I was out with a friend and feeling pretty hot, so when the bartender came over and asked, ``What do you dames want?'' I crossed my legs so my Gap khaki skirt hiked up just so, I stowed the snapshots of my toddlers, and I took my hair out of its scrunchi.

``Gimme a seltzer,'' I drawled, ``with a slice of lime.''

I could see he was impressed, as were the guys at the end of the bar, and when I got to work the next day I was still riding the high. Until a press release for a new drink from Dewar's crossed my desk, that is.

``The Vamp,'' it began, ``is a drink for the woman who can keep up with the boys.

``A drink for the woman who can manage her own finances, use power tools, fix the DVD player, and run business meetings . . . while wearing (very) high heels. A drink for the woman who knows which team to root for, which company to invest in and where to get the best manicure for the least amount of money.''

``And yet feels the need to drink heavily,'' I said to myself. But that was just the jealousy speaking.

A woman who knows how to fix the DVD player and where to get a bargain manicure and which team to root for?

I was pitched into an insecurity spiral.

I knew it wasn't good for my confidence, but I read on anyway, and learned that the Vamp woman not only speaks in dollars and cents, but French and Italian, too. And that she's an ``unscrupulous businesswoman and an unscrupulous flirt.''

It was only 10 in the morning, but I wanted nothing more than a Vamp, which I now know is a combination of Dewar's 12 Year Old, Gran Gala orange liqueur, lemon juice, orange juice, bitters and a flaming orange peel.

``But are you equal to it?'' one of my colleagues asked. She pointed out - in a helpful way - how embarrassing it would be to order a beverage that's better than you are.

But maybe the drink could help me achieve some much-needed diva-tude.

I called the Dewar's publicist. ``It would empower you,'' Amanda Miller, the account executive, explained.

``Scotch has this fire-in-your-belly taste,'' she said. ``It will ignite a fire you have but didn't know you had. It lubricates that part of you you keep locked inside.''

I didn't tell Amanda this, but the part of me that I keep locked inside is locked inside for a reason, as anyone who's seen any of the parts of me that have escaped to the outside would agree.

Even so, I was about to head out for a Vamp, but I was worried. What if I got all liquored up and then, instead of heading back to the Herald to file my column, I went home and, filled with false confidence, took apart the DVD player, only to sober up and realize I wasn't Vampy enough to fix it.

Amanda assured me this wouldn't be a problem. ``If you're drinking a Vamp,'' she said, ``you don't need a DVD player. You are your own entertainment.''

Uh-oh.