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http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/28/nyregion/28daba.html?_r=1
background on the wonderful world of Daba girls!
http://dabagirls.wordpress.com/
Dating A Banker Anonymous
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.
WOAHH..big difference..
Nose (Raj K), boobs, eyebrows etc…
Page Six
Photo: CrViki Forshee
Two in the afternoon is not too early for Ed Westwick to enjoy a Delirium Tremens beer—or to flirt with the bartender. The actor is perched on a stool inside Chelsea gastropub the Half King and is wearing a white oxford with three buttons undone to reveal a tuft of chest hair, a pile of silver necklaces, skinny jeans and his signature facial expression. The look combines a flash of the eye, one cocked brow and pursed lips, and is the villainous trademark of Chuck Bass, Ed’s alter ego on Gossip Girl. On anyone else, the stare might look creepy or impish. On Ed, however, it is both dangerous and charming. He knows it, too.
The 21-year-old punctuates most of his phrases with “baby,” a tic that veers dangerously close to Austin Powers territory, given his English accent. Still, he is irresistible, and it’s no wonder that he has garnered so much attention among male and female fans alike, not to mention gossip Web sites that chronicle his every move (Ed plays in a band! Ed lives with his co-star! Ed ate an apple on the street today!). Still, the actor says he refuses to let all the bootlicking go to his head. “There are perks to this job,” he says with a wink. “We [the Gossip Girl cast] were all thrown into this situation with a lot of attention on us, and you get a lot of free clothes and s–t but that’s no reason not to stay grounded. What am I really doing, baby? Saving the world? Nah, I’m on television.”
Ed, who grew up in Hetherington, England, started acting “at age 6, when my mum put me in a drama program. I quit to play soccer because the two activities both fell on Saturday. But after secondary school, I thought, ‘What the f–k am I going to do with my life, man?’ I was so frustrated with the idea that you had to figure it all out right away.” To put off making life decisions for a while, Ed joined the National Youth Theatre in London at age 18, and soon after landed roles in Children of Men and Breaking and Entering, starring Jude Law. And then, in 2007, he was cast in Gossip Girl. It’s hard to imagine how the show would look without Ed in it. Chuck’s style has earned almost as much notice as his bad behavior. “Chuck is an iconic character and the clothes are iconic,” says Ed of the Tom Wolfe–meets–Mick Jagger wardrobe. “I think I rock the look well.” As for his own fashion sense, Ed notes, “My style has always been good. Top notch, baby. I like the glamorous indie rock look, like the Libertines. But you know, without the heroin needle sticking out of my arm.”
Fittingly, the actor has built up quite the reputation as a party boy about town. Frequent sightings place him at clubs like the Beatrice Inn and Santos’ Party House, where he played a gig in June with his band, the Filthy Youth. “If I want to go out and drink and throw a glass in the street, I’ll do it,” says Ed of his late-night behavior. “As long as the reason is that I want to have fun and not that I want to create some sort of tension around me. Then I’d be a d–k. But I’m not.”
Earlier in the summer, pictures surfaced of Ed frolicking with his roommate and castmate Chace Crawford, sparking rumors about the duo’s relationship. “People think Chace is gay, and thought I was gay, that we were humping,” Ed says. “It’s not true, but hilarious. People project their fantasies onto people. I’ve never been someone who makes it my objective to go out and pick up chicks. But I’ve met some fantastic ladies here. You know, those amazing conversations where you find yourself in a café talking until 2 a.m. and never see them again.”
It’s hard to blame him—Ed barely has time to socialize these days, let alone date. He just wrapped S. Darko, a sequel to Donnie Darko, the movie that launched Jake Gyllenhaal’s career as a serious adult actor. “I don’t want to get pigeonholed in the teen genre,” he says. For now, Ed plans to enjoy the city and the last warm days of the season. “I love going out in the summer. The girls wear their nice dresses,” he says, then stops himself. “Did that sound sleazy? It really did, didn’t it? Put it like this: Everyone comes out looking gorgeous in summer. We are a more beautiful species in the summer.” No doubt Chuck Bass would say “cheers” to that, baby.
The fresh face: Wakeema Hollis
Photo: Viki Forshee
On Ed: C’N'C Costume National suit, $1,610; Atrium, 212-473-9200. Burberry shirt, $225; burberry.com for store locations. H&M tie, $30; hm.com for store locations. On Hollis: Blumarine dress, $3,620; neimanmarcus.com for stores. Jimmy Choo shoes, $1,250; 866-JCHOO-US. Miriam Haskell earrings, $325; Dressed, 805-565-1253.
