From Russia with Love.

Two disturbing revelations unfolded whilst I was moping around in Mervyn's with my mom this weekend. One, she did not even vote for Hilary Clinton despite looking just like her, and two, she dated a man named Oleg in college. He was her Russian teacher's assistant in World Religion and would trade her A grades for passionate trysts in the broom closet.

I stared at her in horror before escaping into the jungle that is the purse section. But she followed me, where she demanded to know if the Oleg in my life was at all diseased. I asked her if she had considered that same question during her escapades in the broom closet. She persisted as we weaved in and out of racks of luggage until I reassured her that this particular Oleg was "pure as the driven snow."

I paused at a bin full of novelty passport holders and held one up to my nose. I'm Lost it read in pink letters across the front. I was lost. I wouldn't be able to find my own car in the Mervyn's parking lot mere moments later. So I purchased it with the dream of one day sticking the adorable little pastel pictures everyone has in theirs in it, while my mom continued to stand beside me and ask if I was moving to the Ukraine.