Style resolutions

I resolve not to make New Year’s resolutions for 2015.

Mostly it’s because I rarely stick with mine, which leads to a dizzying shame spiral that typically brings about behavior the resolution was intended to stop.

For example, "I resolve to stop eating Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra ice cream" becomes "I resolve to complain at Walgreens when they don’t stock it, then buy a box of White Cheddar Cheez-Its instead."

Obviously, health resolutions would be practical for me, but I’ve really been making baby strides toward a less fattening, more physical lifestyle. Ish. Definitely ish.

Instead, I’m going to concentrate — a verb that I confirmed via the thesaurus is not synonymous with "resolve" — on honing a sense of style. Not clothing fashion, per se, as I seem to have eschewed that several years ago for jeans, cowboy boots and T-shirts exclusively in the contusion palette of blacks and blues; but a sense of style for me and the cat, Ali Tabouli.

More specifically, I will non-resolvedly concentrate on deciding between a coffee table and ottoman for my living area/den/parlor, which I’ve yet to officially name. "Sitting room" seems too sedentary. I debated "common room," but that seemed too, well, common. And "special room" just sounds creepy, like I oughta be luring strangers there with candy.

I can see the practicality of having a hard-surfaced coffee table, as it would provide a stable surface for beverages and something non-staining should Ali feel the need to gift me with a hair ball. But, as it’s still a relatively new environment for me, plopping a plush ottoman in the middle of my living den — no, that sounds weird, too — would be softer to run into should I forget it’s there in the middle of the night.

Thankfully, Ali only coughs stuff up on a monthly/six-week basis. Still, the more furniture I accrue, I’m tempted to throw a tarp or transparent plastic sheets on everything. Or maybe not, now that scenes from "Dexter" are flashing through my mind.

When I first moved to Tulsa, I had a coffee table that Mom gave me. I draped it with a gold runner and — in keeping with the Bohemian-romantic-library vibe I created for myself — sprinkled dehydrated rose petals on top, along with candles perched on a stack of three hardcover books by Anne Rice. It was more like Bohemian fire hazard, but it felt homey enough to me.

Ali didn’t like it, though, based on the rose petals he ate while I was at work and then "gifted up" when I arrived home. Ditto for the beaded tassels I hung on doorknobs and anything with feathers on it.

Although he has long since overcome that bad habit, I remain hesitant to bring anything sparkly into my house for fear he’ll unhinge his jaws and swallow it whole like a python. 

Then again, I’m probably just projecting my hankering for Cheez-Its and Karamel Sutra. I’d be lying if I said I don’t look forward to inhaling some in my coffee-tabled and/or ottoman-anchored non-common parlor — with or without a tarp.

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