The magazine was still open to the quiz on the couch beside me. I grabbed it, bending my head to avoid the scrutiny of the ubermommy two seats down whose adorable newborn was cradled against her body in a pristine Moby Wrap; the one who was not wearing linty black leggings from Target and whose eyebrows had enjoyed the recent attention of tweezers.
Then later near the end of the book, there is was again. Lint.
Every year, I was allowed to buy a single souvenir. The summer I was eight years old, I'd saved a few dollars of tooth fairy and allowance money, augmented by the quarters I'd cadged from the sofa cushions and the dollar bills from the lint filter in the dryer.
Do you read Weiner's books? She also wrote In Her Shoes and Little Earthquakes. All so good!