Our Genderless Purple Unicorn - Letterpress

There would be no Christmas cards – NAY, no greeting cards if not for Mr. Louis Prang.

There would be no Zeichen Press without Mr. Louis Prang.

Shut your mouth!

It’s true.

That’s why the biggest (only?) greeting card event of the year is named after him: The Louie Awards. We decided (it was a big decision because we hate rejection and it cost $65) to enter a card this year in the friendship/encouragement category.

There were nearly 1,000 entries and only three were chosen to be finalists in each category. All of my prayers to the Patron Saint of Greeting Cards (St. Valentine, of course) were answered.

The award ceremony is in May and I’ve already started writing my acceptance speech: “(Laughing) Is this really happening?? I can’t believe this… um… okay… I can’t believe I was even in the same category as ________ and ________! Wow… Such an honor… (stammer, tear up, brush hair away from face) Wow… okay, I had nothing prepared… “

And so on. 

Last night was our first monthly (WHAT? Didn’t I tell you guys that??) card folding party. Jen was noticeably absent. She was invited, she told me she doesn’t mix business and pleasure. Or maybe she said she tries not to see me more than she has to.

Either way, she wasn’t there.

Wine was drunk and 1,000 cards were folded:

You can be a part of the magic! Send me an email – if you own a spoon, have two hands, and aren’t planning to kill me – you can join us!

The weekend in pictures:

March means the party is over and Winter is the (very) drunk guest that won’t take a hint. Um, Winter, can’t you see that I’ve thrown the bottles out the back door and had the dog clean the floor?

That’s alright. I’ve called it a cab, it will be here in a few weeks.

Meanwhile, here’s a new card:

My grandma kept a drawer-full of greeting cards in her buffet. An entire drawer, devoted to spontaneous correspondence!

What a woman.

She also kept plastic on her sofa and carpet on her kitchen floor. She really wanted to protect her furniture and linoleum.

The Thank-You Note is a classic greeting card and should be the foundation of any collection. Receiving a thank-you note in the mail is a little bit like finding money in last Winter’s coat or a good hat in a snowbank.

Let’s write one together!

First, choose a card:Now on to the writing… We’ll break it down into 5 easy steps:

1) Begin with a greeting: Dear Aunt Shirley,

She loves to hear her name because cats can’t talk.

2) This is the meat of the note and notice there is no appetizer. This is a “note” not a letter. Cut right to it: Thank you so much for the medical marijuana! If the gift from Aunt Shirley was cash, do not mention it. Speak instead of her “generosity.” Thank you for your generosity!

3) Say a little bit about how you use or will use the gift: I smoke it everyday!

4) Mention the last time you saw Aunt Shirley and hint at a future meeting: It was lovely to see you at Uncle Bob’s funeral, I hope to see you again before your funeral!

5) And scene: Love, Fran

Oh, and here’s another card that will be added to the line:

Do you hear me? DO YOU?!

Like-minded people know that a flippant attitude will get you somewhere. You can be either: A) A bartender. B) A regular on The Hollywood Squares. C) A wise-cracking cellmate. D) Christian Lander. E) The Voice of the People.

Those are pretty much all your choices, so think carefully. Obviously, I chose E. Only because the role of Christian Lander was already taken and I have claustrophobia.

I looked out the window today and saw this:

My reaction could only be this:

My SAT scores were never high enough to get me into an Ivy League school. I’m kidding. I never took that stupid test. I’m kidding. That test isn’t stupid. I’m kidding. Yes, it is. I’m not bitter, I’m funny. Tell me I’m funny.

ANYWAY, finally, those Harvard braniacs can correspond properly.

Send me a love letter, Harvard alum, Mark Zuckerberg. 

Some of the chosen cards were:

As for that last choice: That gal is talking about his beach ball. HIS BEACH BALL.

“It is finished.” She gasped as she crumpled to the cold, concrete. It was, by all accounts, glorious. The work would outlast the artist and elevate the art form to new and dizzying heights. 

But she, exhausted and covered in ink, was oblivious. To her, this was nothing more than an exercise. A functional and fleeting piece, it would be handled roughly and discarded by Springtime.

Um, so, that poster for Craftsravaganza is, like, done:

There are a couple of things going on around here:

1) Our fax machine is spitting out orders faster than we (jen) can fill them.

2) We (I) are (am) making the poster for this year’s Craftstravanganza.

Just to make my load fair, I listen to a recording of screaming children while I work.

I think it really shows:

Today, I will put ink on that – it will be so spectacular there won’t be a dry eye in the room. (I’ll be the only one in the room.)

This is what comes of my unwillingness to fold the laundry – I just stare out the window (of my asylum) and think and write inappropriate things. Shouldn’t the children in my imagination be allowed to have one wholesome snowball fight?