If not death, arrest...

My husband was not successful in his sneaky plot to kill me by cleaning my car... but I discovered his back up plan.

Send me to jail.

At precisely 59 mph, my old, crummy tires would shake my car like a 50's exercise machine - which only goes to prove those things don't work, I'd weigh 80 pounds by now.

The crummy tires kept me from speeding, which was a good thing because I accidentally bought a car with a big engine.

How do you accidentally buy a car with a big engine? When you're super girlie and point out the car you like based solely on color and say, 'Aww! It's so cute!' as if picking out a puppy.

Anyway, after I wiped the oil slick out of my car, I found myself passing a whole lot of cars on the freeway. I looked down at my speedometer and gasped as I read... 84.

Not only did hubsters replace my tires, he mentioned he replaced them with racing tires. My subconscious summoned my inner Mario Andretti. And since my car was no longer shaking, speed snuck up without my notice.

Part of my route to work is on a freeway strongly monitored by the California Highway Patrol.

I see my future quite clearly...

'Do you know how fast you were going?' the cop would ask.

"Yes. 84. Anything slower would be an insult to the tire manufacturer. I've got racing tires." I'd say while pointing at my front wheel. "Now if you'll simply apologize for pulling me over, I'll be on my way" I'd say, impatiently tapping my fingernails on the metal of my door.

And that's when I'd go to jail.