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It’s Quantity Not Quality

October 17, 2009 in DABA adventures by dabagirls | 6 comments

Standard operating procedure

Standard operating procedure

Thursday night the crew rendezvoused at The Standard Bar and Grill. There were fashion colleagues to the right of our table, some entertainment folks in from the West coast to our far far right, some guy who claimed to have started and sold Skinny Cow to Nestle to the left (and if you’re reading this Skinny Cow man, thanks for the three rounds of drinks and if you’re interested in a tax deductible contribution to the out-of-work fashion editor fund please contact me at dabagirls.com), and faux rapper guys in between lobbing fries at our table. Before the night turned into a veritable 6th grade cafeteria our conversation focused on a new plight affecting serial dating DABAs everywhere.

DABA Girl #1: “Am I the only one who’s having a significantly harder time maintaining my five boyfriend minimum now that there are half as many banks? I found out the other day that two of my guys with preferred FBF status are now working at the same bank slash hedge fund slash investment firm.”

DABA Girl #2: “Ugh, I know! When Bear Stearns was bought out by Barclays I had to hand out more pink slips than Bear Stearns.”

DABA Girl #3: “This is just a hypothetical, I mean, I’m just putting this out there, but have you ever considered not dating soooo many people at once? I mean, this could be contributing to your trust issues.”

DABA Girl #1: “Did you just call me a slut?”

DABA Girl #2: “She def just called you a slutski.”

DABA Girl #1: “I don’t know what you’re laughing at ho-bag she was talking about you too.”

DABA Girl #3: “No- well maybe- but all I’m saying is that you gotta keep your s**t tight.”

DABA Girl #1: “OMG, did you just call me fat??”

DABA Girl #2: “She did, you really should try this coffee, lemon juice, Claritin diet I’ve been on.”

DABA Girl #3: “Jesus, no! What I’m saying is that when there is an economic downturn such as the one that we’re currently experiencing, maybe it would be best to similarly downsize some of your investments.”

DABA Girl #1: “See I think we’re coming from different schools of thought on this one, I was trying to diversify. And I don’t have trust issues, I have trust fund issues, as in, I don’t have one.”

DABA Girl #2: “How long have you been waiting to use that pun?”

DABA Girl #1: “I’m sorry, are you heckling my conversation? I will straight-”

DABA Girl #2: “Ignore me, I’m in a sex coma, I’m so mellowed out that I’ve lost the ability to care about other females. Don’t worry I should regain feeling in a day or two.”

DABA Girl #3: “Ladies, let me tell you a little ditty about a DABA Girl, that DABA Girl being me, whose luck recently ran out… It all began one dark and stormy night in San Francisco. I was there recovering from a broken heart when-“

DABA Girl #2: “Correction, it’s more like your heart was broken, then got run-over by a semi while a troop of stiletto wearing plus size models pranced down it like it was a catwalk.”

DABA Girl #3: “Eff off sexpot. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was meeting a blind date. Not just any blind date. A blind date set up by a famous Bay Area matchmaker. There’s a year waiting list to see her. You have to fill out a twelve-page application, swear on the bible that you’re ready for a serious committed monogamous relationship and not dating anyone else, and if she successfully sets you up with your future husband you’ll hand over your first born baby. Now, I of course agreed to all this because I’m twenty-seven and my pre-injectible years are quickly coming to a close.”

DABA Girl #2: “Correction, your pre-injectible years ended two years ago.”

DABA Girl #3: “Lies.”

DABA Girl #2: “Bulls**t, let us all see you try to raise your eyebrows.”

DABA Girl #3: “I have migraines, it’s for a medical condition, and friendship over.

As we all know, old habits die hard. At dinner my blind date started to talk about all the business that he does in New York. Suddenly I put two and two together. I was pretty sure my NYC FBF also worked in the M & A section of the same bank of my blind date.

At this point the waiter asked if anything was wrong with my untouched baby duck breast and fois gras appetitizer. I still rue the moment that I let him take it away.