“Everything is in overdrive for me this month,” says 21-year-old model Wakeema Hollis (who simply goes by Hollis). She is busy preparing for fall fashion season, including a whirlwind of shows in New York, London, Paris and Milan. “I go on 15–30 castings a day,” she sighs, speaking from her house in West New York, N.J., where she moved to have more room. “I come from the South,” she says. “Land of open spaces. I needed to move somewhere I could have a washer and a dryer and more than one room.” The Jackson, Tenn., native dropped out of college and moved to the city at 18. “I was great at school. 4.0 GPA. But I wanted to go farther than that.” And she has—she’s been the face of Moschino and Paul Smith, and has walked for Diane von Furstenberg, Marc Jacobs and Sass & Bide. “I am a creative person,” Hollis says. “When I’m not modeling, I’m painting, making collages and working on dress forms. I was always meant to express myself in some way.”
Hollis on Ed: “Ed was so easy to work with and was cracking jokes the whole time. He already seemed like a professional male model.”
The downtown girl: Taylor Warren
On Ed: Obedient Sons blazer, $888; Barneys New York, 212-826-8900. Burberry T-shirt, $120; burberry.com for store locations. Levi’s jeans, $54; levi.com. Opening Ceremony shoes, $335; openingceremony.us. Bracelets, Ed’s own. On Taylor: Hervé Léger by Max Azria dress, $1,590; herveleger.com. Rachel Leigh ring, $88; chickdowntown.com.
“I discovered myself when I was 9,” Taylor jokes about her modeling career. “Thank goodness I didn’t grow up to look completely heinous.” The 20-year-old, who grew up outside of Albany, successfully begged her mom to take her to New York agencies at age 14 and started working right away, shooting campaigns in Tokyo and Milan. Taylor appeared on the cover of Nylon’s “It girl” issue in 2007, and was picked as the model for the cover of the Gossip Girl book series, which led to an audition for the TV show. “I thought I should have played Blair!” says Taylor. “But I didn’t get it.” Next up, Taylor, who is taking acting lessons, has booked an Urban Outfitters campaign and is trying to break into film. “Fame isn’t something I chase down,” she says. “The fact that you google me and stuff comes up…that’s enough.”
Taylor on Ed: “I think he’s the bee’s knees! I am so emotionally involved with every episode of Gossip Girl—after watching it I need a sedative. So, yeah, I have a huge crush on him now. I just hope I don’t see him making out with other girls!”
The social networker: Stephanie Wei
On Ed: Obedient Sons blazer, $1,437, and trousers, $363; Barneys New York, 212-826-8900. H&M shirt, $40; hm.com for store locations. Dior Homme shoes, $780; Dior Homme, 212-421-6009. Necklace, Ed’s own. On Stephanie: Chloé dress, $6,075; Esti’s, 718-645-2600. Shoes, Stephanie’s own. Tuleste Market necklaces, $125 each; shopbop.com. Erickson Beamon ring, $355; Beyond Seven, 646-619-6818.
When you think of socialites, Park Avenue breeding usually comes to mind, but Stephanie Wei entered the scene as an outsider. Raised in Washington state, she turned down golf scholarships to go to Yale and, thanks to a set of Ivy League acquaintances, landed right in the middle of the social set when she moved to New York in 2005. She worked as a paralegal and in investment banking, but Stephanie’s real job was going out to the Beatrice Inn and the Rose Bar, hobnobbing with the likes of Barbara Bush and Lydia Hearst. “I can’t believe I know all of the amazing people I do,” says Stephanie. Her connections led the 25-year-old to get into event planning, and she now organizes philanthropic soirees and Fashion Week shows, working closely with the designer line Form. “I am also starting a golf-related business and am working on a show for DowntownTV.com called Golf Girl,” she says. “I want to combine what I know about the sport with my social life.”
Stephanie on Ed: “I thought Ed was funny and charming, and he was very poised. He asked me what I did the night before, and I said I had gone to Rose Bar, and he told me he loved that place. He was curious about the good places to go out.”
http://www.nypost.com/pagesixmag/issues/20080824/Gossip+Girls+Ed+Westwick+Man+About+Town
From
January 11, 2008
As a survey reveals that 75 per cent of women would marry for money, our correspondent describes the pitfalls of life with a busy big earner
If this is your idea of the perfect partner, you’re not alone. When Prince & Associates, an American wealth-research firm, asked a sample group of thirtysomething women if they would marry for money, a resounding 75 per cent said yes. However, before you start hunting your City banker quarry, think again. The lifestyle sounds promising on paper, but – like all good things – it comes at a price.
