Divorce is always a sad thing, sometimes glad thing, but ALWAYS a funny thing (just not when it happens to you). My ex-wife and I agreed to share custody of our then 12 year old daughter Kate. In a lot of ways, Kate was your typical 12 year old kid, caught between wanting to be grown up and independent, and wanting to rush home after school so she could catch SpongeBob before dinner. Kate is a conglomeration of her mother and me. She's beautiful (Me), smart (Me), funny (also Me), has a wicked sense of humor (yes, Me), and she loves music and plays a couple of instruments (her mom). On the outside at least, she took the divorce in stride, as much as a 12 year old can, and focused on the benefits of joint-custody, rather than the detriments.
One of the many father/daughter rituals we enjoy is the occasional trip to Popeye's. Now if you haven't had Popeye's, go, now, before you finish reading this story. Why, you ask? Because Popeye's isn't just chicken. It's the gastronomical equivalent of a 70s acid trip. When you eat Popeye's it does horrible things to you, but you don't notice because eating Popeye's makes you hallucinate. It's a food-based religious experience. Colors are brighter, heavenly music goes off in your head, you get this intense salt and chicken-fat rush, and your heart rate doubles (although that's most likely due to the blockage in your arteries). So the trip to Popeye's is more like a pilgrimage than a quick drive-through trip.
When Kate was younger, we had a few other rituals, many of them bed-time-based. The one most relevant to this particular story is the pre-bedtime ritual of the "Chicken-Bones". Now I know that when you put a toddler to bed, the goal of the exercise is to enable them to make the transition from screaming meemie to slumbering angel. Tucking them in to a warm bed, having a short talk about their day, checking the closet and under the bed for monsters and reading a soothing story together are sure-fire ways to get a child in the mood for sleep.
Unfortunately for Kate, while we have had some really treasured moments doing just those kinds of things, I'm also a fan of the pre-bedtime ritual known as "cooking". I would ask Kate what she wanted to cook before bed, and she'd come up with something like "chocolate cake", or "scrambled eggs please". Whereupon I would pretend to crack eggs on her head and into the bowl in her belly, add some sugar, flour and milk, and then commence the "mixing", which mostly involved me tickling her without mercy for a minute or two. Then I would pick her up, push her into the "oven" and let her bake for a few seconds, only to pull her out and announce "Time to cut the cake!", followed by 2 or 3 more minutes of tickling.
Relax, I'll get to the Popeye's thing soon enough...
The three MOST ticklish things I would do to her (remember, this was all designed to help her relax and go to sleep) were something I called "Chachkies", which involved tickling her sides, "Rump Steak" which was more of an exercise in pinching her butt, and the dreaded "Chicken Bones". Chicken Bones is all about the knees. You grab the top of the knee, wrap your hand around it, and squeeze. In Kate, this can produce the same effect as being Tasered with a few thousand volts. I mean, the poor kid went into conniptions when I did it, so of course I did it a lot.
So, there we are. In the Popeye's drive through line, behind a line of 15 or so cars. She's hungry, I'm hungry. We both want to hurry up and get home after a long day of work and school, but we also want to get our fix. On the day in question the line is very long and very slow. So to pass the time, and without warning, every 30 seconds or so I surreptitiously reach over, grab Kate's knee in an iron grip, yell "BOOM" at the top of my voice and squeeze. This of course produces the aforementioned conniptions, where Kate pretty much bounces of the dashboard and door of the car trying to get away.
I laugh, she yells at me to stop, and of course 30 seconds later I'm grabbing, yelling BOOM and squeezing while Kate continues to bounce around the car. "Hey, this long wait has it's advantages" I say.
And this is where things began to go bad for me...
Kate looks over, and with a smiling look I hadn't seen before says "Dad, I'm gonna get you back". Up until this point in Kate's life I had been the all-knowing, all-powerful, omniscient father figure. In other words, infallible. Kind of like the Pope, but more fun.
So of course, know that I can't be beaten, I look right back at her and say "Kate, I invented the Get-Back in 1968, and you will NEVER, EVER, be able to defeat me". I say this with a great deal of confidence since, up until this point in time, I could roundly beat a 12 year old girl at pretty much anything. Hey, I didn't say it was fair, I just said it was true. But on this day, Kate looks right back at me with this unnerving smile and says "Well today's the day Dad". And with the foolish confidence of the undefeated I say "Well you're welcome to try...".
We proceed up to the window, where the girl in the drive through area tells me that they just ran out of chicken and it will be three more minutes before our order is ready. "Things are looking up" I think to myself, and immediately return to yelling BOOM and administering the aforementioned Chicken-Bones to Kate. With all the yelling and screaming and laughing, I didn't notice that the entire Popeye's crew had gathered to watch this father/daughter deathmatch through the window, but when I turned to check on our order there they were, about 15 of them, watching and laughing with us.
"Gonna getcha Dad", says Kate. "You can't defeat me", I say.
Finally the chicken was ready, the girl opens the drive through window, I open the car window, and as I'm reaching for the bag of deliciousness, Kate, at the top of HER voice, says "NO MISTER, I WILL NOT MAKE OUT WITH YOU! TAKE ME HOME RIGHT NOW!"
At this point several thoughts are racing through my mind. The first of which is "Shit, DEFEATED!", followed by "Holy-shit-I-gotta-get-outta-here-they-might-not-know-it's-a-joke" followed by "But not without the chicken!".
So I grab the bag, stomp on the accelerator, and make for home. At some indeterminate point in the drive back, after I realize that the police aren't chasing me and that the Popeye's crew was laughing louder than Kate, I look over at the smug smile of victory on her face as she sneaks a biscuit from the bag.
I've been losing ground every since...
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