Are you or someone you love dating a banker? If so, we are here to support you through these difficult times. Dating A Banker Anonymous (DABA) is a safe place where women can come together – free from the scrutiny of feminists– and share their tearful tales of how the mortgage meltdown has affected their relationships. DABA Girls was started by two best friends whose relationships tanked with the economy. Not knowing what else to do, we did what frustrated but articulate girls have done since the beginning of time - we started a blog. So if your monthly Bergdorf’s allowance has been halved and bottle service has all but disappeared from your life, lighten your heart with laughter and email your stories to dabagirls@gmail.com. Warning all stories sent will be infused with our own special brand of DABA Girl humor.
FBFs, DABAs, DABITs, Nanna, Poppa,
If you miss us as much as we miss you, please check out DABA Laney’s new fashion blog Fa-Lo-Me. It’s fabulous, has all of our favorite things (fashion, love, food, and endless stories about us). Best of all it doesn’t render her completely un-dateable:)
xoxo
The DABA Girls
My diabetic and homebound neighbor across the hall was born in the very apartment that she is living in. She has no family that I know of, so with any luck she will pass peacefully in her sleep and she will leaver her apartment and all its rent stabilized glory to me. I’m getting off topic. The point is, when the aforementioned neighbor is telling you that you need to go out more, it’s time to start dating again. But how can I when I was so close to having that 401K-arat rock? How do you start dating again when you’ve already met Mr. perfect-on-paper (just not-perfect-during-a-recession)?
I couldn’t comprehend why people were so insistent that America’s automobile industry had to be saved. We import safer, more fuel efficient cars from Asia. No big deal. Survival of the fittest, that’s my motto, or was until my FBF broke up with me. He explained my termination as follows:
“Princess, we need to talk. How do I explain this? You are a costly investment. During better economic times, I was happy to spend a little extra to buy American, but now we are all being forced to make tough decisions and, well, bottom line: I can quite literally get more bang for my buck if I invest with a foreign model instead. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
And that my fellow DABA girls is how my girlfriend services were outsourced to an underage Russian model who was willing to provide services admittedly substantially equivalent to my own but at well-below market value and without the regulatory hassle. F*cking Mercenary.
I hope the government earmarked some bailout money for ex-DABA girls. Without my FBF subsidizing things. I am seriously over-leveraged with Saks and I’m not talking about Goldman.
Name: Melania Knauss-Trump
Age: 39, Born April 26, 1970
Occupation: Melania hails from Slovenia and her only talents include taking her clothes off for men’s magazines, appearing in horrible Aflac insurance commercials, and attending events- which doesn’t really quality her as a DABA. But she was clever enough to nab Trump who doesn’t have much patience for stupidity, and so, unless she gets “fired” we’re dubbing her an honorary DABA. And hey, she convinced Andre Leon Tally to help her pick out her wedding dress, not an easy task!
DABA Girl Status: Melania and the Donald were married on January 22, 2005 and a year later she gave birth to a new addition to the Trump army of heirs–little Barron William, fifth in line to the throne. Number three of the Donald wives, following, Ivana and Marla– we wish her luck-hopefully third time is a charm!
Pleeeaasse Inside Trader, Don't make me give the DABA up!
Dear DABA Girls and Inside Trader,
I’ve been a fan of the page ever since the Times piece. It has certainly been entertaining to read the counterpart to the now defunct Leveraged-Sell out blog. First and foremost, let me just say that I love the DABA girl, that cultured and worldly fashion-forward goddess. A liberal but also a realist, she knows that money can’t buy happiness, but damn it certainly doesn’t hurt. Oh and she’s not so bad looking either.
I’m a new FBF in the sense that I only just graduated in the spring of 2007, fresh on the scene and ready to “kill it.” Unfortunately with the debacle in the finance industry, I see my hopes of making my first buck rapidly fading. With the backlash from the media and politicians alike, the allure of dropping the name card or casually saying, “oh I work in fi-nance” (not fye-nance) is dwindling as well. Being so new to the industry and just recently out of college, I guess this recession hasn’t affected me all that much; I’m not yet totally accustomed to the huge paydays and my gf is busy as a PR assistant at a fashion house. We’re still doing fine, maybe because I personally do not like to think about work outside of work, or maybe because I’m still employed.