First, forget lording it at VIP tables in members’ clubs, cracking open bottle after bottle of Cristal. Serious earners just don’t do that. Why? Because they’re long since tucked up in bed. I should know – for nearly four years I had a 10pm curfew. My (now ex) banker boyfriend insisted on it. For a City trader juggling multimillion pound positions, which could bring a bank to its knees, sleep is crucial. If my boy was to crush the opposition, his brain needed rest.
So, by 9.30 every night we’d be brushing our teeth in separate bathrooms, and by ten the lights were out.
Whether you’re tired or not is irrelevant, and insomnia is not on the schedule. Tossing and turning will interfere with his precious sleep, so if counting sheep fails you’ll be banished to a spare room to ensure that he gets eight hours of uninterrupted slumber.
What about sex, then? Surely these testosterone-fuelled chaps are rampant in the sack? Again, you’ll need to adjust your expectations: because if it doesn’t involve earning money, it tends to be rather low on the priority list. A seriously risky trading position will mean he’ll be so consumed by angst that not even a trio of Russian supermodels could appeal to his carnal side. And while you may have the luxury of endless lie-ins, he’ll have bolted out of bed by 6am, scanned his BlackBerry and checked the markets before he’s even got in the shower.
High flyers crave order and control because there’s enough chaos at work. So, be warned, he’ll expect his home life to run on rails – smoothly, quietly, flawlessly. His wardrobe will be a temple to minimalist efficiency: slabs of pristine shirts arranged by colour, bespoke suits, £500 shoes in clear boxes for fast identification, cufflinks and collar stiffeners ready to go. Underwear tends to be identical, white, usually Calvin Klein or Armani. Watches are to City boys what alpha handbags are to women. Expect him to have a collection worth more than a semi in South London. Patek Phillipe, IWC, Franck Muller – for day, night, sport and everything in between.
When I first entered my ex-boyfriend’s house, I had the feeling that I’d walked on to the set of American Psycho. “Are you sure you actually live here?” I asked. It was a quiet, immaculate space, no clutter allowed anywhere. The boy sweated blood to afford the place and, since he spent no time actually living in it, he liked it to look as if it was awaiting a House & Garden shoot. Shoes, toddlers and red wine were all inconceivable.
So all week you’ve slept like a mouse, scur-ried about ensuring that the household runs without a hitch, and by Friday night you’re aching to hit the town. He’ll feel too guilty to refuse, and you’ll find yourself in a Michelin-starred restaurant, chattering away, while he stares into space, craving sleep as badly as a junkie needs heroin.
Bankers’ girls find their lives mirroring market trends. When he does well, you’ll be swept along on a tide of champagne and adrenalin. But when things go wrong – and they usually go spectacularly wrong – you will find yourself in a darkened room, murmuring soothing words while he fights off a nervous breakdown.
Yes, you’ll get to sink into the cushioned depths of a grown-up sports car that draws envious glances at every traffic light. But you’ll soon start to resent the thing when you have to remove your shoes in case you soil the upholstery. Add the stress caused by scratches and damage, the endless search for safe parking, and keeping it out of the hands of vandals and joyriders, and you’ll soon long for a battered Golf.
And what about those promised holidays? Well, they do exist and your friends will be gnashing their teeth at the brochures, but you’ll need to be happy in your own company. I wandered the streets of Marrakesh and Florence solo while he spent all his time with the BlackBerry jammed to his ear, or bashing away at its keypad. Then there were the days spent Lost in Translation style at one of Dubai’s most opulent hotels, because he had to fly back to London to deal with a crisis at work.
If you’re confounded by why bankers keep working long after they’ve accumulated millions and millions, the answer is simple: it’s not about the money. Really. After a few years, the cash becomes irrelevant. Instead, it’s about winning, about annihilating your opponents, whether it’s on the trading floor, the squash court, in the bar or in the boxing ring. These guys have an insatiable appetite to win at everything, so don’t try to compete.
