meals out, but limit my menu choices to things I've eaten before to reduce the risk of wasting money on a meal I don't enjoy.

For me there is no pleasure to be had in an experience unless I complete it perfectly first time. I'm not just talking about golf here, or bowling, but simply eating a biscuit, which can be done the right way or the wrong way in my world (depending obviously on the biscuit in question). But there is another part of me that wonders why, if my way is so right, it has brought me to live alone, far from family and friends, in Swindon.

I moved here when I dropped out of university, stepped off the treadmill and took control of my future. I wanted somewhere I could be anonymous, where there was nothing to distract me from what I wanted to achieve. Unless I developed a sudden fascination with round­abouts, Swindon seemed the perfect place to reinvent myself. At no point in my teens did I think, "I can only hope that by my late 20s I will have my own place, close to a big Asda and with equally handy transport links to Cirencester or Wootton Bassett." Yet here I am.

I should point out here that there are many positives to be had from taking life as seriously as I do. For example, I don't remember the last time I fell over. Even in the recent snow and ice I stayed upright, although less by stealthy cat-like grace than by steadfastly refusing to leave my house. I would rather stay at home than take a tumble on my way to Morrisons and be laughed at by passersby. Falling is a good example of something that can be seen in one of two ways; either it is an unavoidable consequence of our get-up-and-go lifestyles, or it is an inability to perform such a rudimentary task that it cannot be tolerated. Needless to say, I subscribe to the latter ideology.

When it comes to the simple pleasures in life, half an hour with a glass of beer and an episode of You've Been Framed! is hard to beat. Occasionally I have to rewind and watch the same clip over and over again (I'm talking about you, girl falling into boating lake). I laugh uncontrollably but it's not the suffering of another human being I enjoy, it's the relief. "It could have been me!" I think as I watch pensioners grappling unsuccessfully with pogo sticks and dogs running into glass doors. I treat each show as a training manual for life, crossing off pastimes that represent an unnecessary risk: flying remote-controlled aircraft in misty fields, spinning round in the garden with an upturned rake on my chin, carrying a carefully iced birthday cake. Falls end in pain and humiliation; falling over, falling from grace. Even, in my experience, falling in love.

My last relationship ended in 2003 (it seems the final thing my girlfriend lost was her desire to put up with my constant nit-picking) and I decided to take a break for a while. There is no reason, I thought, why people can't be completely happy on their own. Initially I revelled in returning home to find that everything was exactly where I had left it; that there was as much milk as there had been when I last used some and that I could watch whatever I wanted on TV. The novelty has now definitely worn off and the grass on the other side of the fence is a sickly, HD green.

I haven't woken up with a cup of tea by the bed for seven years. It seems such a small thing (and those of you reading this who are in relationships will probably be thinking that at least when you make a cup of tea yourself it doesn't taste like crap) but it's one of a thousand things I miss about having someone around to take care of you. I have spent my entire adult life getting things the way I want them and all I want now is someone to give it all up for.

When you look into the eyes of the person you love, it is easy to forget that there is anything else in the world besides the river of emotion flowing between you. Why, then, do you want to push them out of the window five minutes later for putting a wet teaspoon into the sugar? Have they not been told a thousand times that the sight of the brown clusters this forms makes you feel sick? Of course they have… so they must be doing it because they hate you! You hate them, too. How could you have been so blind earlier? Then, as you are getting up to charge headlong in their direction, they laugh – and you remember why you love them – and the whole exhausting cycle begins anew.

But if true love is hard, then one-night stands hold little appeal for a perfectionist like myself. In my head I have a carefully ranked list, with things I do well at the top, and things I do badly at the bottom. About two-thirds of the way down, between making trifle and rewiring a plug, is "showing a woman the night of her life between the sheets". I would no sooner go clubbing and pick up a woman for sex than I would run on to the pitch at Old Trafford and start showing off my keepy-uppy skills.

My friends can't believe how long I have gone without having sex. I see it rather like going to the cinema; of course it's fun and if we all had our own way we would do it as often as possible, but if we don't get round to going, it's probably just because there were far more important things to do.

In the last few years I have met women who have made me think that it might be time to end my self-imposed isolation. From those whom I have been out with a few times, to strangers who have walked past me on a train, a brief encounter will set my mind racing about what the future could be like for us and remind me of all the things I currently miss out on. Believe me, holidays abroad, lazy Sundays and trips to Monkey Forest are all much less fun alone.

Things never get far before I find some reason to knock down the idealised vision I have created. If they are attractive, I wonder whether I am being superficial. If they are funny, I wonder whether they are funnier than me. Perhaps they will call or text too frequently and I will feel harassed, or they won't text or call at all and I will become convinced they despise me. It could be something as small as a "Hope your OK" text, which will send me spiralling into apocalyptic visions of a life without apostrophes or question marks.

On the other hand, do I want someone like myself? An equally quarrelsome perfectionist, only with breasts and less body hair? Absolutely not, it would drive me insane. According to the American author and philosopher Sam Keen, "We come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly." Great, you would think, I can finally stop looking for Mr or Miss Right and just work on convincing myself that Mr or Miss Not Bad But Smells Funny And Has An Oddly Small Mouth is actually perfect. This is far more difficult than it sounds.

