Sorry, Grandma

My grandma taught me how to cross stitch when I was in the 6th grade. It's a big thing in our family. Our two family matriarchs, my grandma and her sister, my great-aunt Louise, have seen to it that pretty much every significant occasion in all of our lives is commemorated with a framed work of lovingly cross stitched art. Birth announcements, wedding announcements, graduation announcements, new homes, turning 30, and anything else you can think of merits cross stitching. After the death of my grandmother, every stitch is precious to me and to the members of the family who proudly display her effort and love on our walls.

I suppose it's because cross stitching is so sticky sweet and kind and loving to me that I find subversive cross stitch so pee-in-my-pants funny. Grandma would not approve. But good gracious, it makes me want to order the patterns and whip out my needle. And honestly? I think Great Aunt Louise would laugh her ass off. There's a naughty streak in that one.