Gianetta Palmer

Thanks for visiting my page. I hope you will take the time to order my book . It's filled with short stories, laughs and quirky characters that revolve around my universe and help me keep things in perspective. I'm fairly certain you'll find a laugh or two inside. Let me know what you think. I love hearing from my readers and fans. Thanks for stopping by, Gianetta

As with almost anything you buy these days, affixed somewhere on the product is a sticker that says Made in China. That got me to wondering as I sometimes like to do and I came up with this question: Are the Made in China stickers made in China? Since I don't know anyone in China to ask I did the next best thing: I Googled the question. It seems that there is a fan page on Facebook devoted to this exact question and over 14,000 people have liked it. But, it didn't give me the answer. Next, down the list on the Google search page was a company called ULINE from Pleasant Prairie, WI, and they do make the Made in China stickers. What about that? The product may be made in China, but the part that holds everything together (the sticker) is made right here in the good old USA. And they say Americans don't make anything anymore...

With the Presidential election just around the corner, political conversations are becoming a hot dinnertime topic. The following conversation took place recently when Brother, Mom and I sat down to dinner. I won't tell you who belongs to each party, I'll let the conversation speak for itself. Ind: "Ha! I was busting your buddies' chops the other day about Romney's speech at the RNC. They were like all happy and thrilled to have such a strong candidate." Reb: "They're right. Romney and Ryan are gonna put this country back on track for us freedom-loving Americans and repeal Obamacare." Dem: "I would have thought, heaven forbid, that you of all people would want to keep it. You got about every preexisting condition there is and even some that haven't been invented yet." Ind: "That's true." Reb: "Well, somebody needs to stand up and make these people start paying for some of these government programs. It's going

..."Mom?" "What did you say," Granny asked with a questioning look. "Did Diddy (my dad) ever tell you about the world's longest fart?" Without even hearing a word of the story, granny's shoulders started to shake, a grin spread across her face, and looking toward my dad, "No, I don't think he did." "A few weeks ago, in through there, we had went over to John's and I had got my usual, the Rainbow trout. Lora, didn't you get the Ribeye? Well, the lady said they had a new cook and instead of having, in through there, the usual green bean almondine with the trout, in through there, they was trying to make things healthier and cooked broccoli with it. It was all right, in through there, and I also had some of the new chili. Lora, did you get some of the chili?" "Yes, I had the Ribeye and tried the soup too. I think that was the problem." "Right. It wasn't too long and I started to get the belly ache. Yo

Margaret Jane Shutt Keiber Stephenson was born in northwestern Ohio, around Wapakoneta, on December 22, 1908. She was my maternal grandmother and one of the most spiritual women I have ever known. To many people she was known as Margaret, but to me and my large group of cousins, she was simply known as Granny. Granny was small in stature but big in heart. For years, when her kids (seven girls and four boys) would come to visit they would always be surprised by how little she had. Questions of "Mom, what happened to your coat?" and "Why don't you have any groceries?" were common. She would just smile in her own way and with a soft voice reply, "Well, I think the good Lord told me that somebody else needed it more than Tommy and me. My uncle, Tommy, was physically challenged and lived with my grandmother until she was well up into her eighties. Even though Granny was a highly spiritual woman, she had a wicked sense of humor. In her case, the more gross and di

Today, August 15, 2012, would’ve been Julia Child’s 100th birthday. If you do not know who she was; she was the forerunner of all of the TV chefs that you see today. She was the Emeril of the 1950s and the Rachael Ray of the 60s, 70s, 80s, and the first part of the 90s. She made cooking cool. With an ever present wine glass and a jovial Bon Appetit, Child would send her viewers away with a taste of French cuisine and a love for the finer things in life. It seemed that Julia Child might have also been a spy. According to just released reports from the 1940s, Child worked for the OSS, which was a precursor to the CIA, during World War II. She had tried to enlist in the Navy but was deemed to be too tall. She was 6’2”, which in those days was considered huge for a woman. Still wanting to help out in the war she turned to the OSS, and listed herself incorrectly as 6’; I guess a little white lie never hurt anyone. She started out in the typing pool, but was quickly promoted to work directly

