“What can I get you guys to drink,” the waitress asks seductively. She reminds me of the mistress from “Gone Girl.” The clingy, needy college student that wreaked havoc upon the Dunne marriage.

“We’ll have four Fireballs, and she’ll have an Amaretto sour,” the struck-out millionaire responds.

“And I’ll have a Caesar salad,” I interject.

“Lisa, we ate at the ball game,” Rogaine says.

“Listen, Dad, I’m hungry,” I tell him. “So I’m gonna order this damn salad.”

The table gets quiet.

Clearly he still thinks he’s calling the shots. Oh well, I’m gonna just go with the flow.

The game’s over. Mavericks lost. Shocker. But it won’t put a damper on the night. We’ve met two of his friends out at a brand new restaurant that opened in downtown Dallas. One is very talkative and nice. The other is more reserved but looks like a combination of Channing Tatum and John Cena. And he has a sleeve tattoo. I can’t stop staring.

After a couple rounds of drinks, we load up in my date’s truck and head over to a bar in the uptown Dallas area.

Guys, what is about to ensue, I cannot make up. I repeat, I cannot make this up.

We all get out of the truck and walk to the bouncer outside of the bar.

“IDs please,” the bouncer states.

Of course, one of the guys doesn’t have their ID on them, but no matter, NeNe name drops, so we get in without showing IDs.

I edge my way between the crowd to get to the front of the bar and order our drinks. The talky friend comes up and pays for them.

“Man, it’s pretty crowded here,” he yells over the blaring music.

“Yeah, I don’t come to this bar that much, because it’s always like this,” I tell him.

The four of us walk off and get a booth table and drink our drinks. We crowd watch, make small talk. I googly eye the John-Cena-Channing-Tatum hybrid. Then screaming erupts.

“OH MY GOD, IT’S THEM, IT’S THEM!!” I hear one person scream.

“They’re here! Ohmygah I can’t believe it!” I hear another person say.

I’m looking around for what exactly these people are talking about when I hear Shawn whisper, “Lisa, ________ and ________ are here.”

Now, for the sake of privacy, I’m not going to use names. These are celebrities in the sports world. What happens in the next thirty minutes is a complete and utter shit show.

So sure enough, I look around the bar and see this large group of guys walk in with a huge body guard who looks like Suge Knight. And I instantly spot who the crowd is gasping over.

The bouncers rush in and rope off an area with chairs so that the celebrities are separated from us peasants. Now you guys know me, of course I squeeze myself into the roped-in area unnoticed. In this chaired-in area are approximately 20 to 25 people, mostly girls.

I should’ve shaved my legs.

However, being somewhat inebriated I feel like Heidi Klum. I’m telling myself over and over in my head that I’m going to get one of these guys’ attention. In reality, I’m sure I look like that girl that was in the stands at Game 4 of the Golden State and Cleveland series last season. You know, the one licking her fingers whilst she day dreamingly stares at Steph Curry.

Yes, that was me. Except I had on a romper accompanied with two-day leg hair stubble.

“HOLD UP, HOLD UP, WE DEM BOYZ!” blares from the speakers as cocktail waitresses come out in unison carrying bottles with fireworks on them. I’m in awe. But I can’t act like it. I have to act like I’m used to this. But I feel like I’m in a movie. I’m gawking at two celebrities, which are ten feet from me, bottles are erupting with flames and it’s raining money.

Yes, someone in this little chaired off area has thrown a stack of cash in the air, and it’s flying all over the place.

Pause. Now what do you guys think I do?

A. Start taking pictures.

B. Act natural like the money doesn’t faze me.

C. Pocket that shit just like I did with that dollar from Venmo.

Of course, I, Lisa Tarr, shamelessly scoop every dollar I can fit in my hand and shove it into my new DSW purse. I don’t even count it. I ball it up and shove it in hoping no one sees. However, I’m not alone. Almost everyone in this area around me is doing what I’m doing.

Then it happens.

Again, I cannot make this up. I wish I could. Because then I could write a book and get paid for it.