In the early stages of a relationship, what I call "the lying stage", two people will display only that side of their character that is attractive to a prospective partner. "You love Dostoevsky, too? Wow! Well, aren't we just two peas in a long-winded, Russian pod?" A bond will subsequently form based upon the fictitious life that these two invented personalities could share. Friends and family will be informed that the search for "the one" is off. We can all get to this point easily enough, but the real challenge comes as the stresses of compromise become too much and the real person begins to manifest itself. He wants to wash up as they cook, before residue has a chance to dry out and stick, whereas she wants to leave it to soak and do it after The Simpsons. She wants to go on holiday to a place where they can do and see things of interest; he wants to go somewhere he can drink by a pool. She wants to paint the bedroom red and he wants to get Sky+. She wants to have a baby and he still wants to get Sky+.

In comedy cliché terms, this is known as the point when two people finally feel comfortable enough to break wind in one another's company. Curiously, this is seen as a good thing. For me, it signals the beginning of the end. From the peak of potential perfection you descend down through "going to the toilet with the door open", past "perfunctory sex" and into "cold, dead stares across the breakfast table". I could quite happily get through a 40-year marriage without ever suspecting that my partner went to the toilet at all.

As I read this back to myself (the last line especially), my conclusion is, "Wow. That guy really needs a girlfriend!" Surely no relationship could be as difficult as living with my own perfectionism? If I met the woman of my dreams, would I mind her organising our CDs by genre and not alphabetically? Could I let her keep the knives to the left of the forks in our shared cutlery drawer? Of course, I'm not a fool. But that's not what is really being surrendered in a relationship. What you give to someone, when you give him or her your heart, is control over your happiness. Their moods and reactions can dictate absolutely whether you skip out of bed in the morning or are afraid to go home after work. There is no middle ground; the joy is in the surrender.

I know that no one is happy all the time, but I have learned that unhappiness can be an awful lot easier to deal with if you know you are responsible for it, and therefore responsible for changing it. It's in my nature to focus on the negative details so that they can be fixed. The problem is that I sometimes forget to enjoy life in the meantime and just go looking for the next thing to improve upon. As much as I want that cup of tea in the morning, and all that goes with it (security and a sense of contentment, not just sugar and some toast), I am scared that my desire to make someone perfectly happy would be an impossible pursuit and the cause of much unhappiness.

I can't shake off my feeling that the only inevitable result of a long-term relationship is that you will see somebody else's weaknesses and they will see yours. Eventually you will lose respect for one another and either break up or find yourselves locked into a loveless future. Am I right? Of course not! Can I change? I sincerely hope so because, as it stands, it is clearly me who is the loser, desperately looking for a keeper.

i like lists. so sue me.

Untitled (Rolls of Printed Fabric, Paris), 2006, by William Eggleston

More things to add to my growing to-do list in New York:

-- William Eggleston!!! (Excitement conveyed by three exclamation marks.)
-- Drink and Draw, with a supposedly nude model, to make up for the robed nudist lesbians. I can't draw, but I sure can drink.
-- Vintage shopping at Stella Dallas in Greenwich Village and Fox & Fawn on Delancey St.
-- Pinkberry fro-yo! How can anyone resist anything with "Swirly Goodness" in its tagline? (Or 50% off in winter?)
-- Crate & Barrel
-- Fishs Eddy

#8 & #13

For the past six months or so, I've been religiously following the face-slimming massage that I learnt from this video (thanks, MS!)

I wasn't all that sure the five-minute routine was working, though, and was already slacking off on mornings when I was short of time (which happened on a near-daily basis).

Then, a couple of days ago, I met someone whom I had not seen since I started doing the face massage. This was how the conversation went:

FRIEND: You look different!
ME: I'm growing my hair long.
FRIEND: No, it's something else.
ME: Errr, I permed it too.
FRIEND: [Still staring intently at me] Did you lose weight?
ME: I wish lor. Don't have lah.
FRIEND: I know! Your face is slimmer!

In addition to anecdotal evidence of a less fishbally face, I also have inconclusive photographic evidence. (Warning: Scary photos coming up.)


June 19, 2009


July 17, 2009


August 22, 2009


October 10, 2009


November 10, 2009


December 9, 2009

The inconsistent camera angles do not help, I know, in a proper scientific evaluation. And you probably need vernier callipers to measure the minute reduction.

Okay, so anyway, a slimmer face does not equate glowing skin, which was what I set out to achieve in #8 on the list. But what I meant with that was basically to take better care of my skin, which I think I achieved.

I'm still trying to achieve the glowy part, which is why, about a month ago, I bought a Clarisonic skincare brush. In part, I was swayed by this rave review (as well as the literally hundreds on various beauty websites).

It's been less than a month and the jury (ie. me and my sis, we share one device with a brush head each) is still out, though we agree that the skin feels softer, moisturisers seem to absorb better and make-up goes on more smoothly.

I'm not glowing like the moon yet, but I'm going to give it a few more months to slough off all those years of dead skin.

And as for #13, well, my hair looks pretty much the same length in the last photo above, no?

it better snow

More things to add to my list of things to eat do in New York:

-- Have good tiramisu at La Lanterna Caffe.
-- Attend a poetry slam.
-- Visit what looks like a fun sake bar.
-- Pretend to understand the art at the New Museum.
-- Partake of good creole food.
-- Have a picnic in the snow (like the Beatles did!), even though quite a few people have warned/cursed me that it won't snow when I finally get there.
-- Visit the Empire State Building (or was it the other one, which would allow me to have a good view of the Empire state Building?).
-- Have a look see at Marc By Marc Jacobs store.

I'm open to other suggestions, faster leave a comment for me below!



On a tangentially-related note: How sweet is this Missed Connection illustration? From here.