My throat closed and my cheeks turned a deep, typically tequila shot induced shade of rouge. I had to ask him. I chugged my light on the juice, well-shaken cosmo and outright inquired as to if he knew my other FBF. And by outright I mean I identified my NYC FBF as my best friend’s ex-boyfriend (fyi DABITs, typically a fool proof alibi). Without hesitation he responded “Oh yeah! I love that dude, we talk like five times a day. He’s killing it right now in our fantasy football league.”

I feigned swine flu and left before dessert. Needless-to-say the matchmaker has banned me from future matches until I can get my philandering ways under control. The whole incident was très unfortunate.”

DABA Girl #1: “Très”

DABA Girl #2: “I hope you didn’t tell your blind date that you write a blog.”

DABA Girl #3: “What, do you think I’m smoking the true crack rock?”

DABA Girl #2: “You never know with you.”

DABA Girl #1: “You’re banned from coming to dinner post coitis.”

DABA Girl #2: “Fair enough.”

DABA Girl #1: “Am I the only one who thinks like blogging is sooooo first quarter 2009?”

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Recession Friendly Dating Tips

June 11, 2009 in DABA adventures by dabagirls | 23 comments

Just incase you missed my debut on NBC you can check it out on nbcnewyork.com.

We decided to talk about affordable dating tips because just a season ago, a first date could easily run over $300. It would begin with a three course dinner at one of New York’s nicest restaurants, after-dinner drinks as a swanky lounge, and flowers delivered to your office desk the next day (in all likelihood arranged by your date’s administrative assistant). Being taken on such an extravagant date in the current economic climate is not only unrealistic, it would cause unnecessary financial stress for everyone involved - we spent as much (if not more) on our outfits for these pre-recession dates.  This doesn’t mean your dating life should now be reduced to watching a movie while sitting in someone’s living room joint kitchen joint bedroom.  New York is full of spots that are light on the wallet and heavy on romance.  And remember, above all, women appreciate it when men put effort into planning a date.  So don’t think of these dates as being “affordable” but as being “thoughtful.”

Here are all of the tips since some didn’t make the minute thirty segment.

XO L

Tip #1: Go BYOB

  -Alcohol can really run up your tab at a restaurant, which is why BYOB is the way to go. Our personal favorite is Ivo and Lulus, located on Broome and Varick. Everything on the menu ranges from $12-$15, the duck pate is unmatched, the corkage fee non-existent, and the ambiance is romantic.  We also highly recommend Big Wong on Mott street in Chinatown, namely for their lobster with pan-fried noodles and lack of florescent lighting. Average dinner: $30 at either restaurant + wine ($12) = $43

Tip #2: Take her for a ride

  -Take the Staten Island Ferry around the Statue of Liberty. The ride is free and the view breathtaking. Although we don’t recommend bringing food on the trip, least your date get sea sick, packing a picnic for your final destination is a nice touch.   While we recognize the difficulty in pulling off a picnic in a non-cheesy fashion, we’re confident that as long as you don’t pack a basket full of heart shaped quiches, you can pull it off with your manhood intact. ($12) Bottle of wine + ($3) baguette + ($8) brie = $23

Tip #3: Give Her Some Sugar

-  As a former pastry sous-chef at Le Cirque, the creator of the dessert truck, Jerome Chang, knows better than to come between a woman and a sweet tooth craving.  The dessert truck serves fabulous desserts - all under $5. Our favorites are the warm chocolate bread pudding and vanilla crème brulee. Locating the dessert truck is half of the fun, but if you need some help you can check out his website, www.desserttruck.com, for his whereabouts.  Often spotted near Washington Square Park, eating dessert by the fountain in the park will undoubtedly set the mood.  Warning: although you are likely to encounter live music by the fountain, don’t bank on it being violins. 

Tip #4: Go on an trip

- If you have a whole day take the A train up to the Cloisters, which has a suggested donation of $20 per person.  Explore the museum and lounge around afterward in the garden.  Another great city escape is the funky and fun Mark Bar in Greenpoint, Brooklyn complete with pool, darts, and bingo on Wednesday nights. Beers are $3 and the menu includes pigs in a blanket for $5 and mac and cheese for $6.

