Uncategorized

The shorter the skirt, the shorter the wait?

It has come to our attention over here at DABA Girl headquarters that there is some confusions as to why exactly DABAs are Anti-Bottle Service. Isn’t bankers spending their hard earned mullah on over-priced vodka exactly the sort of thing that DABA Girls stand for. No, pumpkin, no. You just don’t get it.

“Is it because you DABA Girls don’t like vodka redbulls?”

“Partially, luvbug”

“Is it because you think there is something vaguely pagan about dancing in a crowded circle around a solitary table topped with a veritable grey goose totem pole, as though worshipping the gods of the quasi-random hook up?”

“Bizarre no doubt, but still one off from our precise gripe. Come with us on a journey back in time.”

The year 2001. A certain DABA Girl was still in college but spent many a weekend visiting her i-banking boyfriend in New York. I-bankers were of course around in 2001, but bottle service was but a glimmer in their blood shot eyes.

Yes, DABAs it’s true. There was a time when bankers existed but bottle service did not. Hard to fathom one without the other nowadays. It was a magical time. Picture the velvet rope scene outside of a XYZ trend-o-rama club. Hear the roar of the bouncer, “Three dudes no ladies? Just go home!” See the line of guys waiting to get in. Now see girls prancing to the front of the line and being ushered in without having to explain to Alex that they were invited to Joe Schmoe’s table. That’s right, in 2001 the clubs were all BYOB – bring your own babe.

I would escort my boyfriend in, ditch my coat, tossle my hair before selflessly trooping back out to get his buddy in as well. But then came along bottle service forever altering the club culture history. It used to be just about being cool and attractive. Sexy girls rolled right in - no questions asked. Guys who wanted in had to be accompanied by girls. The power was in our hands, which left men scrambling to convince us that they were worthy of our precious Friday night.

Bottle service changed all that. Why you ask? Because men are willing to pay for sex (or rather a better chance at sex) and woman aren’t (or rather don’t need to). If you are willing to buy a bottle of grey goose with a 500% markup, then a club is willing – justifiably – to let you in even though you are in violation of the BYOB policy. Once on the inside, guys have (a) access to girls and (b) enough vodka to lessen the standards of any female in their general vicinity. The net result: these guys odds of getting laid increases (some DABA statisticians argue that the increase was in perfect correlation to the vodka markup, we’re still running the numbers on that).

Women on the other hand (a) didn’t need to buy bottles to get in back then and (b) have never jumped on the bottle service train because when forced to decide between paying for bottle service and buying a new _______, going on a trip to_________, donating to _________, or eating at __________, ladies are always going to chose __________. Meanwhile, gentlemen are always going to chose increased odds of getting laid over __________. And that dear DABAs is the how bottle service became a dude thing, clubs came to prefer males over females, and how New York’s nightlife took a turn for the worst. We know it will be hard at first, especially for our baby DABITS, who don’t know of anything better, but take the first step, and Just Say No to Bottle Service.

The movement starts here!

(Now that we have officially given up bottle service, who remembers Sway?!)

Ladies and gents,

There are always signs at the beginning of a relationship. Some signs say that the other person is still heartbroken from their last relationship (they can’t stop talking about their ex), some signs say that they are dating other people (they unknowingly repeat stories), some signs suggest that it’s never going to work even though the other person is perfectly nice (they ask you what “gnocchi” is), and some signs say that you should Get.Out.Now. The below text message exchange from one of our readers is a prime example of the last scenario.

xoxo

The DABA Girls

Run ladies run! (after you've had dinner on him)

Last night I went on what I thought was a fabulous date with a dashing investment banker who I had met over port at the Capital Grille the night before.  I returned home, excited for our next adventure when he returned from several cross-country business trips.  Then this text message “conversation” (and I use the term loosely) occurred.  My thoughts in italics.