Here’s the advice I seek: is it worth putting myself through 100 hours a week of immaculately aligning excel cells, all in the hope that one day in the near future, people will forget about this mess so that bonuses are back?
To be honest, the work is very dull, the people are very dull. But I love the lifestyle. I like not having to worry about money and being able to treat my bank account as a number that replenishes itself every 2 weeks. I enjoy a properly decanted bottle of First Growth Bordeaux. I enjoy a Damien Hirst exhibit. And perhaps most of all I like pampering my DABA gf.
I got into this business purely for the money and nothing else. In all honesty I cannot stand the work, especially when the growth rate of my bonus has been lessened significantly. So is it about a career change?
Best Regards,
Newbie in New York
I say, stay put Newbie. Not a lot of jobs out there with the earnings potential of the one you are in. Maybe I’m recklessly optimistic, but I’m confident the market will turnaround in the next few years. Lets be honest, as a junior banker, you weren’t gonna be making much more money than you are now, even in a good economy. The plus side is, without a lot of deals to work on, you can do less work and spend more time on your DABA gf…
Let’s throw it out to the ladies though…
Would you date this “fi-nance” guy with the potential that one day the market will turnaround and he will be able to take you on a round-the-world trip to Melbourne, Australia and Paris, France instead of either Melbourne, Florida or Paris, Texas? It’s a risky investment but one with high-earning potential…
Comments welcome.
Dear DABA Girls,
Call me La DABA. Me and my golden skin very happily reside in Los Angeles. I can however openly admit that us LA gals have always had FBF envy. The closest equivalent we have here are agents and producers, and to be honest most of them can’t do basic math or form sentences without shameless namedropping – as if celebrity association will somehow reaffirm their masculinity after years of fetching coffee for $23,000 a year, saying things like:
“My assistant totally f’ed up my Jessica Biel meeting today and made me late to Brian Grazer’s, which threw my whole day off and now I’m never going to make it to the premiere on time!”
Beyond these insufferable douchebags, all we’ve got are the celebrities themselves (trust me, no), the wannabe celebrities (aka wait staff), the washed up celebrities (ever met Stephen Dorff?), and whoever the rest of those uncomfortable looking poseurs rocking Bentley leases they can’t afford while acting too cool (read: broke) to buy girls drinks out at the club – where they can be found every night – may be.
So you can imagine I was pretty stoked to enter into a bi-coastal relationship with my very own FBF last year. Everything about FBF, I loved. In comparison to his LA counterparts, FBF rarely spoke about work when not at the office. He didn’t talk into a headset, bbm with club promoters, or know who Carrie Underwood was. He had no idea what the weekend’s box office was, and when I mentioned going back to school for my JD he said, “awesome” instead of “why?” FBF was a secure, confident, adult male who batted in the big leagues every day and thus wasn’t – as many LA men are – intimidated by a woman who was (gasp!) gainfully employed.
Then the Dow tanked and the wheels fell off. I flew to NY to hold FBF’s hand, not realizing I’d also be cleaning up his vomit after 25 tequila rounds in NY’s diviest dives. Suddenly, he was insecure, uncomfortable in his own skin, depressing, depressed, and perpetually drunk. He had become what I hated most – an LA guy. When he started to express an interest in checking out the West Coast, I panicked. Was it only a matter of time before my FBF became a local loser like all the rest? I couldn’t date a NY transplant barely able to drive his leased Hummer! My FBF was supposed to make my girlfriends’ LA boyfriends feel insecure about their vacuous, entertainment-based career paths, not provide a healthy dose of schadenfraude as he imbibes one too many and confesses to loving US Weekly.
Poor FBF. I can’t ignore the fact that, when still a Master of the Universe, FBF was excessively generous and sexy – my very own Mr. Big. How can I now abandon him, even as I’m bombarded with my friends asking:
“How is (FBF)?”
I heard most guys in his position have been given the ax. Fortunately for all the HBFs (Hollywood Boyfriends), the movie business generally does really well in times of depression. ”People want an escape, you know.”
