Blog - Letterpress

I’m not a lawyer or a scientist but I understand the importance of writing marital vows that contain language relating to soulless corpses.

I know it’s not Zombie Season because the weather is cooler and I know the weather is cooler because the maggots in the garbage bin magically disappeared. The rash of zombie activity this Summer has inspired me to rewrite my vows — I simply cannot have my husband strip naked and eat my face on the turnpike.

Give this card to newlyweds or oldyweds:

The only way to find out if you’re truly compatible with another is to spend a year together aboard a Portuguese fishing vessel.

Unfortunately, that’s not always an option. Don’t spend another minute agonizing!

Forget the touchy-feely Relationships aisle at Barnes & Noble or (gasp) your local library! Forget the $120/hour couples counselor! Forget mind-reading, unmet expectations, behavior prediction!

Zeichen Press has created a $4.00 cheat sheet! Collect them all (there’s only one) and store them safely in a polished mahogany box. Tabulated by topics, like: Division-of-Labor, Apology, and so much more!

*A Mating Tip Card and a BB gun make the perfect wedding gift.

My retirement plans are needy and demand an Airstream Trailer

and a plot of land in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee — as close as possible to Dollywood.

That would be fine as cream gravy.

Yes, retirement — everyone does it differently. Some like to join communities in Arizona and some like to hoard cats. Hoard cats until one day they have a stroke, can’t get to the phone, die of starvation, and their beloved pets eat their face.

But everyone is so different! And as my Grandma Shea used to say, “It takes all kinds.”

So wise.

Did you know that the Arboretum has a pick-your-own vegetable garden? The signs were more intuitive than posted.

My latest health craze (the last one turned out not to be a “health” craze) promises an upward trajectory of boundless energy and crisply firing synapses. Kale, spinach, green chard, cucumber, celery, lemon, parsley, and apple in one glass.

In one glass.

I’ve learned that a bagful of smuggled kale equals one thimbleful of juice.

One thimbleful.

I wonder how many ounces I would be if I were juiced. Note to self: Juicing bodies would make them easier to flush down toilet.

Look at these beautiful Dahlias and forget everything I just said:Weren’t those lovely?

All of the flowers and vegetables inspired a Father’s Day card:

 I am all about efficiency. It’s one of the (two) things people love about me. If I can’t multi-task my way through a problem, it’s better left to a pre-schooler. I always say.

Yes, it’s an enviable quality; I can think about any number of things while I work on something else.

The neighbor that flipped me off called me the other night. She wanted to accuse my kids of egging her car. I told her that I egged her car. She couldn’t hear my confession because she was too busy talking about someone stealing Bounty Paper Towels from her backseat.

I thought about my conversation with her while I worked on some seahorses in photoshop. Here’s the thing/a little secret: Not every image comes to us as a perfect little mounted printer’s block. 

There are some that need finessing:I’m sure you knew that.

I feel like I have to apologize for the latest card.

I’m sorry.

Here it is, sss. (sorry so sappy)

Maybe it’s the Grilled Spamwiches

or the Walking Tacos. Maybe it’s the 4-H Barn, full of homespun country talent.

Or maybe it’s the Birth Barn.Ham!

Perhaps it is a combination of these magical happenings. This yearly phenomenon fills me with such joy… such eager anticipation! There are visual delights to behold whenever the head is turned!

It reminds me of The Birth of Our Lord. I bet the shepherds know what I’m talking about.

Anyway, I shouldn’t question my inspiration.

Here are two new Christmas cards:

It was Jen’s birthday yesterday. She celebrated by cramming her car with kids and driving East for five hours.

I celebrated by going to my In-Laws to hear some family history —  a combination of Downton Abbey and Angela’s Ashes.

BUT before these festive events, I gave Jen a card:Perhaps you recognize that man?His pants are usually radioactive, but not for this card.

Times were simple then — pre-Facebook… cats fixed… no Dance Moms…

The air was thick with anticipation — it wasn’t fair to keep Zeichen Press hidden from the public.It was time to pry open the (heirloom-quality) tupperware lid. Time to expose the rotting and pungent living carcass to the unblinking eye of its critics.

The Universe demanded documentation. Who am I to refuse?

That was four years ago (today).Now, readership of the Zeichen Press blog hovers somewhere between cable-access viewership and meaningful Craigslist encounters.

Cheers!

Time alone was rare. But in a pinch, I was forced to conjure up an imaginary playmate. This was a strange exercise and not something I was particularly good at.

Other children lived in complex and exotic worlds of make-believe — I don’t think the “friends” in their pretend worlds were from Minnesota — with names like Carura Fadida and Anarada Salsa.

There was a girl who lived in the glossy tile next to the toilet. I spoke with her when there was no soul around.

Her name was “Fran.”

Rooted in reality, with a strong sense of the superfluousness of an imaginary world. I was, and am, from German stock. Zees duss neecht make senss.

It must be that toe-hold in reality that permits me to create the following:

Every few weeks Paper Source orders the same poopy cards from us.This makes us happy because there is no faster way to evangelize than through a chain of shops that snakes its way through the country.

Our message? 

Isn’t it obvious by now? Spread (our idea of) letterpress goodness and joy like spackle into every dark crevice on this planet.

No big deal.

This card:has nothing to do with fecal matter and so we were surprised (and delighted) to see it on our latest Paper Source order.

Perhaps the following dream was a premonition?:

There were no toilets — but there was a shower scene. The light over the C&Phad become a shower head and I had become naked. I prayed that nobody would walk through (why didn’t I just lock it?) the shop door while I took my unnecessary (and might I add: gratuitous?) shower next to my printing press.

But someone did walk in.

I guess his name is Vincent Schiavelli. He was hiding behind the Heidelbergwith his cow. He wasn’t smiling. I woke up.

The End