Old Man Look At My Life

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• March 31, 2025

“I remember the day we were born. Nancy cried like a baby,” my dad tells this popular tale of the birth of him and his twin sister. It’s amazing how many people will ask, “you really remember the day you were born?” My mom, siblings and I will look at each other and roll our eyes. That’s my dad. He loves to spew nonsense, if for no other reason than entertaining himself, a trait I suppose I’ve inherited as I’m also known to tell tales of absurd if I’m bored because it’s funny to  me.

Perhaps, though, my dad’s biggest and most gullible fan is, in fact, his twin sister, Nancy. You’d think after existing on this planet as twins for over sixty years after sharing a womb together, she’d be a bit more cynical of her brother’s mischievous ways. But she’s so sweet, she’ll often take him for his word, even if just for a moment, before laughing and exclaiming, “oh John!”

Whenever I’m asked or interviewed about becoming a comedian, I cannot stress enough how funny my large family is. My parents are both one of six, and even though my mom’s side have the more biting, ribbing sense of humors, my dad has always been funny. All of my twenty first cousins would agree that Uncle John is one of the funniest people in the lot. Much of this is evidenced in his perpetual hi-jinx in home videos of holidays, backyard parties, Disney World trip, summers at the beach. Comedians will tell you that we suffer from something called “joke brain” where our minds are always looking for the punchline in any scenario, if not especially inappropriate ones. This could also very much describe my father.

With my mom, my dad found his great audience. My mother is a sucker for funny men and has long said that was really the number one trait she was looking for in a husband— someone she would laugh with a lot with. So it’s not such a shocker that she married John Palminteri, or that they remain happily married so many years later.

In Florida, where they are now retired, they are an extremely popular couple. They have many friends, and so many people want to be their friend, even though they are both like me (or I’m like them?) in the sense that most the time, they’d rather just stay home, making food and spending time with each other or closer family and friends. We joke a lot, because so many people want to be their friends and they say, “we don’t even really know why. We’re kind of assholes.” And then they agree with each other, “we are. We are kind of assholes.”

Not in the sense that they are bad people. I’d say they are very good people. But we’re a family that likes to mock things, if not especially people. And it’s all fun and games to us, but that’s just the thing, it’s fun and games to US. If you don’t get it, we don’t mean ill will, but you’re just not part of “our club.” Truthfully, we don’t even care if you think we’re as funny as we find each other. We know we’re a little sick.

My dad’s side of the family are religious Catholics. For example, my dad hates jokes that I do that are remotely sexual, despite the fact that I’m a woman in my 30s. Which is fine. He’s my dad, so I get that it’s weird. I grew up attending church every Sunday well into my teens. My dad’s relationship with God doesn’t make him rigid. One time, we were all in church and my dad nodded off during the sermon. Mom signaled to us kids that we were gonna sneak out of the pew to the back of the church without him knowing. We did so. When the singing started, Dad jerked awake only to find himself alone. As he looked around in his confusion, the four of us were belly laughing in the back of the church. Some people noticed what we did. Their looks were mixed from disapproval to being impressed with our prank. My dad also found this funny. While he was sometimes extremely annoyingly strict about us going to church every week, jokes inside church weren’t off the table. In fact, our favorite priest was a portly priest who was funny. In a sense, he was doing a blend of stand up in his sermon. It was an early lesson— if you want to make people really listen to you, like REALLY listen, be funny.

Years later, when we were at a burial and funeral on a rainy and dismal day, I recall sharing an umbrella with my parents. Our hearts heavy with grief. Quiet, save for the patter of the rain on the ground, my mom says, “I don’t want to be buried. I don’t want to be put in the ground with the bugs. I want to be cremated.” Catholics, if you didn’t know, have historically been anti-cremation. Though I think they’ve evolved from such sentiment. Then, Dad goes, “I’m going to bury you in the backyard.” And then we all started laughing, despite ourselves, in this grey moment.

One of the things I really love about my Dad is that he’s one of those guys that doesn’t love to dance, but does anyway because my mom absolutely LOVES dancing. She is usually the first person on the dance floor at a wedding, and the first person rocking out at a concert. She’s a lot of fun. It’s not uncommon for men to not like dancing or be shy about it because they think they’ll look foolish. My family relishes in foolish dancing. The dumber you look, the better. Other husbands may sit idle at the table while their spouse shakes to the music, but my Dad (after a drink and maybe a toke of weed), will join Mom’s side.

When I was little, I was more a mommy’s girl. I mean, I literally cried every day getting on the bus in first grade. Sensitive and social anxiety ridden, I often had to be consoled by my teacher because I just cried for my mom as I missed her so much, even being without her for only a few hours. But this doesn’t cheapen how much I looked up to my dad, and in many ways, I am more like my father than my mother.

Every year, our church, Our Lady of Lourdes held an “Italian Feast” that was essentially a carnival. They do it to this day. We always went. Fairs are very exciting to children. The lights. The rides. The funnel cakes. Sensory and serotonin overload. It seems like somewhat of a nonsensical memory, but I remember it so well. I was extremely prone to nausea when I was a kid. I went on a ride with my sister and brother but when I got off I felt sick. Lisa and Mitch continued to run on lines to spinning attractions, while I had to be comforted from my spinning head and turning stomach. My parents got me something to drink and I prayed to Jesus that I wouldn’t throw up, because I hate throwing up and I also didn’t want to ruin what was otherwise a fun family time. As a rule, when Mom and Dad took us to fairs or amusement parks, we weren’t allowed to play the games. We were repetitively told the games were a rip off and rigged (both true) and the prizes were cheap trash anyway. We were here for rides and food. Rides and food. If you made a stink about it, we would simply never return to a fair again. But on this night, when Lisa and Mitch continued the fun on the rides and I wasn’t feeling well, Dad broke that rule to play games with me. They were, as we were warned, a rip off and rigged. They had one of those old fashioned mallet carnival games where one could test their strength for a prize. I didn’t want to do it, I mean, I couldn’t have weighed more than fifty pounds, but I wanted Dad to do it. Men and fathers can’t pass up an opportunity to show of their strength, so he paid a few dollars for three hits. For hitting the bell, you won a really tacky fake rose, which Dad gave to me.  I really liked that stupid rose because my favorite Disney was “Beauty and the Beast.” Dad quipped about spending five dollars on a plastic China made rose that probably really cost five cents. But it meant a little more to me.

Flowers, of course, are more synonymous with women, and more typically given from men to women. And rightfully so, as we are more beautiful and the givers of life. But I think a rose might actually be a better symbol for a man, or at least a good one. Too many men are proud to be thorns without the rose— tough, hard to get close to, sharp. And I certainly wouldn’t categorize my father as being soft, or even the warmest of men, but his colorful side always shone in his humor and playfulness. It’s always going to be those really small moments— going out for ice cream, bike rides, splashing in the pool, cheers from the sidelines of soccer games, and getting on the dance floor despite any reluctance.

Whenever a friend becomes a dad, or if father’s I nanny for look to me for advice, I have a simple answer the comes from my own experience of being a daughter— just play. Give them attention, sit on the floor with them and listen to their wild imagination. It’s so simple, really. Be present with your kids in the short time they are kids, and you’ll win their hearts forever, and when they grow up, they’ll carry parts of you within their personality and their heart, proudly, like a plastic rose won in a silly carnival game.

Happy Birthday, Dad. And also, Aunt Nancy.