Yes, I do.
xo
La DABA
We'll always love Big Poppa (just wish we were livin' large now like you were then!)
The last 4 days have been a crimson blood bath. The last time the markets were this low, Notorious B.I.G. was still dropping rhymes and polishing up his last album (and Little Kim). His posthumous summer anthem of ‘97 was “Mo Money, Mo Problems.” Wish we had those problems again.
Puff Daddy waxed poetic “Ten years from now we’ll still be on top.” If he was talking about the U.S., he was right, but it was also the last year at the summit. He did a great job of calling the market peak in 2007- who knew his investment prowess back then?
Personally, 1997 was one of the best summers of my life – the summer between high school and college. No responsibility and probably the only time in my life when “No money, No problems” actually made sense. I think the best date I took a girl out on back then was to Applebee’s and a student discount showing of Good Will Hunting.
Ladies, for your sake, I hope the movies are good this year.
Brought to you by Anonymous Finance Guy (and occasional DABA Girl Sympathizer)
Dear DABAs,
Here’s the problem: in this economy I’m noticing that his toys stay, and hers get downgraded.
My FBF found a fantastic deal on a yacht in foreclosure, and with the same look on his face as when I showed up with pig tails, a plaid skirt and field hockey stick, he said he simply had to have it.
I figured since he was feeling large, my Valentine’s Day gift would be on the same scale. The box was big, probably not jewels, and way too big for sexy La Perla- you can only imagine my consternation when I opened it to find a large, shapeless, rain coat.
“Foul weather gear,” he said with glee, and on my still confused look, “For the yacht.”
Now this is a man who knows I don’t venture out on a calm day with anything less than three Dramamines. I think of myself as more of a rum punch sunset cruise sort of gal. There will be no foul weather sailing for moi. I’ll fly in to meet him in Nantucket.
But trying to be a good sport I tried the coat on over my mini dress and high heels hoping for some sort of a sexy sailoress look. It was way too big. So he took it back. To give to his daughter.
Okay, an appropriate Valentine’s Day gift repossessed, but ill-fitting, foul weather gear? Shut up. How low have we sunk? To the economic sea bottom? Please, someone throw me a life raft!
xo
Heather in the Hamptons
Name: Georgina ChapmanDABA Girl Status: Georgina began dating co-founder of Miramax, Harvey Weinstein in 2004, and although these two conjure images of Beauty and the Beast, we must admit, this media mogul is the epitome of a MM, aka LA FBF. Georgina thought so too apparently–the couple tied the knot on December 15, 2007, at their Westport, Connecticut estate. We know what you’re thinking, Georgina and Harvey started dating in 2004, and Marchesa was founded in 2004? To quote Erin from The City, “I smell ahi tuna.” Not so fast ladies, Georgina is no Melania Trump–this Brit girl is the daughter of millionaire businessman, Brian Chapman, and could have probably asked daddy for a helping hand if she needed it.
The only problem with L.A. is the pesky paparazzi. Honestly, who knew the DABA Girls were so big out west?
As you may have concluded from the lack of posts last weekend, Megan and I were out of town over President’s Day. Fully inspired from our Sundance jaunt we decided another vacation was in order, hoping to cure any Valentine’s Day depression with sunlight and new boys, we hopped on American flight 29 to our old abode, sunny Los Angeles. Unlike our Utah trip, this time we were serious about finding ourselves nice new media boyfriends. But not without some trepidation, we had after all left LA in search of greener, more exciting, banker-filled pastures in NYC just a few years ago.
The first day there we were taken around town by trip MVP Andy B., first stop: lunch at authentic sushi restaurant Sasabune, where along with two of Andy’s media friends we washed our blue crab rolls down with sake. Sake bombs over a long lunch on a work day without any judgmental stares? (one point LA). Despite Megan’s black satin Gucci dominetrix pencil skirt and razor sharp bob not quite fitting in, and my I’m-so-poor-I-may-be-homeless-soon jokes not garnering the same it’s-funny-because-it’s-true response as they did at home, we otherwise blended right in. Just as the sake started to kick in, our blackberries started vibrating. Our trusty DABA intern just sent us an urgent email reporting that the markets had closed with the Dow down 100 points and S&P down more than 500 points. We looked up, fearful of the doom that was sure to descend on our carefree lunch, but nobody else’s blackberries were anywhere to be seen. And could that be laughter we hear? Sure enough, Harvey, Yan, and Andy were totally caught up in a debate over Jessica Simpson’s fat jeans. Desperate to be part of this happy-go-lucky world we decided to blame our inability to smoothly re-enter into west coast society on our jet-leg and embrace the ignorance. Three more sake shots and we had all but forgotten the market’s mood swing.
