Tugging at my frizzy, greasy ponytail, I release my hair from it's binder and stare at myself in the mirror. Oh God, Ray, you have to face the world today. Glancing at my vanity, stacks of make-up from my greasy disco-ball of a sister, curling irons and Aqua Net, I make a pass away from them and grab Monroe's leash off of my bedstand. To start the morning off right, I'll spend a half hour with an animal that could care less about my appearance.
It's hard not to love my dog. Monroe, named after Marilyn of course, is two years old and full-grown, able to pull me along on our walks now. She's pretty much memorized the time of day we go on our walks because the second I step down the orange shag carpeted stairs, Monroe is sitting at the bottom with her tongue hanging out and tail wagging. She waits by the front door for me to get home from Marty's at night, her nose stuck underneath in search of the scent of my red Converse sneakers. This morning is no different. Slipping on my red sneakers, I kiss Monroe on the forehead and head out the back door.
"Desiree! You're toast!" My evil mother shouts toward me. I smooth the ends of my long brown hair, tuck in the front of my red Bananarama tank top and add my favorite disheveled black belt to my acid wash jean skirt, all within 20 minutes. With one last glance in the mirror, I sigh heavily and grab my homemade patched backpack. On the way out, I do my best to avoid my mother who is now standing in the living room, ritualistically, with her purple Walt Disney World mug in hand. She sips her coffee every few seconds and stares blankly out the picture window as if she'd never seen our street before. I tiptoe to the toaster, grab my plain toast, slip my red sneakers back on and sneak out the back door. I don't know what it is about that woman. It's almost as if I had moved out already. Even when I am home, we never do the things that we used to do. She taught me to play the piano starting when I was three years old. We used to write songs together and try to learn other ones by ear. Now she doesn't even dust the piano. She's like a zombie. She holds onto that damn mug because I think it reminds her of the last time that my entire family was together and enjoying themselves. And I know she still thinks my father will come home because she never used to stand in a haze in the living room like that. She never used to drink coffee, either.