Shopping on the Internet is convenient and easy. And I’m just corny enough to still think it’s fun when the package arrives in the mail. Why, sometimes I even sing that song from “The Music Man” when I see the UPS truck turn down our street.

“Oh, the Wells Fargo Wagon is a-comin’ down the street, oh please let it be for me!”

But after the excitement of opening your package, you’re faced with a dilemma: what to do with the shipping box.

Sure, we recycle at our house, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of the leftover boxes. I look at their roomy, empty insides and their sturdy closure flaps and I want to keep them. I might need them someday! Am I suffering from some kind of acute storage syndrome? Was there a shortage of containers in my childhood that’s driven me to hoard cardboard? (Read more…)

Not long ago I joined a crowd standing at a ball game and faced the U.S. flag during the national anthem.

I put my hand over my heart, sang the familiar words and thought of my great-uncle Don. He taught me to never take for granted the sight of Old Glory, and to remember that “freedom isn’t free.” Many people have paid the price on my behalf, some with the ultimate sacrifice.

Don Phillips was my grandmother’s younger brother, who died in 1995. He was a prisoner of war at Stalag Luft III in Sagan, Germany, during World War II and I’ve written about him before. However, nothing I write captures the spirit of patriotism as well as Don’s words in his letters to family in Chenoa and Pontiac during his 20 months as a POW. So I’m offering those words again to honor Veteran’s Day. (Read more…)

Halloween on a Saturday night. Could there be a more ideal time for a costume party?

Some of my co-workers are attending parties tonight and have been discussing their costumes for weeks.

It’s water cooler talk like this that divides the world in two. There are those who think costumes are fun and those who’d rather have elective surgery than wear one. (Read more…)

When my mom was a kid, her dad entertained the family at the dinner table with funny stories, tongue twisters and malapropisms.

One of mom’s favorites was a play on words that transformed the sentence, “Pardon me madam, but you’re occupying the wrong pew, may I show to another seat?” into “Ardon me padam, but you’re occupewing the wrong pie. May I sew you to another sheet?”

(Go ahead, try it. I’ll wait.)

Our family has repeated that little tongue twister hundreds of times, and in the finest tradition of silliness, my mother taught it to our 14-year-old. So, imagine my surprise (and glee) the other day when I heard the eighth-grader and her buddies in the back seat of our car reciting the verse. Who knows how many families at Central Illinois dinner tables are now being entertained with my grandfather’s witticisms. (Read more…)

“Who let the dogs out?”

Those words are more than lyrics to a popular song at our house. Those words mean trouble. With a capital “T” that rhymes with “P” that stands for pooch.

Our dog Molly likes to run. She likes the feel of the wind in her floppy ears and the pavement beneath her paws, particularly when she knows we are chasing her.

Not long ago, my husband, our 14-year-old girl and Molly pulled into the driveway at my parents’ house. My husband rolled down the window of our car to wave hello to grandma. Well, Molly was too excited to wait, and hopped out the window. Seconds later, however, she realized she didn’t have to run immediately to grandma. Grandma could wait. Instead, Molly decided to tour the neighborhood. Around the block, through the trees and into a cornfield, about a mile away, she ran. My husband quickly parked the car in the driveway and headed off in hot pursuit. (Read more…)

Recently I wrote a column about getting old.

The theme was, “You really know you’re getting old when … (fill in the blank).”

My favorite example was “You know you’re getting old when you think you’re hip because you have an iPod, but the playlist includes songs likes ‘Wildfire’ and ‘Me and You and A Dog Named Boo.’” That’s because I’m married to someone with a playlist that includes Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.

But there are those folks who are forever young at heart, no matter how old they are. Like my dad, for instance. Despite his biological age, he’s still running around waterskiing, riding motorcycles and doing other things you’d expect from someone half his age. (Read more…)

It was the Week of the Breast.

(Yes, I knew that titillating opener would great your attention.)

It started on Monday, when I had my annual mammogram.

There I stood, in the glamorous medical gown — you know, the one with no closures and not enough material to cover all the places you want it to at once. The technician, who was terrific, said, “Say, don’t you write a column in the Pantagraph? I recognize you from your photo.”

I hope she’s talking about my face, I thought. Otherwise, I’m going to have to speak to the staff photographer…

Yep, that’s me, I said. We chatted a while and before I knew it, the process was over. The whole procedure took less than 10 minutes and was a piece of cake. The high heels I had been wearing all day caused me more pain than the test.

So here’s my public service announcement, ladies. Get a mammogram. (Read more…)

Last week I saw the movie “All About Steve” starring Sandra Bullock. The critics panned it, but I chuckled here and there a bit.

Sandra’s single female character is a bit quirky, as evidenced by the décor in her bedroom. As the camera scans the bedroom walls, which are covered in posters, the audience catches a brief glimpse of Burt Reynolds’ famous 1972 pinup. (Don’t worry, we don’t see the full Monty.) Only one other woman in the theater and I laughed because we recognized the poster. Everyone else was too young.

Burt who?

It seems like it’s that way for me all the time now. I remember people and places no one else does, but I couldn’t spot Lady Gaga on stage if my life depended on it. I pick up “People” magazine and don’t know any of the faces (unless it’s someone in the obituaries section). (Read more…)

My friend Cheryl has been a widow for 12 years.

I never knew her late husband, but from her description of him, I know he was a wonderful guy and that she still misses him very much.

He died very unexpectedly, leaving Cheryl alone to raise two young children. The kids have since gone on to college or successful careers, which is a testament to Cheryl’s commitment and strength.

I didn’t know the details of Cheryl’s husband’s death until recently when she told me the tragic story. It was an ordinary morning and the kids were at school. Cheryl and her husband each had the day off work, so they decided to go out for breakfast. While they were sitting at a local restaurant, waiting to be served, he suffered a massive heart attack and died instantly.

Twelve years later the details are as vivid to Cheryl as if they had happened yesterday. And one of her most prominent memories is an unusual one — of a woman at the restaurant who helped her. (Read more…)

Susan Hazlett has the week off. This column originally ran in August 2005.

While on a long car ride this week, I had plenty of time to look at corn. (When I wasn’t looking at beans.)

Corn rows are pretty, I think. Some people hate the flat land, but I love it. Of course, I can afford to say that now that I’m an adult.

As a young teen-ager, cornfields equaled dread. They meant detassling. (Read more…)

Some people can be just too nice for their own good. And sometimes people can be too nice for everybody else’s good.

Take a look at a week in the life of my friend Trixie from Dallas. Not long ago, she hosted a houseguest for seven days.

Trixie and her husband have been married 34 years. Once a year for the past three decades, Trixie’s mother-in-law has come to visit.

“She’s a wonderful woman and I love her very much. I just wish she would be more trouble,” said Trixie. (Read more…)

The entertaining part about chauffeuring a couple of teen-age girls around town is they soon forget you’re sitting in the car with them (as if it’s a magic carpet ride to softball practice), and they start talking.

Actually, there is another positive aspect to being the chauffeur… and that is the fact that YOU are still behind the wheel and have not relinquished control of the vehicle yet to a human being who sees nothing wrong with eating raw hot dogs.

But when the girls start talking, within four minutes you’ll have learned who has a crush on whom and the best way to remove Laffy Taffy from braces. (Read more…)

You’ve heard of conspiracy theories. There are theories on everything from flying saucers in New Mexico to secret messages in Leonardo DaVinci’s “Last Supper.”

But now there’s another one: the great “Secrets of Marital Bliss Conspiracy.”

That’s right. Having recently marked five years of wedded bliss, I can testify that I have witnessed — and participated in — this ancient and closely held secret ritual. It’s only after hundreds of demonstrations within my very own household that I feel confident enough to expose the details to you today of two recurring plots.

The famous “I-Can’t-Find-It Conspiracy.”

Evidence clearly shows that my husband is a fine physical specimen — fit, trim and with reasonable eyesight. But when it comes to locating things, he constantly evokes the same plea: “I can’t find it.”

Case in point: When my beloved spouse is trying to locate any item (envelopes, car keys, sunglasses, dishes on the counter, coats left in the car, dirty softball socks on the floor), he will scan the area for 0.1 seconds and then declare, “I can’t find it.”

Last week, he was looking for a photograph.

“I tore up every room in this house looking for that picture,” he said at dinner. “I can’t find it.”

I put down my fork, walked to the bulletin board next to the refrigerator and plucked the photograph, which was in plain sight, from the board and handed it to him.

“You mean this one?”

A sad case of poor eyesight, you say? No, it’s a conspiracy.

My husband claims that all married men, the night before their weddings, are pulled aside for a private talk with their fathers.

“Son, I need to tell you something about women,” begins man-to-man the conversation.

“The secret to a happy marriage is to let your wife think she is superior when it comes to finding things. Even if the object is directly in front of your nose, you say the words ‘I can’t find it.’ Eventually she’ll locate whatever it is and wave it in your face with a triumphant, ‘It was right in front of you!’ You’ll never have to search for anything ever again!”