Tip #5: Show Her a Secret Side of You

-Women love feeling privy to special information, hence our fondness for gossip and secrets. Introduce her to your favorite dive bar or neighborhood restaurant.  It’s not just a sandwich place, it’s your favorite sandwich at the deli your grandfather used to take your to.  We’re fond of New York mainstay Katz’s Deli, where you can sit at the When Harry Met Sally table and daydream with your date about how the two of you are going to recount the “how we met story” at your wedding.  Two Katz’s pastrami sandwiches ($15) + 2 root beer floats ($4) = $38  

Final Tip: Make a call

- If you really want to sweep her off her feet - call her the next day and tell her what a good time you had.  Note, we said call, not text or email!  Calling the next day instead of playing it cool and waiting 2 or 3 days will show her that you are confident.  Trust us, recession or no recession, women definitely respond to confidence. Phone call: $0

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Bankers Are to 2007 as ________ Are to 2009

June 4, 2009 in DABA adventures by dabagirls | 10 comments

happy-new-year-2009

Check out our piece on www.Recessionwire.com. Finally, the votes are in for who’s going to be the new FBF.

Love in the Time of Layoff: Bankers Are to 2007 as ________ Are to 2009

Last week we found ourselves on a two woman bar tour, consisting of just ourselves. We were flitting between two groups of guys, one group was at Spitzer’s and another across the street at ‘inoteca. After a glass of wine and some assorted cheeses at ‘inoteca, we would dash to Spitzer’s to chow on truffle mac and cheese with some Aussies. Had we not been so amused by our own antics, we would have gone home pleading a ‘breakfast meeting,’ well that and the cutie in a suit stationed in the doorway of Spitzer’s, who had been frantically blackberrying for the better part of an hour. So stoic was his demeanor that we just had to dub him the Downtown Centurion. One of us and we won’t say who (we do write for Dating a Banker Anonymous) was about to make her fourth entrance of the night when the Downtown Centurion deigned to speak to her. She had taken to switching up her hair and taking off her leather jacket that was “totally giving her street cred” every time she switched locations.

Downtown Centurion:  You forgot to take your hair down.

DABA Girl (smooth): Huh?

Downtown Centurion (eyes still on BlackBerry): You’ve been taking your hair down and putting your jacket on every time, you come in. Don’t mess up your flow now. Although personally, I’d be interested in seeing the jacket off and hair down combo, but maybe you’re saving that for later?

DABA Girl (pretending to read over his shoulder, her sense of cool perhaps rebounding a little too strong): Is she going to be jealous when she finds out you’re flirting with me?

Downtown Centurion: Depends which girl you’re asking about.

DABA Girl: Touché D-town Centurion.

Downtown Centurion: What did you just call me?

DABA Girl (ignoring his last question): So what do you do that demands you spend so much time glued to your blackberry?”

Downtown Centurion: “A girl asking what I do? How refreshing.”

DABA Girl: “I blog about finance guys and you are obviously one, I was searching for a tactful way to warn you that anything you do can and will be used against you in the blogosphere.”

Downtown Centurion: “Thanks for the warning.”

DABA Girl: “Anyhow what are you? I-banker, trader, private equity, in-house research analyst?”

Downtown Centurion: “I don’t really want to talk about what I do.”

DABA Girl: “Ohhhh, I get it. Laid off and interviewing. Sorry I brought it up.”

Downtown Centurion: “No, I’m employed I just don’t want to be defined by what I do, ok?

Me (coping some ‘tude right back at ‘em): “A defensive wall street guy? Refreshing.”

Banka’ please. People looking for a work-home balance don’t go into finance. He’s just tired of being the scapegoat of an over-leveraged nation.  A mere seven months ago this banker boy, along with all the others out there, would have proudly announced where they worked. Touted their place of employment as if it were an official seal of approval. Masters of the Universe with full, or almost full, heads of hair they were the most desirable guys to date and they knew it.

