That sweet nectar of victory is going to go flat if you don't put a cap on it...

So you guys know how, at your elementary school carnivals, you used to do those contests where you guessed how many jelly-beans were in the jar, and if you were closest you got to eat the jelly beans? (...I never won the prize. I always looked at the jar and thought, 'well, let's see. As far as I know, it could be anywhere between 34 and five bajillion jelly beans. I'm gonna go spend my tickets on cotton candy instead.')Well, we're going to do a version of that, but with more alcohol and awkwardness. You're excited, right?

The riddle is this: How long does it take Caitlin Jane Scorpion, after entering a Baltimore dive bar, to muster the courage to order a cocktail? To figure it out, you're gonna need some sort of complex mathematical equation that factors in my fear of bars, multiplied by my fear of looking stupid, exponentiated by my lack of knowledge about mixed drinks, divided by the fact that the sooner I order this drink the sooner I can get the hell out of the bar, all squared by my acute general awkwardness... Or, you could just guess.

Anyone?

OK, if you guessed "about 45 minutes," you win! There are no jelly beans for me to give you, but you do win the prize of knowing that you outclass me in yet another adult social grace. Though I guess, if that's a prize, the world is overrun with champions.

It all went down a few weeks ago on a Friday night. A big group of us went ice skating for a friend's birthday, and decided to go out for drinks afterwords. I figured I could handle it. I really enjoyed chatting with friends over pints in the pubs in Ireland. I thought an American bar might even be pleasant as long as it didn't involve any halter tops or drinks with variations of the words "fire," "balls" or "dragon" in their titles. A member of our group suggested a place he'd been before called "Ale Mary's." When we asked him why he liked the place, he said, "I dunno...the name is hilarious."

We said, shrug, "good enough for us!" and off we went.

When we arrived though, the tiny bar was already overflowing with patrons and couldn't accommodate the extra 20 people we tried to stuff inside of it at once. Before we could telephone a consensus to every member of the group, half of us had already ordered drinks. So, we decided to split up. Apparently, there was another bar across the street where some of us could go for a while. I attached myself to the group that was leaving because God knows how many tightly packed strangers had already gotten their greasy fingerprints all over my pristine personal bubble.

Of course, had I known then that we were going to a place actually titled "Bad Decisions," I might have chosen differently. When I saw the ominous name on the dingy awning and the low light in the bar we were headed to, I begged my companions to turn around.

"Guys, we can't go in there! None of us are nicknamed after predatory wildlife and I don't know the words to any Motley Crue songs. Let's come back when we have some leather jackets and stick-on tatoos."

When we got inside (against my wishes) I was relived to see that most of the bar's patrons were bedecked in jeans and hipster scarves -- nary a Hell's Angel in sight. But my greatest challenge -- actually obtaining and drinking a drink -- was still ahead of me. We settled in at the bar where my super cool friends all started expertly ordering cheap beer. Next to me, my friend Will asked the bartender if he had any specials.

"What?" the bartender asked, as though Will had just asked for a crystal bowl of caviar and a tiara.

"You know, specials," Will said, "Like cheap drinks on Friday nights or pitchers of stuff..."

The bartender snorted. "No, we don't have anything like that. Ever. Never ever. Ever."

Will and I exchanged glances. He, unflapped, ordered his beer like a pro, but I was in a predicament. I don't really like beer. I'll probably drink one if you put it in my hand, but who are we kidding? I like my alcoholic beverages to taste like Jolly Ranchers. And I don't want to spend a whole two day's bus fare on a glorified hand decoration. As I mentioned before, I am entirely inexperienced when it comes to public drinking in the US. In Ireland I had cider. It was easy to order, not uncool, and had a lingering hint of juicebox -- just the way I like it. In the States, the only no-fuss thing they ever have on tap is beer, and all my cocktail knowledge comes from re-runs of Sex and the City on TBS. Somehow, I knew this wasn't the sort of place where one orders a Balaklava Nectar. Something simple like a screwdriver or a rum and Coke would have been safe, but I didn't want to spend my aforementioned bus fare on something a frat boy could mix for me in his basement either.

I racked my brain for ten minutes and the best I could come up with was a margarita. Yes... a margarita just might work, I thought. I've never ordered one before, but I know it's widely recognized, tastes like candy, and has somewhere between three and twenty components. And -- bonus! -- it often comes with decorative crap on the rim! Throw in a little pink umbrella and I'm sold! Yet, I still wasn't sure. And not just because I knew in my heart that the pink umbrella was but a wisp of a dream at Bad Decisions.

I took a survey of my friends at the bar: "Do you think they'd give me a Margarita? Will, I really want to order a Margarita but I don't want the bartender to look at me the way he looked at you when you asked about the specials."

Though my friends were ambivalent, I finally plucked up the courage to ask for my beverage of choice:

"Sir, could I have a Margarita?"

The bartender raised his eyebrows, "Sure. I guess." It occurred to me that I was probably the first person to order a Margarita in about ten years at Bad Decisions, but I was pleased he wasn't going to mock me (to my face) for ordering one. He continued, "What kind of Tequila do you want?"

I wasn't prepared for this. The most refined alcoholic nuances I can distinguish are between Smirnoff Watermelon and Smirnoff Blueberry. How am I supposed to choose between Tequilas? I paused for a moment, then said, "Um...the cheap kind?"

The bartender nodded and chuckled a little. "Sure. You got it."

I don't know if the margarita I got was a good one or not. It stuck in my throat like lifesavers dissolved in 7-Up -- just the way I like it. It was also decidedly plain rimmed, but I didn't care. I felt I had won an important victory that night at the bar. It tasted like triumph.

At least, as good as triumph can taste after it's been sitting out for 45 minutes.