Sally Breslin: My Life: THERE'S NO GOOD EXCUSE FOR GETTING OUT OF THAT TRAFFIC TICKET

A police officer on a talk show the other day was asked about the most common excuses drivers give him when they are pulled over for speeding.

The three most common, according to the officer, were: 1. “I really have to go to the bathroom,” 2. “If I’m late for work again, I’ll get fired,” and 3. “I’m feeling sick.” Coming in at a distant fourth was, “I think my speedometer isn't working right.”

Personally, I thought all four were pretty valid excuses. I mean, I vividly can recall more than one occasion when my husband and I were served “mystery meat” at a restaurant and drove home pretty fast, just so we could fight for the bathroom.

The officer on TV also said that a person’s attitude can mean the difference between getting a ticket or just a warning. For example, a driver who comes out with something like, “I wasn’t speeding, you idiot! When was the last time you had your eyes examined?” might just as well be saying, “Okay, slap the cuffs on me and strip-search me!”

I think a person’s facial expression also has a lot to do with it. My late husband was the sweetest guy on earth, but people always told him he looked mean. That could be the reason why he once received a ticket for driving below the speed limit, which was something I’d never even heard of before. But the policeman informed him that slow drivers were just as much of a danger on the road as speeders.

I, on the other hand, have been stopped three times and never received a ticket (allow me to pause here to knock on wood). The first time, only a week after I got my driver’s license, I was speeding because I was late for my part-time job (a.k.a. excuse number two). The state trooper who pulled me over read the name on my license and asked, “Are you related to Lou?”

I nodded. “He’s my dad.”

“He’s a good friend of mine,” the trooper said. “I stop by to see him at work all the time.”

“Oh...” I frowned. “You’re not going to tell him about this, are you?”

The trooper looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “No, I’m going to let you tell him. And you can bet I’ll be checking with him to see if you did.”

I didn’t get a ticket, mainly because he must have figured that confessing my “crime” to my father would be punishment enough.

The second time I was pulled over was years later, when I did what was referred to as a “California stop,” though I have no clue why it's called that, considering I live in New Hampshire. Anyway, I paused, but didn’t come to a full stop at a stop sign. And when I did it, I was unaware that a police car was directly behind me. Its lights immediately came flashing on.

After the officer checked my license and registration, he told me to step out of the car. I hadn’t expected him to say that, so I became really nervous, wondering why.

“Follow me,” he ordered, the minute my feet touched the pavement.

He led me back to the corner of the road and halted. Slowly, he pointed to each letter on the stop sign.

“S-T-O-P,” he said as he pointed. “What does that spell?”

“Stop,” I squeaked, feeling the color rush to my cheeks.

“Good!” he said. “Then maybe next time you’ll actually do it!”

He then dismissed me...without giving me a ticket.

The third time I was stopped, I was positive I hadn’t broken any driving laws, so I had no idea why I was being pulled over. I’d just recently bought my car and it still had temporary plates on it.

A good-looking state trooper approached, flashed a bright smile at me and said, “I noticed your plates will be expiring in two days. Do you have your permanent plates yet?”

It just so happened I’d received them in the mail that very morning and they were lying on the front seat.

“Yes, I just received them.” I pointed to them. “They’ll be on in plenty of time.”

“Need any help with them?” he asked.

“Thank you, but my husband will do it for me when I get home.”

“Oh...you’re married?” he backed away from the car. “Have a nice day.”

But I still have to chuckle whenever I think about another time my poor husband was pulled over. We were stopped behind another car at a red light early one night when he happened to notice that the car behind us was a police car. Fear and paranoia immediately set in.

“God, I hope my muffler’s not dragging or my back tires aren’t bald,” he said.

“Or there’s not at arm hanging out of your trunk!” I joked.

When the car in front of us started to move, my husband, still intently eyeing the police car in his rear-view mirror, automatically followed it. Little did he know that the guy in front of us had grown impatient waiting for the green light and had decided to just go through the red one.

The officer pulled both cars over.

“Tell him you weren’t paying attention because I’m really sick,” I frantically whispered to my husband (unaware back then that it was excuse number three) as the officer walked toward our car.

“I’m sorry, officer,” my husband rolled down the window and blurted out to him. “But my wife is really sick.”

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked, bending down to look over at me.

I crossed my fingers, hoping that my husband, who was the world’s worst liar, would come up with something really serious, maybe even highly contagious, like the bubonic plague.

“Uh...she has PMS.”

He got a ticket.

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