Fast forward past the mortgage based market crash, the 8.1% unemployment rate, and the “We’re in a recession” state of the nation. Finance guys are now the poster children for the fall of our nation’s greatness. They are the reason, or at least what everyone has decided is the reason in order to make themselves feel better about knowingly having bought a house well above their means, why we are in our current economic situation. Understandably these Masters are no longer so pumped about the Hello I’m Cute Finance Guy stickers stuck to their suit lapels.

DC, it turns out, is part of the new generation of finance guys. He “doesn’t want to be defined by” what he does. Oh, how times have changed. I vividly remembered a drunken banker in 2007 at Tenjune yelling from the rafters “I’m rich b*tch!”

As out of favor as bankers have become, it’s surprising how many guys in other professions we hear from on www.dabagirls.com claiming to be the “new bankers.” For example:

There was a time when you couldn’t have a conversation with a transactional lawyer without them offering up an unsolicited explanation of why they chose law and not finance. Just this weekend I spotted a bankruptcy lawyer making it rain on a group of fashion PR girls with his business cards.

Let’s not forget about the doctors (they wouldn’t let us if we tried). Those shameless mofos might as well be tap dancing on David Kellermann’s grave. Their joy in being bumped up a few spots on Newsweek’s best marriage material list is frankly too celebratory for polite company.

The media men. They range from fast-talking Ari Emmanuel types to dark and stormy screenwriters—both quick to stress that, “Movies provide escapism! The people will want more of them in bad times!” If you say it enough times, maybe the financing needed to make a good action flick will magically appear.

Trust funders. Back in the ‘80’s they would explain breezily that they were in “imports and exports.” With the fall of the finance guy, they’ve dropped the act and will now proudly tell you that they don’t do jack but who cares—they’re recession proof! They’re not a bad replacement, unless of course you want to date someone with a sense of reality.

Entrepreneurs. Unable to hang on the mean street of Wall, they went West, to offices where yoga balls doubled as desk chairs. And man are they psyched about the more even playing field. You’d think Urkel just got took home Cosmopolitan’s Hottest Guy award.

Lastly, there are the unsung heroes of the recession: the Repo Men. We hear they’ve been making a killing taking back yachts and other luxury goods from people who have fallen behind in payments. It’s a dirty, thankless job, but somebody’s got to make a buck off it.

Still, we are not convinced that bankers are yesterday’s news.

Due to layoffs and work days that are now so long that in any other industry they would be considered double shifts, the supply of finance guys is way down. We’re not so naïve to think that demand for finance guys has zero elasticity or anything like that. Of course demand for finance guys has decreased with their reputation and bonuses being what they are, but we don’t think that it is enough to compensate for the large decrease in supply. This supply deficit will only increase the demand because rich boyfriends are like luxury goods— the more rare they become the more they are coveted. This is going to snowball into a major finance guy dating deficit, rendering them more desirable than ever.

Yep, you heard it here first. The DABA Girls predict that bankers are the new bankers.

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Spring Thaw ‘08

April 8, 2009 in DABA adventures by dabagirls | 7 comments

 

No need to leave New York now that mating season has started!

No need to leave New York now that mating season has started!

 

The first warm day after a long cold winter signals the beginning of mating season in New York.  Women rush home after work to throw on their tank tops and sundresses, eager to show the world that they actually have figures under their cocoon shape winter coats and chunky scarves.  Wall Street guys sprint from the financial district to midtown where all the cute girls work and wander through the streets ogling women and looking like they might actually throw you over their shoulder and carry you kicking and screaming back to their caves, or newly renovated loft apartments as the case may be. 

BR, mating season, i.e., spring thaw, is our fav time of the year.  Guys are looking for action and the energy in the city is palpable. Take for example the first day of spring 2008, I could not wait to get out of the office.  I refused to be seen on the scene in a suit, but couldn’t possibly commit to going back downtown to change.  Laney saved the day by sending an intern over with outfits from the closet at the magazine where she worked.  Clad in Thakoon, I was ready to hit the town. As soon as my boss left the office, I called “Tim”, a trader that I was considering dating.

