Pursuant to my father’s death earlier this year, Father’s Day should obviously have been canceled. However, due to an apparent clerical blunder, the holiday does seem to be approaching, notwithstanding its newfound lack of relevance.
I presume that the error will be addressed by next June. In the meantime, please adhere to these etiquette tips to ensure a successful cookout.
DO invite me to your barbecue. A girl’s gotta eat.
DON’T pretend this isn’t a Father’s Day celebration. Yes, the holiday should have been scratched out of every calendar in existence, but because of the managerial incompetence alluded to above, the offending phrase is still written in little letters on a box in mid-June. It would be disingenuous to act like that’s not what this party’s for.
DO wish me a Happy Father’s Day. Is this also disingenuous? Yes. You have never wished me one before, ostensibly because I am not a father. However, this verbal act of insincerity will be given a pass, as it is in the service of the aforementioned “DON’T.”
DON’T give me that stricken look the second you realize you’ve just wished a newly fatherless person a “Happy Father’s Day.” It’s already weird—DON’T make it worse.
DO tell me ways you’ve coped with loss in the past. (Not in any prescriptive way, or I will LOSE my MIND.) Obviously, none of your strategies will work, but at least I will know you sympathize.
DON’T say a single word about the living father you’re going to visit later.
DO say, “I don’t know what to say.”
DON’T say, “At least he lived a long life!” Not long enough, babe!
DO say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” (WHAT DID YOU MEAN THEN?!? No, no, I’m fine.)
DO tell me your father is also dead. (If that’s true. If it’s not, that’s pretty fucked up.)
DON’T be mad that I don’t care as much about your father as I do about mine.
SIDE NOTE: You know how they celebrate Father’s Day in Germany? They go on hikes with wagons full of beer. Just a bunch of bros with a keg on a Little Red Flyer. Doesn’t even matter if they’re fathers or not. Let’s normalize getting shithoused in the woods with your buddies instead of processing grief sober!
DON’T tell me how much my dad loved me—I don’t want to cry right now. I can do that in the privacy of the Village 7 while I watch Mandalorian and Grogu at 11:45 a.m. on a Monday. Heartbreak feels good in a place like that, not at this backyard barbecue with a bunch of living fathers. (Gross.)
DO talk about my dad before he was a dad, when he was young and hot like Pedro Pascal in The Mandalorian. (Is that a weird thing to say? Who cares, he’s dead—my dad, not Pedro.)
DON’T introduce me to other dads the same age my dad was, like this is some sort of rebound situation.
DO introduce me to the young, hot, single DILF in your neighborhood.
No, no, DON’T read into that—“DILF” is just an expression!
But yeah, maybe DON’T mention that I’m married?
DO leave me chatting over our frozen margaritas.
DON’T get weird when we chest-bump after learning both our dads are dead.
DO make sure our respective kids don’t fall in the pool while I migrate to a quiet corner of the party, eyes locked, as I agree that, if anything, it should really be called “Dead Father’s Day.”
DON’T think about how much the DILF actually resembles the young, hot version of my dead dad—I mean, Pedro Pascal.
DO feel free to speculate—are they starting an affair or just bonding over their mutual grief??! Who can say? Who can say?
DON’T interrupt.
DO quietly refill our acrylic cactus glasses. Actually, just leave the pitcher here with me.
DON’T you dare turn off the Cliff Richard version of “Daddy’s Home” playing on the boombox, even though it’s very confusing to whom “Daddy” is talking—sometimes it gives me the ick, but not tonight.
DO dim the lights as Pedro-DILF and I start to slow-dance… “Daddy’s home to stayyyyy.”
DON’T judge me! Don’t you dare judge me!
And most importantly, DON’T say “I’m sorry your dad died.”
Unless you killed him.
In which case, DO look the FUCK out! Your days are NUMBERED, motherfucker!
