I met the Ringmistress on an online dating site:
“Hi. I’m Le Clown”.
“Hi. You have a kid, Mr. Le Clown. Not interested”.
“I appreciate your honesty. Please call me Le Clown. Talk soon. Perhaps”.
A month later, I write her again:
“Hi. I’m still with child. But I like you”.
“Ok. Let’s meet. But I’ll pretend I don’t know you if I see Kid. But I’ll punch you first”.
Four years later, and a progeny, the Ringmistress and Le Clown write on the same blogosphere. She is the only one Le Clown will listen to. She is the only one our kids will listen to.
Le Clown’s cool, calm and collected. Think Gary Busey. When it comes to the Ringmistress—my wife, the arteest, the woman, the kickass mom—I lose my shit. Sara, you keep me grounded, and I love you for it. But I am a man of too many words—I should let the more concise people describe the tough broad that they see in you:
Jen (Sips of Jen and Tonic)
Jen (Roller Giraffe)