“Heyyyyy, what are you doing?  I said.

Tim: “Waiting for you to call.”

“Awhhh, so sweet. You want to do what we do best?”

“Get sh**ty at happy hour and laugh our asses off?” Tim asked rhetorically.

“Exactamundo!  Can you meet me at Opia in 20?”      

“Does a one legged duck swim in a circle?”  That was Tim’s special way of saying yes. 

Opia is a popular after work happy hour spot for lawyers and financiers, and subsequently the women who have their sights set on marrying them.  Groups of women are already congregating around the bar waiting to be asked to join a table by one of the guys that would hopefully give them that 401k-arat rock. 

Waitress:  ”Are you ready to order?”

Me and Tim, simultaneously:  ”YES!”

The waitress trotted off and our crew rolled in. Laney sashayed in with her fashion crew in tow.  Fashion girl number 1 immediately informed the table that they just had dinner at Casa Mono and “oh my god, I had the patatas bravas AND the fried duck egg.  That’s like so bad right?  I shouldn’t have eaten that.”  For as rare as they actually eat, Laney’s fashion friends are always asking questions like that and I never know how to respond.  Frankly, I just didn’t feel comfortable commenting on a total stranger’s caloric intake. 

Fortunately, I didn’t have to respond because the entire table is suddenly overcome by the smell of pot.  Opia is a relatively classy and upscale bar that you go to with co-workers.  Pot seemed out of place.  Laney went to investigate.  A group of Syrian guys were celebrating one their birthdays with a few hits.

“Hey care to share?” Laney asked hopefully.

“Yeah honey, take a seat.”    

“Thanks” she said batting her eyes.          

“It’s his birthday and we’re out of chairs so you have to sit on his lap.”  Done.  He was the birthday guy and also the cutest of the crew. The joint hadn’t made its first round before another guy blew up the cute guy’s spot.    

“You know he’s married”

Laney was aghast, “How would I know that?  It’s your birthday, why isn’t your wife here?” 

Laughter, high fives and one jumping 180 chest bump.  “She’s not old enough to drink!”

“What? How old are you?” Cute guys says he’s 38. “How old is your wife?”       

“20”       

“WHAT! Are you a newlywed?”       

“No we got married right when she turned 18.”  Laney got a final puff in and then rushed back to the table to gossip about the child bride. 

A lot of drinking went down in Laney’s absence.  She returned to the table to find me and Tim and another girl engaged in a triple kiss.  There’s nothing actually sensual about the triple kiss – just the mashing together of too many tongues. Still, it somehow totally completed the first day of spring.  The bar was packed.  Respectable business people in suits were triple kissing in front of co-workers they would have to see the next day.  The Syrians were smoking pot in public.  God, life was great when the rules it didn’t apply to you.

I pulled back from the triple kiss. “I am waaaaaaasted, there is noooooo way I’m making it to work tomorrow. No way, Jose!”

Tim: “Seriously, can you take off work tomorrow?”        

“Why not? I’ve only taken two days since I started working.”

As many times as this story’s been told, no one can figure out exactly what was said next, but the result was Tim on the phone with his junior associate.  He had just gotten a junior associate and was really excited to show him off.       

Tim: “Hey, Mikey, it’s Tim, listen, I need a helicopter.  What do you mean you’re not in front of your computer?  Why do we pay for you to have a blackberry?  I need a helicopter tonight to take me and my girl to Atlantic City.  That’s right.  Get on it. Ok. Call me back.”

Mikey called back. He tried his best but it turns out you cannot book a helicopter on a half hour’s notice. 

“Now what are we going to do?” I implored.

The obvious answer of just calling a limousine service to drive us there instead somehow eluded the both of us.

Tim: “You know what?  I don’t even like A.C.  I don’t know why we wanted to go there in the first place.  Planes leave from JFK for Miami like every hour on the hour, let’s just go to Miami for the weekend.”

