I don't even need to define what it means. The way the word just rolls of one's tongue the word defines itself. Fastidiously. I've always dreamed of living fastidiously. All my shirts hung neatly in the closet, ironed by the fastidious cleaning lady who arrives fastidiously at 5 to nine on Mondays and Thursdays. They are evenly spaced, two inches apart. (the shirts – not the Mondays and Thursdays).
When I get dresses for work my socks are neatly paired. Everything is crisp. Breakfast is prepared and cleared with economy of movement. I get into the car, which is polished and vacuumed. Even the clock is properly set. There are no crumbs and old coins, no crumpled paper towels. No discarded Pokémon cards, no water bottle tops filled up incongruously with snack crumbs, and no impossible to recognize bits of quasi junk food wrappers, my wife is helpless to make the kids clean up.
This is a fantasy of course. But some days I strive to achieve and actually do. It really puts me over the top. The kick from the coffee becomes a bit stronger. There’s a spring on my step and all of a sudden there’s nothing stopping me. The future is bright! Hollywood, Nashville, Davos . . . Here we come!
The opposite of fastidious - that to which I aspire never to stoop, is of course slovenly. Like when my father used to make his Hebrew national hotdogs after his golf game. Everything scattered. Disassembled jars of guldens mustard. A trail of crumpled paper towels creating a tell-tale map to the basement, where my father sits in his man cave with a six pack and the boob tube. My friends always remarked with incredulity at the way my father would leave a cartoonish trail of refuse and my mother would literally follow behind him cleaning everything up.
No, I am quite sure I am not that bad. Yet there is something in the genes. Sometimes it just gets that way. A bit of desperation and exhaustion and bam! No time to put away the dishes, no concern about the pop tops from the beer bottle hiding in the corner of the kitchen. The eponymous crumpled paper towels, strewn variously on shelves and on countertops, and sometimes finding their way to a hidden corner on the floor. Don’t know what it s about the crumbled paper towel. They just seem to be my family's moniker for failure to main its fastidiousness. Even after my father has moved on from the 6 packs and Hebrew nationals his car still manages to be full of the crumpled paper towels. Usually with lots of coffee stains on them. There a security blanket of sorts I suppose, kind of like Linus and his blanket. Security against what? Hard to say. Ironically I think it protects against the fear that something will drip and there will be nothing to clean it up. An somehow it becomes a never-ending cycle like the cat brought in to rid the mouse, and the dog brought in to rid the cat, and so on till the cure is worse than the problem.
These days I strive and struggle for the fastidiousness, but it is hard not to be overwhelmed. So stressful1, so busy! Going to work, going to the gym, going shopping, sorting all those things in all those pockets! Keys, security card, wallet, a pen or two, and 2 blackberries mind you, and let’s not forget the obligatory paper towel or two lest one get a runny nose which is more than likely during my 15 minute walk to work in -10 degree weather.
I do manage, sometimes, in sudden fits of inspiration. I Clean, I feel good, I am ready to conquer the world, the vision runs wide and deep. So wide and deep I need to sit down just to take it all in. So intense is it that I find \I need to sit down. Eventually this leads to either the TV or the PC which usually means one or the other of internet backgammon, reality TV or OMG articles from Yahoo. And alas, the fastidious is on hiatis until further notice. But also it never lasts :( which is why I got a cleaning maid one a week. She is excellent but has not managed to dust above the kitchen fan (have the same problem with CL back in Brat (what s it about the damn kitchen fan it’s like washing windows I would imagine - but what would I know about such things . . .
When I get dresses for work my socks are neatly paired. Everything is crisp. Breakfast is prepared and cleared with economy of movement. I get into the car, which is polished and vacuumed. Even the clock is properly set. There are no crumbs and old coins, no crumpled paper towels. No discarded Pokémon cards, no water bottle tops filled up incongruously with snack crumbs, and no impossible to recognize bits of quasi junk food wrappers, my wife is helpless to make the kids clean up.
This is a fantasy of course. But some days I strive to achieve and actually do. It really puts me over the top. The kick from the coffee becomes a bit stronger. There’s a spring on my step and all of a sudden there’s nothing stopping me. The future is bright! Hollywood, Nashville, Davos . . . Here we come!
The opposite of fastidious - that to which I aspire never to stoop, is of course slovenly. Like when my father used to make his Hebrew national hotdogs after his golf game. Everything scattered. Disassembled jars of guldens mustard. A trail of crumpled paper towels creating a tell-tale map to the basement, where my father sits in his man cave with a six pack and the boob tube. My friends always remarked with incredulity at the way my father would leave a cartoonish trail of refuse and my mother would literally follow behind him cleaning everything up.
No, I am quite sure I am not that bad. Yet there is something in the genes. Sometimes it just gets that way. A bit of desperation and exhaustion and bam! No time to put away the dishes, no concern about the pop tops from the beer bottle hiding in the corner of the kitchen. The eponymous crumpled paper towels, strewn variously on shelves and on countertops, and sometimes finding their way to a hidden corner on the floor. Don’t know what it s about the crumbled paper towel. They just seem to be my family's moniker for failure to main its fastidiousness. Even after my father has moved on from the 6 packs and Hebrew nationals his car still manages to be full of the crumpled paper towels. Usually with lots of coffee stains on them. There a security blanket of sorts I suppose, kind of like Linus and his blanket. Security against what? Hard to say. Ironically I think it protects against the fear that something will drip and there will be nothing to clean it up. An somehow it becomes a never-ending cycle like the cat brought in to rid the mouse, and the dog brought in to rid the cat, and so on till the cure is worse than the problem.
These days I strive and struggle for the fastidiousness, but it is hard not to be overwhelmed. So stressful1, so busy! Going to work, going to the gym, going shopping, sorting all those things in all those pockets! Keys, security card, wallet, a pen or two, and 2 blackberries mind you, and let’s not forget the obligatory paper towel or two lest one get a runny nose which is more than likely during my 15 minute walk to work in -10 degree weather.
I do manage, sometimes, in sudden fits of inspiration. I Clean, I feel good, I am ready to conquer the world, the vision runs wide and deep. So wide and deep I need to sit down just to take it all in. So intense is it that I find \I need to sit down. Eventually this leads to either the TV or the PC which usually means one or the other of internet backgammon, reality TV or OMG articles from Yahoo. And alas, the fastidious is on hiatis until further notice. But also it never lasts :( which is why I got a cleaning maid one a week. She is excellent but has not managed to dust above the kitchen fan (have the same problem with CL back in Brat (what s it about the damn kitchen fan it’s like washing windows I would imagine - but what would I know about such things . . .
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