Here Be Dragons

In every great storybook fable there has to be an important quest. Not only for the crusading knights since even genteel fairytale princesses have their own formidable feats to perform.

Snow White had to brave perilous forests, murderous huntsmen and terrifying dwarves to win her prince. Cinderella had to overcome bitchy stepsisters, vegetable transport and shockingly fragile footwear to gain entrance into the palace. Sleeping Beauty had to triumph over treacherous sewing machines and an endless coma to make it for her wedding.

We all have our own little dragons to slay.

Similar to me munching on grass and leaves to win my infamous mother-in-law's approval. So isn't it right and fair that Charming Calvin should be subjected to the same onerous trials and tribulations as I have?

Of late, I think that cagey mother of mine has been scrutinizing Calvin's every move, finding him sorely lacking when he falters miserably over the uncomplicated tasks given. Easy enough to stumble when there's someone always watching. Of course while I take each demanding endeavour as a challenge, our hero here sighingly looks at it as a burdensome chore.


Calvin : Now what should I do next?
After the last unfortunate misstep, I have already warned him to take care. The lady keeps a tally. Though my mother would strongly deny any such slander, I have no doubt she has a carefully scripted scorebook by her bedside.

So when opportunity came in the form of an unattended wake on her behalf, I knew Calvin had to leap at the chance. Obviously he had heeded my strongly worded caution since he instantly reacted. When my mother found herself unable to send her condolences, she called him only to have him unhesitatingly offer to help!

Calvin : I expect to be heartily commended. Immediately offered before she could ask, she barely finished the opening statement.
Paul : Good job.
Calvin : Hope this manages to please your mother. Now I'm going to rest.
Paul : Sending a piece of paper with flowers was exhausting.
Calvin : Yes it was. Need to shut down and restore my energies.
Paul : You know this is only the beginning, right?
Calvin : OMG.

Certainly came as a surprise that Calvin acted so pro-actively without much prompting. Kudos to our conquering hero.

So point for Calvin. Now what's coming next?

What Strength!

I'm starting to understand why fitness centers actually charge quite a fair bit. Think a whole lot of that chunk goes into maintenance of the equipment and the environs.

Seriously. These boys really don't know their own strength.

Or perhaps they do know. And the boys just love to break stuff as a proof of their own testosterone-soaked machismo.


Hunk : What? You think I'm the one? I didn't do it, I swear!
Paul : I don't believe you. I guess I'll have to interrogate. With whips and chains.
How else to explain the sudden spate of broken hinges and hooks all over the relatively new gym? Almost every other week, new wall hooks are placed in the locker room and showers only to have them peremptorily snapped off the week after. Judging by the way the hulking gymbots forcefully slam their locker doors, I'm not terribly surprised. Palpable tremors from the physical energy expended would probably register high on the Richter magnitude scale.

Then again just a twitch of their enviable biceps would probably yank the hooks off.

You know when Clark Kent doesn't quite realize his awesome Kryptonian strength and decides to punch a wall out of frustration?

Paul : Wall hook in the shower has snapped off again.
Manager : Good God. Again?
Paul : Guess it's part and parcel of running a gym!
Manager : Tell me about it. One guy even crushed and twisted off the metal handle on the door!
Paul : Call that a Hulk-out moment.

And that's only the locker room. Imagine the gym itself with all the equipment and machines. At the rate these boys keep dropping dumbbells and tossing barbells with deafening thuds, I wouldn't be surprised if the much-abused cement floor were to give way one day!

Certainly would give new meaning to It's Raining Men.

Crouching Iguana, Hidden Dragon

Turns out my blog post yesterday - with the aptly fitting title of the Dragon Comes Knocking - was oddly prophetic.

Didn't take very long for one to actually come knocking at my door. Sorry to disappoint but it's not a celestial dragon flying down from the heavens for tea but a much smaller, more accessible version that dropped by for a visit.


What if it's dangerous!
Think the animated Mushu with dry scales in green.

Utterly oblivious as usual, Fabulous Felix munched through half his lunch before realizing that he had been joined by an unseasonable guest.

Felix : OMG. There's an iguana in the house.
Paul : Lazing on the couch watching the telly with chips in hand?
Felix : Well it isn't munching on the chips.
Paul : There really is an iguana?! Good God, we really are in the jungle!
Felix : It's freaking four feet long! What do I do?
Paul : Shove it out of the house with a broom!
Felix : Eeek! What if it bites me!
Paul : Then run!
Felix : Hmm.
Paul : Then again, it's a little dragon. Maybe it's an auspicious sign.
Felix : Oh wait, it's leaving on its own accord.
Paul : Did it bite my books?

Talk about an unwelcome surprise. On hindsight, we should have caught it and sold it to the local exotic meats restaurant. I'm sure the locals here would find a way to saute / fry / steam the bugger.

As much of an Anglophile as I am, I'm pretty Chinese inside as well. Though I might not wholeheartedly believe in superstitious mumbo-jumbo, there's still a niggling little part that wonders if the coming of the iguana's an auspicious sign! For a Dragon year no less! Not that the iguana actually did much in the house; calmly rustled through some boxes, lazed on the couch and then nonchalantly toddled away into the vast backyard.