En route back to the BH (short term for Beverly Hills used by those in the know) one of our lunch dates started shreking with delight. Used to only hearing these noises coming from a man on 8th Ave in Chelsea, we turned around to see half of Harvey’s body hanging out of his window.
Harvey: “OMG, OMG the dog in the car next to us looks exactly like my dog!” motioning to the car next to us “Pull up, pull up!”
The lady in the car pulls up and rolls down her window, her French bulldog sticks his nose out.
Harvey: “Frenchie, frenchie, oooohhhh you’re sooo cute, how did you get soooo cute??” To the lady, “How old is she?”
Lady: “Two going on three.”
Harvey: “Mine’s almost 4 now, ohhhh your dog is sooooo cute!”
The light turns green and we speed off.
Harvey: “That dog isn’t nearly as cute as my dog.”
Me: “Yeah I could tell.”
Harvey: “Really??? Wow, how could you tell?”
Me: “I read your energy.”
Megan, deadpan: “Yeah, Laney’s really good at reading energies.”
Harvey (serious): “Really? I’ve never met an energy healer before.”
I look over to Megan whose head is cocked to one side, with a bewildered look on her face. Apparently our sarcastic, in this case hippy-dippy, humor didn’t translate either. Ok, cross off sarcastic, dark, and Self-deprecating jokes. Was this why we left LA. in the first place? (Two points New York.)
It’s 4 pm and it’s off to the Havana Room we go. Megs and I are ushered into a smoke filled room to meet more of Andy’s talent agent friends. Sitting at a round table in the middle of the room are three late twenty something guys, each dressed to the nines a la American Psycho. Side Note: We have no future as professional age guessers in LA. They were all in their mid-thirties but hadn’t aged exponentially from the work hard, play hard mentality that we’ve come to know and love in New York. On the other hand, who cares if we misjudged their age? Dating guys twenty years your senior is A-Ok in LA. (One point LA)
Sitting down at the table Megan and I are facing a ratio of 2:1, guys to girls, but we’re not bothered in the least. Despite most of our jokes having fallen flat on this trip, we perform best under pressure. As the saying goes, “If you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere.” Besides, we’re not just anyone, we’re the DABA Girls! We can out flirt anyone, no matter the coast. Determined to impress our new found media men, we tossle our hair, press together our spray tanned cleavage (hey, sometimes Paris Hilton gets it right), and break out our most charming smiles (more of a smirk in Megan’s case, she’s adopted Posh Spices no teeth policy) and wittiest stories.
Megan doesn’t waste anytime launching into one of her favorite schtiks, “It must be nice in L.A. not having to worry about acquiring a winter girlfriend.”
Jim leans in closer, one eyebrow raised: “What’s a winter girlfriend?”
Me: “You know, someone to keep you warm during the cold winter months, when it’s too miserable to go outside.”
Megan: “But you have to get one by Thanksgiving, all the good ones are gone after that.”
Laughs all around.
Me: “Seriously though, it’s rough. I didn’t even find a winter boyfriend this season. I swear, no one in New York is dating right now.”
The men confidently lean back in their chairs, puff on their cigars, and smile at each other knowingly. Their eyes are saying, New York is so over. But, their demeanor is so confident we realize that maybe they’re not comparing themselves to our revered bankers. Maybe, just maybe, they don’t even care about their NYC counterparts. Looking around the table we realize that these guys aren’t just media men, they’re the banking guys from the 80′s. The mythical men that we moved to New York in search of. Rock solid in their decisions, overly confident in their abilities (I mean, what do agents actually do?), and totally handsome. We’re sold. (Five points LA.)
Final score: New York: 3, LA: 8.
Watch out Hollywood, here we come!
