My girlfriend knows Tae Kwon Do.

I almost died Friday night because I was wearing leopard print shoes.

Before I get into that, I'll set the scene. Every few weeks my closest girlfriends and I host a dinner at one of our apartments and then plan a bar crawl in our neighborhoods. This was my turn to host "Ladies who Munch;" I made a delicious meal of skirt steak, arugula and asparagus salad over puff pastry and for dessert ginger-poached pears with vanilla bean ice cream and blueberries. Over the cheese plate, dinner and dessert we drank FIVE bottles of wine among four girls. Our bellies full, we started to dance in my apartment and attempted to learn Michael Jackson's Thriller dance. We took a ton of hilarious pictures that captured the true innocence of the evening that was about to be shattered. After our choreographic success, we headed over to a bar in my neighborhood on 30th Avenue, Fleming's - also known as the bar I'm never going back to ever again.

We got to the bar which was nice and divey, chatted up the bartender, met some young men from Seattle and had a nice time. Then, a friend and I went to buy cigarettes for another friend and went outside to check on her because she wasn't feeling well. That's when the trouble started brewing. Yes, I was wearing leopard print shoes - clearly provoking a fist fight, yet imagine my surprise when a Queens gentleman said, "Did you kill a fucking animal to get those shoes?" I'm not sure of my exact response, but I'm pretty sure it involved me rolling my eyes. Queens men don't like this. They ALSO don't like it when you throw a book of matches in their face, which is exactly what my friend did to protest his dislike of my shoes.

But, what DO Queens men like, you ask? Well, they like dating girls who know Tae Kwon do. That's exactly what he said as he went back into the bar to get his girlfriend to come out and beat us up. This mannish woman came outside and got right in our faces saying we should go back to where we came from, "what, Massachusetts?" she says. My buddy said, "I'm from Manhattan and I live in Park Slope," which certainly did not HELP the situation, but she was just being honest. Ever the middle child, I tried to diffuse the situation, but she wasn't having it. It ended with us apologizing profusely and her telling us that Fleming's was her bar and we can never go back there.

After the butch who came within in an inch of my face (and I within in an inch of my life) went back into "her" bar, I completely lost control and started crying right away. I was so shaken up, definitley drunk (ahem, FIVE BOTTLES) and absolutely tired from only getting four hours of sleep the previous night. (I went to a Modest Mouse secret show very early that morning - they played from 2:30 am until 4 am in Brooklyn)

I clearly don't respond well to confrontation, but if she had punched one of us, I probably would have fought back ... or curled into the fetal position and thrown my wallet or a sandwich at her so she would go away.