Hope it didn't lay any eggs.

First one I called was my unconventional grandmother of course. Pretty sure the Magnum 4D-loving lady has a number to match the uncommon sighting of an iguana.

Dragon Comes Knocking

Since both arrive around the new year, I call them fraternal twins.

One is quieter, gentler, more subdued with just a touch of sparkle and glamour around her. While the other is bold, brazen and brassy with a whole lot of flash. One has silent nights with perfectly decorated trees full of tinsel and gold, with tables full of brandied puddings and roasted turkeys galore. The other has raucous days with far flung relations reunited at the table, with firecrackers popping and cymbals clashing.

Doesn't make one better than the other, just breathtakingly different and I love them both equally.


Do we even have to choose?
However dedicated fans of the classy Noel decry the innate tackiness of Spring, staring aghast at the jarring shades of gold and red that adorn her, shutting their ears to the discordant tunes that she adores.

Paul : Can't wait! The Spring Festival is coming!
Buddy #1 : Ugh, why do you like it?
Paul : Why wouldn't I!
Buddy #1 : If given the choice, I would extend Christmas and hold off the Spring Festival for as long as possible.
Buddy #2 : Everything about Christmas is calm and peaceful, while everything about the Spring Festival is noisy, intruding and tacky.
Buddy #1 : Like our relatives..thankfully. Most of us only see them once a bloody year!
Buddy #2 : Don't forget the horrible tok tok chiang music!
Paul : But all that blinding tackiness makes it unique!

Fine. I can see how gay men would find the family reunion synonymous with the Spring Festival extremely exasperating - especially with the endless probing questions from the nosy relatives. Over here, Christmas can be spent with a select group of like-minded friends but come the Spring Festival, there's simply no escaping blood relations.

But apart from that inevitable aggravation, surely the Spring Festival offers quite as many reasons to love it!

Tacky? I'll readily admit some of the tasteless bling associated with the Spring Festival 春节 - or Chinese New Year - is almost impossible to incorporate into any quietly tasteful home decor. Brilliant scarlets and flashy gold in the living room all year long immediately brings to mind the gaudy tastes of a nouveau riche Chinese towkay.

And surely no one can listen to the cacophonous Chinese New Year songs 24/7 throughout the year without turning certifiably insane.

But celebrated only once a year for fifteen days with all that crazy pomp and ceremony - isn't that the very reason we all love the Spring Festival? Plastering the entire house with auspiciously red paper cuttings? Having the entire rambunctious family gathering at one table to duel over dumplings and meatballs? Waking up early the next morning to dress in our spanking new clothes to receive the cherished red packets?

Honestly I don't think I'd like the Spring Festival half as much if it were celebrated in hushed, subdued moderation. Replacing the dissonant Chinese New Year songs with a reverent carol would be nigh sacrilegious! Even right now I have the strident songs blaring from my laptop speakers - and will probably do so till the day itself.


The fact that it's loud, lively and lusty is why I love it! So bring on the cymbals, the drums and the crackers. In fact I think I'll have a party of my own to celebrate as well!

Look What the Stork Brings

Is it starting to be a new year tradition?

Just two years back, I found myself the lucky recipient of a mysterious bottle of wine festively laid out on my porch with a jaunty red ribbon waiting to be imbibed. Though I viewed the puzzling package with a great deal of misgiving, I finally gave in to my insatiable curiousity ( not to mention a touch of avarice ) and tore the gift open. Since the stray dogs that wandered by didn't keel over dead immediately after a sip, I figured the rest of the bottle should be relatively safe to drink. Till now the inscrutable identity of the generous benefactor remains wholly unknown to me.

Surely Santa would have left a note.


Till debt do us part?
But I let the matter rest - especially since the singular event didn't repeat itself after.

Till today. A sizeable hamper made its way to my workplace addressed to me, laden with peculiar gifts and yes, with a jaunty red ribbon as before. So why are the gifts peculiar? Well, just imagine the perfect gift basket for a baby shower with diapers, baby shampoos and baby bottle liquid cleansers.

Paul : That can't be for me.
Nurse : I signed for it. Your name was clearly written on the form and in full.
Paul : Someone sent me a bag of baby diapers?
Nurse : Trust me, I triple checked. I couldn't believe it myself.
Paul : What the -
Nurse : Are you hiding something - or should I say someone - from us?
Paul : I wish I was.
Nurse : Are you sure? No illegitimate baby?
Paul : Believe me, if there were a baby, I'd be holding it out proudly above Pride Rock amidst tribal drums.

Certainly struck a glimmer of hope in me! Alas much to my eternal disappointment, a brief yet thorough check through the baby-centric contents of the package didn't reveal a squawling infant, recently orphaned, tragically abandoned and armed with a tear-stained letter of recommendation!

The fact that we didn't actually find an unfortunate base-born child of mine tucked into the baby bottles probably won't stop the rampant rumour mill in the hospital from churning out wildly inaccurate tales of my assumed profligacy. Surely I hadn't forgotten some auld acquiantance that I knocked up last new year's?

Could it be a hint of things to come?