OH, STOP. (NO. REALLY. YOU'VE GOT TO STOP ENCOURAGING HER.)

My mom can't come to the blog right now.  She and her big fat head are stuck in the shower stall, singing "I, AM THE CHAMPION, MY FRENNNND!) for all the world to hear.  I suspect that this is the direct result of all of your lovely comments about her stitching and her "brilliant" thread selection and stitching prowess.

May I just point out that this "brilliance" is nothing more than sheer dumb luck?

Mo-ther can't select threads and/or proper colors to save her miserable little life.  If she announces that she's going to do a thread conversion on a project, I call my Aunt Chrissy and holler into the telephone "CODE PINK!  WE HAVE A CODE PINK SITUATION, AUNT CHRISSY!" and she comes right over to pick me up.  I stay away long enough for Mo-ther to exhaust herself, and I usually return to find her face down on the studio floor muttering something about color theory and the injustice of not being able to find the perfect greenish brown for roof shingles. (Or some other such nonsense.)

In the case of the "needle blending" on our Olympic Seasons piece, I am going to reveal the secret to you all so that you will finally know that my old lady is nothing more than a ginormous fraud. 

Are you ready?

Mo-ther decided to use the needle blending technique on this piece because SHE WAS TOO FREAKIN' LAZY TO GO UPSTAIRS TO THE STUDIO TO FIND A PROPER COLOR!  SHE WENT INTO THE GUEST ROOM AND FISHED THROUGH THE BASKET OF CRAP ON THE BED UNTIL SHE CAME UP WITH A RED, A WHITE, AND A BLUE FLOSS, AND THEN SHE GRUNTED "GOOD ENOUGH" AND PLANTED HER FANNY BACK IN THE CHAIR.

So all of this genius you're seeing is nothing more than sloth and indifference in action.

We're going to have a quiet afternoon, since Mo-ther seems to have done something to her foot.  She awoke screaming in agony and immediately called Aunt Chrissy to advise her that the sky was falling and that never in the history of man had there been such excruciating pain.  Considering the fact that my poor Aunt Chrissy lives with a trifecta of complex migraines, my mo-ther and all of her antics, and my stinky (and very pesky) little cousin, I'm surprised that she didn't just call the men in the "special white van" once and for all and disappear into the void.

That's the report for today.  I do hope that you are well and that your own needles are doing exactly what you'd like them to do!

Until we meet again, I remain your loyal and devoted friend,
Stewey