Space

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• December 9, 2025

Say what you want about Jet fans, but they know how to party. Some may even think they’re obnoxious in their delusional beer soaked hope. Even though I am not even a Jets fan, I appreciate fandom and I can applaud and even antagonize tribalism in sports, where I boo it in politics.

It was my first time at an NFL game. Football and hockey are my spectator sports, and while I would love to go a hockey game every week, I had repetitively heard football was kind of better watching it at a bar, or someone’s home. My friend/Hawaii connect had an extra ticket which were great seats, and I agreed to go, despite my dread of the cold, but would only go if I had a blanket. It was cool to see the game that close, just a dozen rows from the field but it was also so cold that I got a Dunkin’ hot chocolate and took it to the bar and asked them to spike it for me.

The special teams on the Jets are the only good part and they did score an exciting touch down, but overall, the less than mediocre Dolphins ran that field like an actual dolphin playing with a puffer fish to get high. Dolphins actually do that, you know. Dolphins eat, play, surf, get high, have sex (not solely for reproduction purposes) and then do it again the next day. What a life.

I dreamed of dolphins and the likely scenario that I’d swim into them in Hawaii. I wonder if the dolphins in Hawaii think that humans, like dolphins, have a perpetual smile on our faces, unknowing that we’re merely smiling at the sight of them. It’s not lost on me my good fortune to return to isles of paradise for the fifth time in my life, knowing most people never make it there, not even once. Any love I have for New York vanishes quickly the second I tremble from the cold. This December is colder than the years past. Get me the fuck out. I need space. I need space from New York. And every New Yorker who doesn’t manage to get to a warmer climate for even a week in the winter is subjected to a madness akin to the narrator in “Tell Tale Heart.”

“Aunt Lori, I need some space,” my four year old nephew, Blaise, said to me as we were cuddling and watching “Home Alone.” The John Hughes classic is a film I’ve seen no less than 36 times, as I watch it every holiday season, sometimes more than once if it’s with the kids. And though I still enjoy the classic slapstick comedy, there is something special watching it with a little kid. They crack up, hysterically. My nephew belly laughs, nearly in tears from the hilarity, “did you see that?! That’s funny!” Sure is, bud. Sure is.

At his request, I lay down on the other side of the couch. Mere minutes later, he’s laying on top of me, and I can feel his little body shake with giggles.

One of the things I love about Hughes writing, is he captures the pure chaos but also care of a large family. One of twenty cousins, I have the fondest memories of Christmas gatherings— kids running everywhere like crazy, giant feasts, and the anticipation of presents. It was a real blast. Crazy. But we had fun.

The big family is a dying thing in America. People can’t afford homes and children like they once used to. Those having kids stop at one or two, and many people are opting out of children at all because the cost of living has made practical people fear survival. It is my opinion that the death of the big family is the death of America as we once knew it. Some of my greatest life lessons come from the fact that I’m one of many. I am not the main character of the story. I’m not even the main character in my family. One’s empathy becomes greater when you have a front row seat to a lot of people and shared history. Like in my family, we have both republicans and democrats, and we still get along. We have different views on religion. There are divorces mixed with long term marriages. There are people who like to drink. People who like to smoke weed. Giants fans. Jets fans. Steelers fans. A variety of music and movie tastes. You learn not only to coexist with people of varying beliefs and opinions, but to love them, dearly.

Most of my twenty cousins have spread out throughout the country. In fact, a minority stayed on Long Island or New York. This is natural too. And while I miss them and often wish we were all able to get together like we did, once upon a Christmas time, when we do see each other, we pick off where we left off. One of the pros of social media is we can watch each other’s live like a favorite TV show. We’re all rooting for each other, always. While my family (like any) isn’t without its drama, the drama is usually within the immediate families or the married in Uncles. The cousins, truly, get along like built in best friends.

Quite often I joke about dating, which is actually awful in New York City. Sometimes, from incel men, I get angry messages that I’m a man hater who hates marriage. This is so laughable to me. Most of my best friends are men. Actually, I have very few female friends. Additionally, most of my married friends are just as happy and/or unhappy as my single friends. The push and pull of the arguments for or against marriage (which is always harsher on women, like having kids or not) is boring and lacking any nuance. Every life you choose is going to require compromise and sacrifice. Every life you choose is going to have its rewards and leaving you feeling a little empty. My god, the internet has turned adults into snotty children without the childhood wonderment a kid has when dreaming of Christmas morning.

My favorite love stories are some of my cousins. On Long Island, my cousin Brittany married one of the best men I’ve ever known, a kind, funny, big kid, NYPD hero, Bobby. My cousin Brian married the biggest hearted woman and silly art teacher, Christine. Their love stories are my favorite. Of course I believe in great marriages and true love. I’m a product of one, and I’m an audience member and cameo character of others. I pop into my cousins houses like Kramer and eat their food, play with their kids. They’re just the ones who live closest, but there are more little families upstate, in Virginia and across the country. The American dream lives on. Just rarely in New York City. My cousins love stories have given me hope and a blueprint of what I would want in a committed relationship.

All the space in the world couldn’t prevent me from recognizing this and feeling it too. The bravery of my one cousin who faced cancer and chemo head on. The miracle of my one Uncle who literally died for twenty minutes and came back to life, that doctors can’t even explain. The perpetual smack talk and funny meme exchange in a cousin’s group chat. The people you can call at anytime, or any place, for a reason or not. No one will ever understand you like your cousins. No one knows your background and sick twisted jokes like your cousins. We’re a dying breed, us big family kids. How lucky we are, to have grown up that way.

When I see my sisters kids with my brothers son, they play so cute together. And even though there is a part of me that is sad I have not contributed to the cousins pool, being an Aunt is one of my favorite parts of life. Christmas, a lot of people say (men, men say this), is for kids. And while I agree it’s mostly for kids, I’ll be damned if I don’t feed my inner child with Christmas songs, cookies, and merry making with those dearest. What my cousins and I gift to each other isn’t necessarily material items, but rather, tightening the space between our current selves and our inner child– that is a present in itself. Being present.