Anyways, this guy taps me on the shoulder and whispers, “Don’t do that, I’ll give you money.”

“Oh yeah, prove it,” I try to say seductively as a Fireball burp leaves my throat.

Even as I’m typing this I’m still in awe, but this man pulls out a perfectly folded stack of money and extracts five 20 dollar bills and hands them over. I. Am. Not. Kidding. I open my DSW purse yet again and let him slide the 100 dollars in before he changes his mind.

I just made 117 dollars and didn’t have to work. But wait… it gets better.

So after the large lump sum I’ve made, I get back to the real job, which is somehow trying to catch one of these celebrities eyes. And after five minutes of sexy eye gazing it works. Bob, I’ll call him, comes down from his booth table and walks over to me.

Lisa. Act cool. Don’t talk about Harry Potter. Don’t tell a stupid ass knock knock joke. Don’t ask questions. Just be normal.

Well, guess what I do.

Before I tell you, let me lay down the foundation. For those that don’t know me and my flirting abilities. For those that do know my flirting abilities, well this will just be a good refresher.

I’m the question master. I love, love, love asking questions. Flirting or not, I just love asking ‘em. How else do you get to know someone or the answer to something without asking, right? So most nights, excuse me, all nights, that I’m out at a bar and I meet someone new, I hit them with a firing squad of questions. What’s your name? What do you do for a living? Where do you live? What did you make on your ACT? Who’s your best friend? Ya know, the typical get-to-know-someone questions.

After I get to know someone, I then play trivia. Who has the best record in the NBA? How many cities are in the Real Housewives franchise? How many classes of viruses are in the Baltimore virus classification? Ya know, the typical trivia questions.

Then after the trivia questions, which are always tailored so that I know the correct answer, I either correct them or tease them for not getting them right.

I’m thinking now back to a time in Murfreesboro when I did the above scenario with this guy at Jim’s, a rinky-dink, hole-in-the-wall bar crawling with the frat gods. He got mad when he didn’t know an answer and jumped up from the booth and said, “And that’s why you don’t have a boyfriend, Lisa, because you think you’re smarter than everyone!”

Maybe he was right, or maybe not, because a week later I had a boyfriend. But anyway, that’s not the point. Back to my questions.

So that’s how I typically flirt. I don’t laugh at the stupid jokes guys tell, or pretend to think they’re funny, or act impressed by a non-impressive statement. I’ll just ask questions.

So yes, this celebrity, Bob, walks over to me, and of course, being me, I ask questions. And not your normal questions… Get ready…

“So what’s your favorite cereal?”

“Frosted Flakes.”

“Oh, yum, I like those, too,” I tell him.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Grey,” he says.

Oh great. The real boring type.

Then it comes out like word vomit. Everyone who knows this celebrity knows this part of his backstory, but being on an adrenaline slash alcohol rush, it slips my mind.

“Who’s your best friend, your mom or your dad?” I ask.

“My mom, because she died from colon cancer. Look,” he says as he removes his Rolex and shows me the “Mom” tattoo on his left wrist.

Holy shit, Lisa. Way to freaking go.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” was the best I could manage.

For the first time in my life, I’m at a loss for words.

“So who do you like?” he asks and motions his head toward the other celebrity.

“Excuse me?” I reply.

“I said, who do you like,” he repeats himself.

For the second time in my life, I’m at a loss for words. Yes, I realize I’m at a bar, and yes I realize everyone is three sheets to the wind, but I didn’t expect for my three question conversation and small talk to end so abruptly with the not so subtle question.

“Um… bye,” I say to Bob.

“What, did you think I was gonna be sensitive and shit?” he replies.

Look, I didn’t expect to braid each other’s hair and bond over Polly Pockets, I just expected a conversation and laughs is what I’m thinking. But instead of popping off, I just walk off with my 117 dollars.

Like I said, being subtle isn’t my forte. And it is clearly seen in my next encounter with celebrity #2.

Stay tuned. You can’t miss this.

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