A point of frustration.
The hubbs and I are huge fans of the Renaissance Festival here in Michigan. Not to the point where we dress up or start speaking in foreign-ish tongues, but we enjoy making a date-day out of it once a year. It's our time to go out, buy a few trinkets that we really don't need in any capacity, listen to dirty jokes from roasted almond vendors, and treat ourselves to lunch at The Laundry in Fenton afterwards. One of the things that we really enjoy, though, is seeing the same astrologist each year for a star chart/psychic reading. Mind you, we don't put any stock into it at all. It's usually just a weird form of affirmation and some curious things to ponder while we walk through the rest of the festival, trying to find a gentleman selling pickles that won't harass us. The readings are typically pretty positive and light-hearted. Last year, we had her quickly look up the star chart for our daughter before she thoroughly read ours. She glanced at it and start