B: You have a way, but really, you are a very beautiful and smart woman….I find it a bit peculiar….nice but…I am not a frivolous person (What the heck??  Also, this implies that I am a frivolous person)

Me: Thank you for the compliments (although “peculiar” falls into the “prim” category…not quite sure whether that’s supposed to be good J )! (We had been joking about my grandma calling my Christmas decorations “prim”)

B: I would like to think that our meeting was auspicious, a romantic perhaps…you have piqued my attention and that‘s rare don’t want to waste anyone’s time (Ummmm…this is our first date…)

Me: I spend my time just how I please and I feel blessed I had the opportunity to spend it with you J (Feeling insulted but trying to be tactful….and I really did have a great time on our date.)

B: Fair enough, I hope we get a lot more and have great experiences

Me: Me too! (Not so sure this is true after this weird text exchange!!) Sweet dreams!

B: Good night chat soon

The next morning:

B: Good morning, think I may owe you an apology from last night… (ya think???)

Me: I’m all for honesty…hope your morning is going well! (“Honesty” meaning “thanks for the warning that you may be a nut job”)

B: I got the feeling you were uncomfortable with my advances

Me: I’m old-fashioned in more than my taste in restaurants J (Sloooowwww down buddy…I’ve known you for two days)

B: I understand and appreciate that again I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I enjoy your company and look forward to learning more…!

Me: I had a fabulous time with you and look forward to hearing about your adventures when you return J

A few hours later:

B: Would it be too much to ping you from time to time? (I have no idea what this means—grammar and spelling his.  I have not written back.)

DABA ladies, please advise.  My brief foray into the world of dating a banker has been unusual, to say the least.  Should I give him another chance or invest my time elsewhere?

Dear H,

This site is absolutely brilliant! Right on target with everything a girl goes through who has a FBF. I have been in a relationship on and off with a very VIP FBF for nearly 6 years and let me assure you the OFF times were 99.9% due to his work related issues/personality “disorders” created by work issues, the giant EGO that came from all of the money he may as well have been printing on his own press, the associated Rolls Royces, Bentleys, Astons, blah blah blah that allowed him to have whatever girl he wanted at any given time and then the downfall of the empire along with everyone else in the country when the economy crashed. The beauty in that, even though he is now rebuilding JUST fine is that he learned a little something called humility. Now, as any GF to a FBF knows, “humble” and “compassion” are not 2 of the most common words in the FBFs vocab (their gag reflexes generally go off at the meer mention), but even the slightest hint of it now that he went through it all is enough to make me believe that all of the ups and downs we have been through have been worth while. Not to mention that I can still write him text messages while at Barneys demanding a new Prada bag for my upcoming bbday and feel just fine about it, so all in all we are both winners  And yes, to all the cynics on this freaking site who do not seem to get it I am a very well educated, empowered early 30s lady who makes a 6 figure income on my own and has owned my own property/condo for almost 10 years now, it is with loving eyes wide open that I accept the trials and tribulations (he literally SCREAMED at me while eating dinner at his house a few nights ago when I had the audacity to ask him what that little jingle was that he has as his cell phone ring) of being with an FBF to reap the benefits (he is the strongest, most amazingly smart man I know) and feel confident that the relationship we have built is one of true love, care, and unconditional support. But what’s the harm in having an awesome site like this to vent and feel understood by other lovely women in similar situations? Absolutely nothing! Especially since it WAS my FBF who turned me onto this site in the first place, ha!

Dear DABITs,

Please read the following articles about texting and dating. This is should be sufficient material to inspire you to never engage in the nonsense that exists in the textosphere dating world.

Hope this helps (and doesn’t result  in too many of you to immediately moving out of New York).

http://nymag.com/news/features/sexdiaries/2009/60297/index1.html

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/03/opinion/03brooks.html?_r=2&em

xo

The DABA Girls

This is really Mona’s story, so I’ll let her take it from here…

I coaxed (read: guilt tripped) Lori back into the cab and we went to The Standard as planned.

