I see it! October 13th is the Dim Light at the End of the Dark Tunnel… The Big Day.
The last day to vote for us.
Despite my well documented crippling math anxiety, 
I’ve done some calculations: 4 days of voting remaining x 6 votes per day = 24 votes per person.
You better double-check that number/go vote! <–That’s the link!
I barely wept with gratitude when I found out Minnesota Business Magazine wanted to write about Zeichen Press for Martha Stewart’s American Made competition… And when Minnesota Business Magazine writer, Erica Rivera, told me to hush my pretty mouth so she could interview me, I did hush my pretty mouth. I do as I’m told. I DO.
Anyway, Erica wrote this masterpiece:
And then I scooped the litter box.
AND here’s a page about litter boxes from my STILL UNSOLD book:
Remember how I promised that when my painkillers wore off, I’d make a card based on The Lung Collapsing Event? It turns out that I only needed them for a couple of days and flushed the rest ~ DON’T GET ANY IDEAS ~ and then I made this breakup card:
Recovering from a collapsed lung is the perfect time to learn all about hashtags.
Thank you, lung!
I obsessively tweeted and nagged everyone on Facebook. I’M SORRY EVERYONE.
Wait, #HelpMe.
It’s been a trending/not-trending rollercoaster-week for Zeichen Press…
YOU MUST REALLY BE SUFFERING!
But may the best (wo)man (named Fran and Jen) win. Did I mention that you have to vote 6x every day through October 13th? And did I mention that my doctor told me that my other lung will collapse if we don’t win??
PS: I made a new Mother’s Day card…
Running for student council vice president of my Freshman class was so stressful! Our platform was twofold:
1) Instruct — and therefore unify — our class via a comprehensive Class Cheer: “Nine-tee! Nine-tee! Ninetyninetyninety nine-tee!!! YAYYYY!!”
2) Oh, I guess it was only a onefold platform…
NEEDLESS TO SAY, votes were cast, and I won. It was a real nail-biter.
SPEAKING OF VOTING, you can finally start voting for Zeichen Press here!
And you can (and should!!) vote 6x per day! SIX TIMES. PER DAY.
Yikes! That sounds scary!
Lungs are not supposed to collapse, but that’s what makes life so exciting! Sunday mornings could be all jejune French toast and bacon, OR they could be all ambulance and emergency surgery.
(I was just as stoic as the woman in the above illustration while they performed my surgery. Eyes wide open, no tears.)
Life is so full of twists and turns!
There is nothing like having your very own chest tube — my aunt said it was my friend. And indeed it was! My little friend with a one-way valve who caused me nothing but suffering. After just two days, the doctor pulled my friend out of my chest — and again, like the woman in the illustration: I was stoic, with eyes wide open and no tears.
I’ll write a card about this as soon as my painkillers wear off.
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.
When I heard Jen was participating in the Loon Call Contest at the Prairie Home Companion Street Party, I said a quick prayer to Saint Genesius.
I can’t believe she didn’t win.
Earlier that day, this angel—dressed in plain clothes—was spotted:
If I wore a hat made of money, I’d have a faraway look in my eye, too.
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:
September is the schizophrenic sibling in the Year Family—one day a beastly 90°, the next day fighting off dinosaurs in the living room. Dust off your crock-pots, it’s time for meat and vegetables to mingle on the countertop for hours. 
Once Upon A Time, I got a massage in September. It was from a hobbit—he blessed the vessel that was me and scampered around the table like his footsies were on fire. When it was over, he requested a hug. I consented because I have never hugged a hobbit and I didn’t want to crush his tiny hobbit-heart.
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:
