“So … honey, about that unfortunate incarceration…”

No, too vague.

How about, “So honey, once you make bail you are really going to laugh!”

No. Too flippant.

OK. I’ve got it. “Please don’t kill me and/or divorce me I really, really meant to mail in that speeding ticket payment for you but you know how one thing goes into another and before you know it you find that you’ve tucked the ticket in the visor of your car and completely forgotten to send it until about five days after it was due by mail if you didn’t want to appear before the judge, and oh, by the way, you were supposed to appear before the judge yesterday and of course, you didn’t.”

Whew! It’s a mouthful, but I think it’s believable if I say it fast and, preferably, over the telephone. Long distance seems best.

Mistake. See, I didn’t mean to get my husband in trouble with the law. Not really. I meant to mail his traffic ticket. I really did.

Obviously, my only hope is to shift the blame.

Look, he was the one who was speeding, right? Clearly, the real issue lies with him.

I remember it well, just a week or so ago. We were driving along (apparently much too fast) and minding our own business when he began to pull over.

“What and why?” I asked, alarmed.

I figured something was leaking, smoking, or otherwise dropping off our vehicle.

“I’m getting a ticket,” he said matter-of-factly and, as it turned out, correctly.

Coming toward us, just over the rise of the hill, was an impressively professional police officer and his equally impressive radar device that would prove without a shadow of a doubt that Mr. Wonderful was, in fact, 12 miles per hour over the speed limit.

Hey, you know how those mini-vans can get away from you.

The patrolman who wrote up the citation couldn’t have been nicer, or quicker, which I’ve come to appreciate as I’ve aged.

Granted, it’s been years — simply years — since either of us had a speeding ticket, but I definitely seem to recall it taking something like eons.

Back in the day, not only would you risk losing your job because you were so late for work (which was, of course, why you were speeding in the first place and should be a reasonable excuse but never is), but you could actually lose the job and qualify for unemployment.

All this while you languished roadside waiting for the officer to return your license, your ticket, and your freedom.

Now, they’ve really gotten it down to a science.

“Proof of insurance?”

“Yep!”

“Driver’s license?”

“Yep!”

“Any idea why I pulled you over today?”

“Probably because I was driving too fast.”

Honest. See, I think Johnny Law appreciates it when you just admit it outright. He knows you were speeding. You know you were speeding. Sometimes your brute honesty will get you off with a warning.

This was not one of those times.

The officer fairly chuckled as he wrote out the bill, er, I mean, citation.

“Looks like you’ve got a bigger problem with someone in the car with you, sir.”

Um, sure, OK whatever dude. You’ve got the gun, I’m not arguing.

I really wasn’t the “peevish little woman.” Heck, I always figured I’d be the one to get a ticket in that little speed trap, er, village.

I drive through there too fast far more often than my husband does. Let she who is without sin cast the first lead foot in stone, I say.

No big deal. In fact, I’m proud of the fact that, ever-the-supportive spouse, I reassured him that it was no big deal. Hey, it happens, right? I also assured him I would mail the ticket right on in and we’d forget all about it.

Then I forgot all about it until I found it tucked in the visor of the van. Oops.

I’m not sure what happens to a person who “fails to appear” in court. I’m pretty sure, however, that the judge doesn’t care a whit about any excuse that begins “the check’s in the mail, Your Honor — as soon as my wife remembers to mail it.”

Pesky. This is where my practice call comes in. “So, uh honey, I love you very much and, well, there may be a warrant out for your arrest over a little something called ‘failure to appear’ or some such pesky thing. Drive carefully now, baby. Did I mention I love you very, very much?”

Look for my husband’s memoir coming soon: “Marriage: Unsafe at any Speed.”

On the bright side, he once commented that “everyone” (a slight exaggeration) seems to know me from the time I spend hanging around town wasting time, but that after living here 10 years, he “can’t even get arrested in this town.”

I think it’s safe to say that, thanks to yours truly, that may not be a problem anymore.

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