We walked into the beer garden weaving through the thick B & T crowd who must have just read about The Standard on Urban Daddy. As luck would have it, one of my Mr. B-strings was playing ping pong. (If you’re musing to yourself: “that sounds like too much of a coincidence to be true,” you obviously haven’t been to the Standard or you would know that it really has become a high school cafeteria.)

Before Mr. B-string served, we locked eyes. He didn’t even crack a smile- damn it, failed for the first time by my false eyelashes! He turned his attention back to his game and served that ping pong ball with a confident aloofness that had he exhibited while we were dating he probably would have been an actual contender. While Lori and I were milling around waiting for boys to get the courage to come talk to us, I remembered that I had kinda had a good time with B-string. He had called me his “little mermaid” after all… I decided to go talk to him.

Attempting to reignite some of our old repartee. I opened with, “Hey merman.”

Despite his best efforts to remain stoic, his eyes lit up like a menorah on the eighth day of Hanukkah. He pulled me in for a warm bear hug and kissed me on the forehead. I lingered in his arms, relishing in that old familiar feeling of having the upper hand. I forgot how good it felt. “Maybe this is better than love,” I thought to myself. The banter began. Not exactly the panty dropping banter that my MVP FBF delivers, but it was better than talking to the guidos at the bar (p dot s, standards at the Standard have plummeted in the last three weeks).

I easily persuaded him and his friends to invest in bottle service at Simyone Lounge. I know I said I was sooooo over bottle service, but I figured as long as I was giving B-string a second chance I could give Redbull vodkas a second chance as well.

Cut to I Got a Feeling bumpin’ and me surrounded by B-string and all of his slow-story telling friends. I mean, why does it take sooooooo long to get to the punch line??? T-t-t-today junior! Thanks to reeling my B-stringer back in, my relationship anxiety was down to a three Xanax level low, and I felt great for about half a second until….I spotted whom else but my MVP FBF (the one who I was pretty sure was going to dump me now that I had dumped all my B-stringers, ahhhhh the merry-go-round of love)

From the looks of things he was having a guy’s night out, which entailed a fair number of Bottle Poppin’ Girls. Was this a coincidence? Had he told me he was coming here? Or had I known, forgotten, and subconsciously showed up here? At that moment I decided to move to Alaska and save the wildlife because I obviously could no longer save myself.

B-stringer must have sensed that it was my turn to make a run for it (directly into Bristol Palin’s baby daddy’s toned arms) because he took the opportunity to shove his tongue down my throat.  As he lunged towards me, my MVP FBF spotted me.

Slow motion F*************CCCCCCCCKKKKKK!!!!! was all I could hear myself say.

My therapist was right.  Diffusing my feelings for my MVP FBF by keeping a B-string boyfriend around was not worth jeopardizing my relationship with the MVP FBF, but wait, without a B-string boyfriend on the side my relationship with the MVP FBF would surely self-destruct. Is this what a catch-69 is?

I quickly formulated my excuse: I had clearly been rape kissed. I mean, he saw the whole thing go down. There could be no doubt that I was the victim. Rape kissing is a legit problem (especially in the Meat Packing District) I don’t know where his mouth had just been, he could have just ingested a Kaluaha and milk- I’m lactose intolerant! He could have just eaten a PB & J sandwich- hasn’t he heard that peanut allergies are rampant in America?!?

After I extracted myself from Mr. B-Strings clutches. I strolled over to my MVP FBF prepared to commiserate with him on the rape kissing pandemic.  I was in the middle of a long-winded explanation of the dire consequences of rape kissing someone with a sever nut allergy when my MVP FBF interrupted my soliloquy, to deliver the following gem:

“Don’t worry babe, it’s totally cool. We’re just having fun, right?”

To make a long story longer, MVP was relieved that I was also dating other people. As for me, it turns out that the news that my FBF and I were “just having fun” was actually worse than ruining the relationship by getting caught with my B-stringer. I walked out of SL reeking of smoke, sweat, spilled Redbull, and the GAP perfume that the bathroom attendant had doused me in.

And that my friends, is the true smell of desperation.