(And all this time when he said he couldn’t find his eyeglasses, I thought he really meant it.)

2. The “Oh, I’m Sorry, Honey, I Didn’t Notice Conspiracy.”

Most women think pumping gasoline is a nuisance and can make your hands smelly. My grandmother is the only woman I know of who enjoyed pumping her own gas, and that was because it was cheaper than full service.

So, here’s a little trick I’ve learned. I never fill my car with gasoline. How do I avoid running out of fuel? I have figured out that the tank usually approaches empty on Sundays. And when my husband drives us to church in my car, without fail, he points out that I’ve neglected my motorist responsibility.

“Susan!” he says, exasperated. “The gauge is almost at E!”

(Ladies, take note: Here’s where you look shocked and dismayed.)

“What? Oh, I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t notice.”

My sweet husband will then sigh in disgust, drive to the gas station and fill the car with gasoline. (He’ll also clean the windshield, an added bonus to my plan!)

Is it wrong for us to manipulate each other this way? Nah. Deep down inside, we know what the other one is doing. (Once I secretly caught him putting a few gallons in my car on Wednesday to last until Sunday.)

Years ago there was a movie that declared, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” At our house, it’s more like, “Love means never having to fill your gas tank.”

I met my good friend Daphne for dinner the other night. I had on new shoes. She had on new breasts.

Yes, that’s right. Read the sentence again. She had on new breasts. I didn’t realize it at first; she was sitting with her arms crossed, unsure how to introduce the subject in polite company.

My dear friend had a double mastectomy a year ago after she was diagnosed with a very rare form of breast cancer. We are thankful that she is now 18 months into a 24-month period of high recurrence rates without any signs of recurrence. (Read more…)

Back in the day, when I was 12 and trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up (other than have magical powers like “I Dream of Jeannie”), I joined our local 4-H club.
My childhood friend Muriel Ann Glitzengelder was already a member of 4-H and loved it. I eagerly signed up for dog care classes with our family dog, Ralph.
Ralph was well settled into his habits of begging at the table, jumping on people and not getting off the couch when we enrolled in dog obedience. So I decided to enter him in a dog costume contest. I made a big watch that fit over his body and a sign that said, “Watch Dog.”
When our big moment came, Ralph experienced a case of stage fright. Just as the judge stepped in front of us, Ralph was overcome with a nervous stomach and barfed all over. The judge stepped in it, made a face and spent the next 10 minutes trying to clean his shoe by dragging it through the grass.
So when I was asked to judge the horse costume contest at the McLean County 4-H Fair this past week, I wondered if horses get nervous stomachs.
“With horses,” said my husband, “you need to make sure you don’t step in other things…”
The weather was sunny, with a nice breeze on Sunday. The other judge, Kevin Bessler, morning DJ on B104, and I watched the parade of horses and owners, all dressed in costumes that were rated for creativity, originality, effort and presentation.
Let me say up front that the job of judge is no fun. It’s just too hard to pick winners from a group of talented and creative kids. They all did a terrific job.
In the four age groups, ranging from 8 to 18, we saw a horse dressed like a McDonald’s Happy Meal, complete with large french fries made from Styrofoam spray painted gold, a “sea horse” wearing a fish net (who later rolled on his back in an effort to get the costume off) and a horse playing the role of a cow, complete with a pink udder. The kids were decked out as well, including a girl posing as the sun with her legs and arms covered with yellow face paint and glitter. One contestant had completely sewn by hand an elephant costume for herself and a mouse costume for her horse.
I hated having to choose one entry over another and even asked a superintendent if we couldn’t give them all first-place ribbons, but alas, we could not.
It would’ve been easier judging a pie contest. At least the pies don’t have looks of disappointment on their faces for coming in second.
The final class to compete was the group class, where kids (and one horse) collectively dress up as a theme. Again, the work and time that went into these entries was amazing. And it’s a family effort: I heard tales of “grandma helped with this” and “mom sewed that.”
The kids from the 4-H Club Blazing Saddles “thrilled” the crowd with their own rendition of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” The horse, wearing a skeleton costume, patiently stood by while the kids, dressed as ghouls, danced the steps to the famous music video. One youngster, Wyatt French, played the lead role and did some Michael Jackson dance moves, which was no small feat in a show ring made of dirt.
All the kids that afternoon were impressive, but I’m not surprised. I’ve always held 4-H kids in high regard. Being in 4-H means learning responsibility and respect at an early age, not to mention a few wicked dance steps.
As for me, I made it home with my cowgirl boots a bit dusty, but otherwise in good condition. No one stepped on me and I didn’t step in anything.