I'm a huge sports fan. I like sports of all sorts and will watch basically any sport on television. Back in the day, on Sundays, Dad and I would watch ABC's Wide World of Sports. That's where I learned to float like a butterfly, a` la Muhammad Ali, and do a running commentary, a` la Howard Cosell, of our boxing match which usually occurred in the living room and ended with me getting knocked in the head by my brother, with me trash-talking, "THIS IS HOWWORD COSELL, LIVE FROM the living room. WHAP! Down goes Palmer, down goes Palmer." "You kids better stop that," mom would always say with the over-the-glasses look. "Somebody is going to get hurt." I always liked to watch winter sports on television. My favorite sport was the ski jump and it was always exciting waiting to see if anyone was going to crash on landing. I tried to imitate those jumpers out back on the big hill but landed straight in the creek on more than one occasion. I have been wa

As a humor columnist, I like to expand my horizons every one in a while and dabble in poetry. I hope you enjoy my take on what twenty years means to me. Reflections, longevity, a time to look back Back to a time of innocence where we held the world in our hands And our hopes from the heart Sprang forth like a rushing mountain stream Many others have come and gone While it has remained to carry on A short time to some A life time as one Laughter, a blessing, never without Stories retold, was there ever a doubt That kindness and honor from those before Would carry to the young, no matter how poor One always steady, another pursuing the dream Stumbles within darkness Beaten For we are that team First to join was the littlest thing Spitfire, vocal, oh how it sang Sadly, the loss affecting their will First love, first lost, it lingers still A day to remember just before the cold The black, the white, a sight to behold The calmness, the gentle of one so small Enduring the stick that affects

It's not exciting. It's not glamorous. It's not even something that I like to do. But it has to be done. Otherwise, yours truly, would be bathing in an atmosphere that isn't conducive to cleanliness and whether you know it or not; I like to be clean. Cleaning the bathtub has always been an adventure for me. I'm always trying different cleaners to see if there have been any improvements to easily remove soap scum from the edges of the tub. Many cleaners say they remove soap scum but not so in my tub; it must have built up some kind of resistant to all 21st century cleaners. Since my accident a few months ago, I have been unable to clean the bathtub. Bending over sends spasms of pain through my abdomen and shooting stars to my brain--I became so dizzy and disoriented the first time I tried to clean the tub that I almost mistook the toilet for the tub and reached for some cold water to splash on my face. Luckily, the cat was getting a drink, so I came to my senses rath

***Author's note: You can read Part I of this story by clicking here .*** ...It wasn't quite the 1909 Wagner card, but any Mickey Mantle card would be a great addition to my collection. When I scanned the crowd at the memorabilia auction I knew I might be out of my league. This wasn't the usual "Let's go to the auction because there isn't anything else to do in this town on a Saturday night" crowd. I noticed most of them (older men and their grandsons) were wearing Rolexes, Polo shirts, Duckhead shorts and Top-sider shoes. One kid wanted a soda and his grandpa pulled out a wad of bills and shook his head because he didn't have anything smaller than a hundred. Another guy, upon further inspection, was wearing sunglasses that had dollar signs as logos and so many rings and gold chains that Mr T would have been envious. Another guy kept walking around looking at everything while talking on his cell phone. Maybe, I was out of my league. The auction continu

The scene--Any small town in a state that doesn't allow fireworks, namely Georgia. A guy walks into his local courthouse and asks where he can get a permit. The guard sends him down to the permit office. There is a really long line and only one window open. He admits to himself that this permit thing must be a pretty good idea, 'cause everyone here seems to be getting one. After all, on July 4th, he always hears fireworks going off all over town, so, they must have a permit, right? The man finally reaches the counter after one lunch break, and two smoke breaks and asks the lady about applying for a permit. She pulls out the forms and said that the fee was going to be $500.00. He scratches his head and thought that that sounded like a lot of money. "Ma'am, why does it cost so much to get a permit to let off fireworks," he asked? "Let off fireworks," she said. "Don't you know that is illegal in this state?" The man scratched his head once aga