Tim was on top of it.  He stepped outside to book tickets and returned dejected.

Tim: “I can’t find a flight.”

“I am positive flights leave every hour on the hour for Miami, I bet you can’t buy a flight online this close to take off.  We should just go to JFK and get on the next flight.”

Tim: “When you’re right, you’re right.”

With that we dipped out without giving a second to thought to the $1,000 tab we were leaving behind that our friends were going to have to pick up for us.  We all but skipped out of Opia hand in hand.  We loved being us, young, exciting, impulsive people living in the moment.  Who didn’t want to be us?

“JFK and step on it!” Tim commanded.

“Yo cabbie, can we get some V back here, crank the tunes!”  “Shake, shake, a-shake shake a-shakin!!!!!!!!” We crooned along with the radio.  Tim finally found a use for those leather hand grips affixed to the back panel of all yellow cabs.  I was seated atop of Tim swishing my hair from side to side performing a pseudo-lap dance in the backseat of cab speeding down the Long Island Expressway.  (Warning: this is a move I have perfected over many years of practice, not appropriate for DABITs)

We pulled up to JFK,“Hi, put us on the next flight to Miami.”  Tim instructed while I sang Will Smith’s “Welcome to Miami, bien venido a Miami” to myself in the background.

The flight attendant’s lips said, “There aren’t any more flights to Miami tonight,” but her eyes said “and even if there were, we would not let you drunken idiots on it.” 

What sort of bootleg airport was this?  God, I have to make it big or marry well very soon, not owning a G5 was seriously cramping my style I thought to myself. Just at that moment  my derriere started vibrating.

Laney’s smiling face was flashing across my phone screen, “What’s shakin’ homegirl! Get back into the city, I am at the world’s best loft party, there is, I kid you not, a trampoline!”  Like only a seriously stoned Laney can do, she had found an amazing loft party  seemingly out of nowhere.

“Yo we are confirmed for the 8am flight tomorrow morning,” Tim interrupted.

 “K, lane, text me the addy, we are en route back.” “Tim, Don’t fret lover, we’ll be back in time for our flight, why hang here when we can get our drink on for a couple hours, grab a little shut-eye in the cabs, and pick up the bikini that makes my boobs look way bigger than they actually are up on the way back?”

THE END (although hopefully not the last)

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Grazia UK Loves DABA Too!

April 8, 2009 in DABA adventures by dabagirls | 6 comments

 

image

We knew we would eventually be on the cover of a magazine, but we didn’t think we would have to share it! Alas, I guess out of everyone, Kate and Angelina will do just fine.

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The LA LA Debate Continues…

March 4, 2009 in DABA adventures by dabagirls | 11 comments

douchebag

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

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Sundance Fundance

February 2, 2009 in DABA adventures by dabagirls | 30 comments

Refreshed from the holiday, we returned to NYC only to find that the aura of doom and gloom was still hanging over the city (and our dating lives still in a rut).  We decided to take the matter into our own hands and go in search of greener pastures.  As Hollywood maintains that it will be unaffected by the recession with people more in need of escapism than ever before, we decided to invest in some R&D on making the transition from finance guys to media guys.  We rallied the girls, packed our skis, and jetted off to Sundance (and by “jetted” I mean we flew commercial, Obama can’t save Mother Earth all by his lonesome).

Night 1 in Park City, Utah: We stayed in to adjust to the altitude.  Hydration was a must if we were going to catch the eye of the next Ari Emanuel or Michael Burns.

Night 2: We headed to Main Street. There were a few other roving bands of girls, but they were clad in pumps with bare legs and tacky knit dresses.  They had nothing on the snow bunny chic outfits we were donning.  First stop, River Horse for dinner.  Promptly after being seated we made sure every other table in the restaurant was acutely aware that we were having more fun than them.  It wasn’t long before a tall lad approached us and announced that he was the chosen representative from the large table replete with enough thirty-something guys to go around.  Said prospects were clearly from Cali.  They were all wearing the L.A. uniform: low-top white sneakers, $250 jeans, over-logoed shirts and trucker hats that should have been retired in 2002. The perfect guys to kick start our transition from finance to media. The L.A. rep invited us to that night’s party at Downstairs. “You came all the way over here to invite us to a party? That’s so sweet! Thanks!” Hair flip, hair flip, chorus of giggles.  Numbers were exchanged. As soon as he returned to his table and was safely out of earshot, we drop the cutesy sh*t and begin formulating a strategy. We were a table of 6 uber Type A girls and so far as we were concerned flirting was a competitive sport.  Let the games begin.

