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So I've done a fearless moral inventory and come to the conclusion that I am powerless. Not over alcohol, per se, but pretty much everything. The economy, fashion trends, my adult kids' lifestyle choices. And OK, maybe alcohol, too. Because get this.

For years, I've been a wine drinker. ONLY a wine drinker. And I used to say often and fiercely and with some pride, "I don't consume hard liquor. It's not healthy." Yeah, right. . . .

See, that was before last Sunday when I ended up - you don't want to know how - in a tavern called the Pizza Pub all the way up in North Branch, MN, and struck up a conversation with this group of very young, very drunk men at the end of the bar who were doing tequila shots. I was drinking my wine, as I do, placing an order for my asparagus pizza (I'm serious! and it was goooodddd. . . .) when one of the kids started crowing, "She's drinking her mer-low and waiting for her vegetarian pizza," and challenged me to do a shot.

Well, what's a woman to do? I drank one, of course - "Baracking it," the boys said (which I guess meant sipping with some refinement instead of guzzling and snorting and throwing my head back) - and then a second. Strangely, I liked it and was filled with a warm, amber glow. That was Sunday.

Then came Monday. It was, as you'll recall, that first really blustery, bitter day of winter and I was out on a date with a man (who is sometimes my husband) and he suggested we stop by The Local. Why? Because apparently way back once in the course of our relationship, which has wound and wended every which way, I mentioned that sometimes I liked an Irish coffee. And so.

We bellied up to this bar, very different from the one in North Branch. All dark wood and elfin cut-outs and taps of exotic dark beers. And we ordered two Irish Coffees: glass mugs filled with dark brew and Jameson's and then an unbelievably thick, sweet concoction made from angel clouds and sugar and cream. Here I was, for the second time in less than 24 hours, drinking hard liquor, and it was magnificent!

A wine critic, yes. I am that. But here's what I've discovered: there's nothing like a shot of Cuervo Gold with a baseball-hatted teenager from the sticks, unless it's an Irish Coffee at The Local, where the bartender looks like he just stepped out of a Stella Artois commercial and Blondie plays on the sound system overhead.

I'll admit, that was the night I really did become powerless. Because I drank - are you ready? - not just one Irish Coffee but two, plus half of the husband/boyfriend's Fat Tire beer. And I went to bed and woke up at 3 a.m. not quite woozy but feeling none too grand, dry mouthed and a little thick, but happy nonetheless.