Long before the latest craze in Reality TV I was a lover of yard sales, auctions and flea markets. I like to collect things. I also like to have an idea of what something is worth; no sense paying $50 for something when $5 will do. Antiques Roadshow, Storage Wars, American Pickers and Pawn Stars are the shows I like the best. I keep hoping that one day while I am out looking for new junk to add to my old junk that I will stumble across the Holy Grail of what I collect; a 1909 Honus Wagner baseball card. Yes. I'm a girl. Yes. I collect baseball cards. And yes. I'm very serious about it. Baseball card collecting has taken a real nose dive over the last few years due to over production. Many hobby shops have closed down and collectors have watched the book value of their top cards go from the Stratosphere to Middle Earth in about a ten-year span. Luckily, I hadn't invested too much money in the newer cards. I've always had an appreciation for the older cards; ones that yo

Growing up on the farm on Cherry Fork Road was a lot of fun. We raised tobacco, had a HUGE garden, dabbled in the hog business and had a few cows and chickens. We had a tractor, a wagon, and a manure spreader as well as various lawn mowers, rototillers and chainsaws. My dad loved his chainsaw. I don't remember what the name brand was but it was yellow and matched his pickup truck. Throw in a Kool cigarette dangling out of his mouth and a John Deere hat perched on his head and he was ready to do some sawin'. I remember the year my father got his new chainsaw. It was Father's Day, 1974, and let me tell you, that saw was needed. A late spring thunderstorm had blown through and there were trees everywhere. Trees across the road, trees down in the yard. It was like a tornado had come through. It wasn't that long after the storm had passed when you could hear the roar and the whine of the chainsaws as neighbors up and down the road got to work clearing a path. Dad wasn't

Recently, I spent the afternoon with my mother and watched her prepare a fruit salad. There's nothing extraordinary about that; just two grown adult women enjoying conversation and each other's company. That is--until the child in me begins peppering my mother with one question after another. At times I find myself forgetting that I have reached middle-aged and I am still the baby in the family curled up beside my mom as she read from her latest Harlequin novel. I watched my mother cut and slice the different fruits and didn't comment until she was slicing the strawberries. Mom sliced her berries down and not across. "Why do you cut your strawberries that way?" I asked. "I don't know," she said, "I guess it's so someone doesn't end up with an end piece." How thoughtful. "You know, it's all in the details," she continued. "A simple step now can make a big difference later." I couldn't disagree with that. L

Throughout my lifetime I have become an observer of many situations and problems that would otherwise go unnoticed. One such problem is handicapped parking. Everyone knows that handicapped parking is a good idea and helps millions of folks patronize businesses that they normally wouldn't. The handicapped parking spot is great because it allows the disabled to get as close as possible to a business without actually driving inside. But, here's the problem: Once they have finished their shopping and returned to their vehicles there isn't any place for them to return the shopping cart. I'm talking about large parking lots. Most cart returns begin at least six parking spaces down from the handicapped spots. The person is forced to choose between a spot close to the door and a spot close to the cart return. Ever wonder why there are so many shopping carts at the beginning of a row and not in the return area? That might be the reason. Maybe the designers of the parking lots do

On a recent Saturday morning I found myself doing errands in my hometown when I heard my stomach growl. My first thought was how could I possibly be hungry after what I had eaten the night before? My second thought was I wonder if they are still serving breakfast at McDonalds? After another two stops; one at the post office and another at the drugstore to pick up a prescription I found myself waiting in the drive-thru lane at my favorite fast food joint. My anticipation was building as I slowly inched my way forward to the ordering speaker. Should I get an egg mcmuffin? Maybe, I should try the new oatmeal that Sister has been raving about? What about a sausage biscuit? Should I get a value meal? Do I really need hashbrowns? Should I get coffee? They can't seem to fix my coffee the way I like it. Actually, I don't know how many shots of cream or sugar to tell them; that's probably the reason. I continued to to inch forward in the car when I heard the lady in front of me orde