We quickly reached a consensus that operation Flirt would be initiated via text message. We went with a simple “Order that scallops and butternut squash flan- you won’t regret it”.  We subtly watched the guys huddle up to discuss their response. They countered with ” Thanks for the recommendation, shots are acomin’. “  Okay, our turn. What to send them? We needed something new, fresh, innovative.

Girl #1: “Let’s send over an ice cream sundae??”

Girl #2: ” No, not clever enough.”

Megan: “Hey hey hey, we are brainstorming, there are no bad ideas.”

Laney: “Let’s send 5 sundaes, with sprinkles and sparklers!”

Girl #4: “This is the only idea we have, let’s just go with it.”

Girl #3: “5? This is an expensive joke.”

Girl #1: “Stop thinking so short term, this is an investment in our future.”

We beckon our waiter Larry over and give him the 411 on the plan. He puts in our order for the sundaes. When 2 whole minutes had passed and our joke hadn’t been executed we started micro-managing. We made no less than 3 other members of the wait staff check on the order before we once again flagged down Larry for a status update.

Laney: “Larry, what’s going with our sundaes? The joke is only funny if they arrive before the food.”

Larry, distraught: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. The kitchen is working on it. I’m just not used to it being this busy.”

Megan: “Larry, do you know what you’re looking at right now?”

Larry: “Uh, no.”

Megan: “You are looking at a table full of beautiful, intelligent women who all believe in you.  So what we need right now is for Larry to start believing in Larry, AND TO GET THOSE SUNDAES ON THE TABLE, STAT.  Now go, Larry, go!”

We were right not doubt Larry, the sundaes made their triumphant appearance.  Cheers, laughter, raised glasses. We had the whole restaurant’s attention. We got another text,  “You guys better be ready for what’s coming over.”  Oh pretty please let it be a house in Malibu and a job that doesn’t involve waking up at 6 am!  A horde of waiters then appeared and presented us each with a sparkler sunk into half a head of iceberg lettuce.  Fits of laughter.  We had been totally outdone- surprising because guys from LA are usually too cool to be funny. Then came the bottles of champagne.

Girl #1: “I told you this was a solid investment.”

We sipped our Dom Perignon while the men folk finished their meal.   Then we all jaunted off together to the Sundance scene.

We made a pit stop at the Tao party and then head to Downstairs.  Many a new friendship was formed, a good time was had by all.   So good of a time that at 3 a.m. we decided to take the party back to the guys’ ski chalet.  One thing lead to another and 20 adults piled themselves into the hot tub (we know, we know, the 80’s are calling).

Somehow in our drunken revelry, we had become best of friends (at least enough so to plunge in to the water in our undies) but had bypassed normal formalities and never even discussed demographics.  Which, didn’t come out until amid this giant liquid cuddle puddle Girl #5 found herself juxtaposed next to backward hat guy (BHG).

BHG: “So where do you live?”

Girl #5: “New York.”

BHG hesitantly:  “Ah, where in New York?”

Girl #5: “West Village.”

BHG: “You live on Christopher Street, you have a cat.  Chrissy, right?”

Chrissy, with an otherwise forgettable memory of a tolerable night slowly surfacing: “1 Oak.  Halloween.You left your scarf.”

Our search for L.A. media boys had gone awry, low and behold, the guys were all from New York. And of course, they all worked in finance. The collective morale in the hot tub nosedived.  Turns out the boys had also been hoping to meet less-high strung (code for “fake breasted”) Los Angelites.

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