True or false? Post your guesses below.

I loved my Honda Accord. The day I got it was the day I received a surprise phone call from my parents. They had been looking and looking for something to replace my 1989 Oldsmobile Cutlass, the one with the burgundy interior and the luggage rack on the back. The one I had wrecked in a snowstorm on my way to Chapel Hill for a Friday night frat party. Finally they’d found the replacement, but I needed to drive from my college down to NC to trade the old one for the new one. I was dying to find out the color. What did the inside look like? Did it have a sunroof? More importantly, did it have the capability to play both tapes AND CDs? Was it leather? (Also important because leather, you see, doesn’t clutch the stench of cigarette smoke quite like upholstery.)

An hour and a half after that phone call, I pulled up in the parking lot of a BBQ joint in a small town off Highway 86. I didn’t see my parents, but I did see a sparkling green Honda, four shiny doors, no tacky spoiler, was that a sunroof?, parked in the second row, away from the BBQ drive-thru. I squealed out loud, jumped out of the car and ran to meet my new beloved piece of machinery. The love I had – will always have – for that car cannot be measured with words or even pictures. The love I feel for every inch of that Honda can only be measured by the buckets of tears I cried the day I – a married woman with a job and a mortgage – sold it to illegal aliens for under-the-table cash.

We went through a lot together, that car and I. There were the many road trips back and forth from state to state, moving boxes of my belongings from dorm to house to apartment and finally, into my permanent home. There were carpet stains from someone else’s children, dings from parking too close to my neighbors, scratches from fallen branches covered in snow. But the biggest dent, located just under the left headlight, came from what started out as a well-intentioned errand.

No one washes their car as much as they probably should, and when you find yourself too busy to breathe, much less get your chores and errands done, important things inevitably fall between the cracks. My Honda always had its check-ups on time, but not so much with the washes. Out on the main drag in my town, there is an automatic car wash that is convenient to a lot of places. On the one particular Sunday afternoon I decided to stop by there, I was lucky – and surprised – to not wait in line for my turn, especially after I did what I did. You know the timers on the outside of the car wash that tell you how long you have to sit under those giant dryers? The big tall digital ones with the red glowing numbers? The ones you can’t possibly miss if you tried?

Turns out, it IS possible to miss them. In fact, it’s entirely possibly to finish your car wash, turn to the left, KNOCK OVER THE TIMER and not realize what you’ve done until you look behind you and see the evidence, collapsed on the concrete with its tangled wire guts sprawled out for all to see. It’s also possible that no one saw you or your car, which is why this particular Sunday afternoon I raced out of that car wash as fast I could, called 13 different friends in panic and waited for the police to come arrest me for property damage.

Oddly enough – security cameras and all – they never came.

Sadly, the three of you (seriously? just three of you? WHERE ARE YOU, PEOPLE?) did not agree. However, Rebecca wins for being the first one to guess – correctly – that my True That? story for Tuesday was, in fact, TRUE.

Names were changed to protect the douchebags, but yes, it happened. Oh, did it happen. Maybe that should go on next week’s list of “250 Things That Scarred Me for Life.” Hmmm…

More tomorrow, friends. And lots of changes in store for Half Baked, Twice as Good. Stay tuned! (All three of you…)

We’re starting something new here at Half Baked, Twice as Good, and we’re calling it “True That? Tuesday.” Here’s how it works: I tell you a story. You decide if that story is true or false, and post your answer in the comments below. On Wednesday, I’ll tell you whether or not you’re right. Most of these stories will fall into the category of HORRIBLY EMBARRASSING, but don’t let that sway your votes. Enjoy! (PS, there might be something in it for the first person to get this right.)

It is April, 1995. We are all gathered in the dining room of my boarding school, dressed in our J. Crew sundresses, bows in our hair because, well, it’s what we did. The air is warm but not yet humid; the seniors all have good hair still, but not for long as the humidity is coming. I am a junior, seated near the back of the room, by the door to the brick patio. We are gathered this night for “Senior Superlatives,” a night when the senior class bestows its awards upon the juniors, ready and waiting to take their place on the social ladder.

As we wait to find out who the most popular girls in our class are, Lindsay gets up, holding her posterboard sign by its string, and flashes her wide, toothy smile. I have known Lindsay since we were campers – and then counselors – together at summer camp. Her dry, sarcastic sense of humor appeals to my personality and I always admire the way she can stand in front of a group of people with complete ease. She has always been one of the most popular girls on campus – in every club, an officer in the SGA, a resident assistant on the junior hall. If you were Lindsay’s friend, you were guaranteed a spot in her green Eddie Bauer Ford Explorer after school, when the cool kids rode off campus to smoke cigarettes and listen to Dave Matthews.

I sit on the edge of my chair, wondering if Lindsay – last year voted “Most Outgoing and Likeable” – has seen those same qualities in me. After all, I had been selected as a resident assistant for senior year already. I was a Presidential Scholar, I was in most of the clubs and involved in activities. But even if she chose one of my classmates instead of me, I know plenty of senior girls and I’m bound to get a superlative sometime tonight.

With her wide, familiar grin and long, blond ponytail, she stands before us now and looks over the group. She talks about the superlative and says that the girl she has selected is not just outgoing and likeable, but also has a heart of gold, a personality that is unique and lovely. This girl is funny, she is warm and she always has a ribbon in her hair.

I sit transfixed, butterflies in my stomach because YES! Lindsay has noticed me! She sees the ribbons I wear to “dress up” the pajamas I wear to class. She knows that I am a well-meaning person, if not the most popular. Surely that bond between us formed years before at camp, and she is finally recognizing it now! Tonight! In front of the whole school!

She holds that pink posterboard with the polka-dotted green grosgrain ribbon in her hands, and I can see a long note written on one side, in her signature slanted handwriting. Does that say Dear Elizabeth, or Dear Emily? The other side has the superlative title, decorated with glitter, puff paint and bright colors. I can already picture where I will hang it in the room I have senior year.

Lindsay tilts her head to one side, making her ponytail sway and showing off her own grosgrain ribbon. She smiles out at the room and says, “The Most Outgoing and Likeable Superlative goes to . . . Elizabeth!”

I am shaking with both excitement and fear, for now I have to stand up and walk to her from my seat in the back of the room. I can’t wait to get that posterboard with its pink and green palette into my hands because IT’S MINE! I have to step over people and around chairs and I can’t keep from smiling because Yes! She recognized me! ME!

Suddenly the room is quiet and I look around and then up at Lindsay to see what has happened. She tilts her head to the other side, smiles sadly and says out loud to the whole school, “Oh no, sorry. The other Elizabeth. Elizabeth Jones!”

My face is hot now as I feel it turning beet red. I slink back to my seat, thankful now that it’s in the back of the dining room. I consider briefly sneaking out the back door to the brick patio, but decide against it, for that would make noise and draw more attention to the girl that will now be known as Bless Her Heart, Poor Pitiful Thing. Elizabeth Jones, with her Florida accent, thick dirty blonde hair and husky build, struts to the front of the room, hugs Lindsay with all her might and shoots me a smug look. I try to lower myself further into my seat, but can’t escape the pitying glances coming from my classmates.

I will forever be remembered as “The Wrong Elizabeth.”