A home makeover in progress

Or why I need Queer Eye

I started watching the Netflix series, Queer Eye, with my son, Miles, during the summer of 2020. If you’ve somehow missed the phenomenon, Queer Eye is a reboot of a Bravo makeover show from the early 2000s. Each episode features a deserving “hero” who is nominated by a loved one. He or she spends a week with the talented and vivacious Fab Five. These men, now international superstars, provide a full lifestyle makeover, including fashion, grooming, cooking, and interiors.

The process is often challenging for the hero, who must leave the comfort of her sagging sofa and distorted self perceptions for the unknown. But the Fab Five are warm, wise guides on this tear-streaked journey. By the end of the week, the hero will have a new haircut, a new wardrobe, and a freshly redecorated home.

But it’s not just about the stuff. Inevitably, the external changes build to an emotional breakthrough. This is the crux of the show’s comforting formula. The most satisfying moment is when the hero realizes they’ve been in their own way the whole time. When they finally understand what their loved ones have been saying for years - that life doesn’t have to be stagnant and sad, that things can change if you let them.

“Are you going to cry again, Mama?” Miles asked at the euphoric end of every episode, knowing the answer was yes.

Getty Images

I can admit that outside of Covid-era confinement, the show isn’t exactly the most appropriate for a young chid. The dialogue is peppered with playful innuendo and the occasional curse word. The topics the heroes unpack, like grief, depression, and addiction, can be intense and hard to explain. But in the darkness of lockdown, Queer Eye offered us both the promise of transformation.

“I want the Fab Five to come to our house!” Miles used to say. At the time, I took offense to his comment. We had better taste than the people on the show…right?

Five years later, I would give anything for the Fab Five to fix our lives with the flourish of a feather boa and a rousing, “Yaaas, Queen!”. If they ever come back to NYC, maybe Miles can nominate me…

Until that day comes, I am muddling solo through a half-hearted home makeover. My family is perplexed by my efforts, but are going along with it as best they can. My husband thinks all the sofas I’ve selected look the same. Miles, now nine-years-old, prefers only Star Wars themed decor, and my five-year-old daughter wants everything in pink or purple.

Though I develop textiles for the interiors industry, the prospect of updating our space is overwhelming. I have never worked with an interior designer, but I can appreciate their value in theory. To have someone come into my home, study the way we live, then adapt the furnishings accordingly, would be a dream - the opposite of the nightmare of clutter I am currently residing in.

As I write this, a wasteland of Fresh Direct bags awaits me, filled with eight years of random stuff: broken toys, toys in need of batteries, puzzles with missing pieces, a colony of misshapen stuffies, board game pieces, hardcovers that don’t fit on our overflowing bookshelves, uncapped pens, loose coins from different countries, wire hangers from the dry cleaner, unraveled skeins of yarn, lengths of fabric I’ve hoarded from work, clothes that are too small for my kids, outfits that don’t fit me that I can’t let go of, a foam roller, six yoga mats and five yoga blocks of slightly different dimensions.

Since I am the only one in the household who cares, it is my job to shepherd these disparate objects to a place of belonging, whether that’s the trash, a donation bin, or in one of our narrow closets. As much as I dread dealing with the mess, it also gives me a sense of purpose.

With all the horror 2025 is already serving, I have gone into a new gear, determined to control the things I can control. One weekend, I purged the living room of toys and rearranged the furniture. Even our pet turtle, Shellington, got relocated. The next weekend, I went for the kitchen, getting rid of appliances we hadn’t used in years. In a late night fit of inspiration, I moved the dishes, snacks and containers into different cupboards, causing chaos and confusion in my family.

Kitchen, 1991-96, by Liza Lou. Beads, plaster, wood and found objects. Whitney Museum 2020

The next day, Miles studied me cautiously.

“Are you ok, Mama?” he asked.

I introduced a new phrase into his vocabulary: stress cleaning.

To counter the misery of decluttering, I shop online for rugs, curtains, sofas, and coffee tables, imagining how much better each one is going to make us feel. I comb second hand sites, artisanal brands, and retail chains designed for my age group and budget. It isn’t easy to just click and buy. Furniture, even used, is an investment. Despite my hours of research, I still haven’t purchased a single thing.

But it’s not just about the stuff. I am aware there is something driving this frenetic activity - a longing for peace. The outside world feels more unpredictable and terrifying than ever. If I can create good vibes at home, maybe I will feel them in my body.

For now, the makeover is mostly a fantasy. Still, I know that change is possible. Someday soon, my son and I will curl up on our newly upholstered sofa and watch an episode of Queer Eye. I’ll weep, he’ll laugh and the Fab Five will save us again.

Miles & I in London, 2024