The Art of Style: From Mirrored Madness to Moody Glam

Let’s talk about style.  Specifically, the kind that still has a pulse in a world where “chic” has been hijacked by fuzzy pajama pants and inexplicably wet hair in public.

Now, I’m not here to pretend I’m gliding around in couture every day. I own yoga pants. I wear ripped T-shirts. On any given day I may be dressed for the day, for bed, and the next day in the same outfit.  

But I also understand the difference between “running errands” and “actively auditioning for an episode of What Not to Wear.” There is a line. And that line is drawn firmly at “But even on my worst days, I try not to look like I’ve given up on life and eyeliner.”

Which brings me to my home. In another life I was the interior decorator for Catherine the Great. 

And honey, I was itching to do something. 

We’d already upgraded the living room, and then I looked at my entryway table and realized she was a ghost of Christmas Liberace’s past.

Picture it: 10 years ago. I was deep in my Z Gallerie era. Everything was mirrored. Everything was silver. Everything screamed, “Did you mean Vegas penthouse?” 

I was one sequin away from installing a fog machine in my living room.

I loved it… until I didn’t. Suddenly all that sparkle made me feel like I was living inside a disco ball that had feelings.

But lately? I can’t look at all that silver without breaking into hives. My taste has evolved, thank you very much, into what I lovingly refer to as “haunted heiress meets minimalist art dealer.”

These days, I’m a woman of rich woods, burnished metals, moody blacks, cozy creams, and a personality that refuses to be friends with fuchsia. 

My palette is black, cream, gray, and cognac—basically, if it looks like a cashmere trench coat or a 300-year-old English manor house, I’m in.

So now I had a decision: spend $700 on a new entry table, or resurrect the one I had. I liked the bones. She had potential. But she needed a new outfit, a makeover, a moment.

So when I looked at my aggressively silver entryway table, I had a choice:

1. Spend $700 on something new, or
   
2. Save my money and emotionally process my past through DIY and wine.

I chose door number two. Because it’s me, I consulted my digital therapist/design partner ChatGPT for inspiration. I uploaded a pic, and it gave me back something that looked like a House Beautiful centerfold meets moody rich foyer. Perfect.

Enter: chalk paint, our problematic fave from 2012. I know. I know. You’re thinking distressed farm furniture and Anthropologie clearance bins. But I didn’t go shabby chic—I went grown, sexy glam.

The Glam Makeover: A Step-by-Step (and Mainlining Grüner Veltliner Wine)

Step 1: Sand away the sparkle.
Grab some 200-grit sandpaper and take out your frustration on the peeling silver finish. Mine came off in flakes, like it was shedding its Liberace skin. Gross but satisfying.

Step 2: Emotional support Grüner Veltliner.
This is not optional. This is for courage. 

Grüner Veltliner is basically the wine equivalent of a stylish Austrian whisper that tells you everything’s going to be okay…even if your table looks like a dumpster in Act One.

It’s light, crisp, and dry, with notes of green apple, white pepper, lime zest, and the faint taste of shade thrown in a Viennese drawing room. It pairs well with chalk paint fumes, interior design breakdowns, and loud declarations of personal growth.

In other words, sip it like the lady of the manor you’re trying to become.

Step 3: The painting begins.
Use a small roller for quick, smooth coverage. Then follow up with a good angled brush for the nooks and dramatic crannies. With chalk paint, the rules are cruel:

• Coat one: paint, then wait 24 hours. Process the crazy question your husband asked you 24 hours ago.  When you told him to kick rocks.
  
• Coat two: paint, curse, wait another 24 hours.  Manage your feelings, wonder how you can be so achy, hot and cold at the same time.  Turn on the patio fan and go find a hoodie.  Go back and sit on the patio, watch YouTube at full volume and drink more Gruner.  Wave and run back inside when you see the neighbor across the way looking like they want to venture over to talk to you. 
  
• Coat three (optional): paint and question your life choices.

Step 4: The Pearl Wax Revelation.
I was skeptical. I applied it like it might bite me. Rub on a paper-thin coat. Then wipe. Then rub on another paper-thin coat.

But friends… it slapped. It slapped. It shimmered. It had a moment. If you’ve ever done lip liner in a moving car, you’ve got the dexterity for this.

Then buff like you’re shining the Hope Diamond. What you’re left with is a soft glow that whispers, “I’m expensive now.”

Step 5: The Brass.
I unscrewed the sad little glass knobs that screamed 2008 starter condo energy and replaced them with smooth, brushed brass drawer pulls—the kind that say, “I’ve been to several countries in Europe more than once and I judge interiors accordingly.”

They glint just enough. They’re serious but sexy. They’re the final accessory that pulls the whole outfit together—and now the table doesn’t just look good… it knows it looks good.

 Total Cost: $48.
Total Time: 3 days.
Total Sass Level: Uncomfortably High.

Things I Screamed Into the Void While Painting:

• “WHY DID I CHOOSE TEXTURED FURNITURE LIKE A FOOL.”
  
• “I’M A DIY QUEEN, NOT A WAIT 24 HOURS PEASANT.”
  
• “This wax better be worth it or I’m burning the table and calling it performance art.”
  
• “Why does chalk paint sound like something Laura Ingalls Wilder used to make?”
  
• “Alexa, play Sade. Loudly. I’m in a mood.”
  
• “Who needs cardio, (this is a legit arm workout) when you’re sanding your past away like emotional exfoliation?”
  
• “This isn’t a makeover. It’s revenge against the disco ball that once hung in my laundry room.”

Total result: A piece that looks like it came from a luxury showroom curated by a woman with strong opinions and no tolerance for plastic decor.

So yes, beauty is alive. It’s just hiding under ten-year-old silver paint and your excuses. Peel both off, pour a drink, and bring your house (and your standards) back to life.

You don’t need a new house. You need grit, wine, paint, and a vision of your higher self yelling, “Paint it black, baby.”

Remember: It’s your house, your rules. Be bold. Be glam. Be drama in progress.

Bonus Drama: The Buffet Makeover

While I was elbows-deep in chalk paint and unresolved design trauma, I figured—why stop at one makeover when I could double the drama?

So I turned my attention to the dining room buffet. She used to be flashy. Over-reflective. A little too bachelorette pad with a Z Gallerie rewards card. But now? She’s sophisticated, grounded, and low-key plotting to inherit a European estate.

I repainted her in a serene shade of greige—classy as an English baroness in a vintage houndstooth blazer who drinks gin & tonics in the afternoon and Ruinart champagne in the evening. 

I styled her with a champagne bucket the size of my personality, and topped it off with a bar tray that says, “Yes, I serve cocktails with judgment.”

Here’s the before and after:

Note: I forgot to take a picture of the actual “before” when it was in all its silver wanton glory.  So you’re stuck with just seeing the in progress.

She’s elegant. She’s functional. And she matches the entryway now, which means I’m one step closer to achieving full haunted gallery energy throughout the house.

Let’s just say… if Liberace saw her now?
He’d weep. Quietly. Into a vintage napkin.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find my champagne saber…

P.S. If you’ve ever wanted someone to lovingly roast your decor choices—and then tell you exactly how to fix them—you’ll want to stay tuned.

Maison de Nope™: Design Roast is almost here.
Taste is subjective, but yours needs help.