And if it happens that he’s not winning, not out-earning his boss or his colleagues, you’ll be expected to keep schtum. Having a few too many glasses of champagne and blurting out how disappointed he was with his last bonus could see you hurled out the door. Bankers’ girls should remember it’s all about image: that means silent, smiling supportiveness, and never, ever revealing what he earns – especially not to other bankers’ WAGs, because the news will be around the City before the first espressos have been drunk on Monday morning.
If this makes it all sound like hard work, then fear not. When I was taken to Selfridg-es and cocooned in a cream-carpeted boudoir with a personal shopper, while a pair of flunkies rushed around the store finding me a new wardrobe, I wasn’t exactly suffering. As I cooed over a perfectly fitted Armani jacket and an immaculately cut Ralph Lauren suit and the bill soared ever upwards, the boy never flinched.
We left an hour later with an armful of bags and I have no idea of the final tally, but it must have been nudging five figures. A further burst of retail madness in Bond Street, and we hopped into a taxi and headed home. It sounds like pure fantasy, and for a girl like me with a job in public sector PR, it was. Every time I put on one of those garments I feel a million dollars, and remember that heady day.
Yes, there were perks, and good ones. The ease of knowing that you can take taxis without a thought, of never having to check price tags on anything. The luxury of going to the opera or the ballet without scrimping for months for a seat up in the stratosphere.
I wanted for nothing – nothing that could be bought, anyway: La Perla, Crème de la Mer and acres of cashmere after every business trip, my 30th birthday party for a crowd of friends at Home House, the nights out that now make me wince at their unabashed expense; the £1,000 dinner in Paris, the seven-course tasting menus with matching wine flights at any number of Michelin restaurants; and the bouquets so large they could hardly fit through the door, which had even the courier gawping in amazement.
But in the end all the cashmere in the world cannot insulate you from the cold truth that such men will always love their money and their jobs more than you. You will be an afterthought – an indulgence at best. If you can cope with that, and with a life whose sole spiritual or emotional dimension consists of worshipping at the retail temples of Knightsbridge and Bond Street, then their world is yours for the taking.
But I couldn’t, and shortly after the City superhero picked up yet another multimillion-pound bonus, I packed my things and left. No wardrobe was large enough, no jewels sparkly enough and no holidays glamorous enough to compensate for the sting of unrequited love.
Since then there have been times when I’ve waited in the rain for buses and remembered all those extravagances – my other life – and wondered if I folded my cards too soon, was too proud, too stubbornly romantic.
But now, as I pad around my new boyfriend’s chaotic flat, leaving stray coffee mugs on every floor, scattering newspapers in my wake, I have no regrets. We make an unholy mess in the kitchen, leave our clothes strewn up the stairs and go to sleep in the small hours. He drives a beaten up car stuffed with dirty riding gear and legal papers. And I think he’s wonderful.
I’d like to say I’m slumming it, but then Guy is a barrister, the flat is in Chelsea and he has his sights set on a career as a Conservative politician. Some habits, it seems, are hard to break.
Looking for millionaire love (in all the wrong places)
“Sounds like an escort agency.” This wasn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting from my flatmate Claudia when I told her about the millionaire dating club I was joining. What could be wrong with signing up with an agency in which all the eligible bachelors were lonely, time poor but cash rich (net disposable assets of at least £1 million essential) and who paid £10,000 for a service in which all that was required of me was to be a “well educated, goal orientated and attractive professional”?
The company insisted that it offered the opportunity to find a partner for “long-term relationships for both ladies and gentlemen”. After all, I told Claudia, who doesn’t want to marry a millionaire?
Alarm bells should have sounded when the online application asked only for my name, age, e-mail address and photo. Didn’t they want to know what I did, or what my interests were? But it wasn’t until my face-to-face consultation that reality set in. Despite an hour-long intensive review of my likes (road trips), dislikes (flashy cars and bars), relationship history (two serious boyfriends), future goals (house and kids in the country) and preferences (someone about my age, tallish, laid-back, with a taste for spit and sawdust pubs and camping), it was clear that my interests were secondary to the paying clients’. I was presented with two potential dates whose interests bore no relation to mine: the first was short, mid-forties, liked fine wines; the other was tall, my age, liked luxury holidays and jet-set clubs. My dismissal of both was met by exasperation: “But they’re multimillionaires.” Maybe, but I’m not for sale. OLEANNA MILLS
http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/relationships/article3166507.ece
Dove’s Msg to the public to improve self image…
