Your Best Shot

Okay, okay, so maybe it’s not Paige’s best shot, from a purely aesthetic standpoint, but still . . . it’s a goodie.

My kitty-cats, I have managed to get my paws on a copy of Miss Andrews’ mug shot! Are you ready for her close-up?



Rumor has it that Daddy bought her the bestest lawyer on the payroll—not surprising. And I’m hearing that despite being caught red-handed, girl has worked out a rather cushy plea. In fact, it’s back to Zephyr, where group therapy is tempered by grilled Mahi-Mahi, and detox is softened by daily detours to the sauna, the massage studio, and the outdoor pool.

All together now: poor, poor Paige.

Wonder how she’s gonna do with her take two? At least Regan Stanford won’t be around to play best-frenemies this time . . .

location: blog central
mood: sugar and spice
reading: Perez Hilton, my hero

Love Is in the Air

Or, more like pheremones, I s’pose.

Like, I know it was the Hollywood Ball and everyone was all glammed up and gorj and etc., but people, puh-leeze!

Contain yourselves.

Amongst those who were spotted having, um, a ball:

• Spence and Jer, previously of Spence-and-Jer, locking lips in—ew—the coatroom. What’s up with that, guys? Not very graceful, Miss Kelly. Not to mention, what would TyTy think?
• Somebody (or should I say, “bodies,” plural) steaming up the windows of a stretch limo idling curbside outside of the ball. Bonus points to whomever can send me a positive ID.
• Trish Harlowe and Jordan Haddon getting grabby on the dance floor. Talk about dirty dancing. I thought we were going to have to hose those two off!

Of course, none of that amounts to anything when you consider our own miss Paige Andrews, ushered off in handcuffs at the eve’s end. That’s a whole different kind of “heat,” ya know?

Location: blog central
Hangover status: Code Yellow
Reading: my own e-notes from the social event of the season

Three Strikes . . .

Sorry, Regan Stanford, but you know how the saying goes. And, my darling?

You. Are. Out.

Let’s just call it official.

As per our own headmistress, in-house Brad-cam footage has revealed our own little Cali-chick to be the perpetrator of crimes against Ben Franklin.

ZOMG—I never saw it coming!

Except, um, not.

Let’s review Tabloid Betty’s scandalicious history thus far, shall we?

Exhibit the first:
Her stint in rehab and rumored topsy-turvy relationship with Ryder Jared.

Exhibit the second:
The quality time she’s been spending with Jeremy Brown since making her debut here on the Main Line.

Exhibit the third:
Her backslide-tastic behavior at the gala. Medication, my aunt Fanny.

And then there’s the whole defaming our school mascot and etc.

Ooh—I guess that’s actually four strikes, Reegs. We even gave you one for good measure.

Tsk, tsk.

These Hollywood types are simply nothing but trouble.

location: the Bradbrary
cyber-switchboard: alight
reading: The Bradford Blog, natch

BLIND ITEM: Can’t Buy Me Love

Oh, who are we kidding—of course you can.

Or at least, you can try . . .

So, whose sweetie was last seen making five carats worth of amends yesterday afternoon, busting out a telltale little blue box lockerside?

You don’t need me to tell you—just keep an eye out for the purple flash and/or bulging ring finger (for serious, toting that little number around must be some kind of workout).

Purr-ty Girls

OMG, my kitties! Do you have the 411 on the VIP par-tay at Oceana? Let me tell you—the fur was flying. Nah, not even. It was in total and complete free fall.

(Do you remember my Chinese New Year resolution to retract those claws? Yeah, so not happening. Mrowr! Whatevs. January 1st is totes just around the corner. And I haven’t even begun to use up those nine lives.)

First off: MacKenzie Hamlin and Joanna Moore—you need to not be freaking over which of you wears the off-the-shoulder Blumarine in cabernet. Mainly because, well . . . neither of you should be wearing cabernet. Or off-the-shoulder. (What can I say? The truth, she hurts.)

Also, it would not be the worst idea if Bailey Foster went in for a grooming. Claws? More like talons. It’s called a paraffin mani, babe—look into it. This is the Main Line. Messy mits are a big non.

So, okay, we all heard that Paige Andrews was caught with her paws in the catnip jar, so I won't rehash her catfight with one Regan Stanford. But which of our kitten-heeled pets was getting pawed . . . by someone else’s squeeze?

Ask Madison Takahashi. Our fave fashionista was getting majorly frisky with Tyler DuPont. (Of Spence-and-Ty.) The bestie and the boyf? Now that’s played.

Mads will probably pull the whole “good friends” thing that works so well for the tabloid trash. But it sure looked steamy to these peepers. Seeing is believing—and I’ve got that pretty kitty night vision. Poor Spence. Who knew Tyler was such a tomcat?

Location: the solarium
Lighting: lunar. And scented candles by Tocca.
Needing: a catnap

BLIND ITEM: Sicko

So: which, ahem, Dangerous Player called in sick for field hockey practice this afternoon, leaving the rest of the team to forbear?

Not to worry, ma-petite-jockette, certain underclassmen were more than happy to pick up the slack. But then, you must have suspected as much.

And Mooreover, which henchskank/blitchbot/[insert your own euphemism HERE] was moore than happy to take stick in hand? The playa in question was overheard in the girls’ locker room regaling her teammates with stories of just what it was that had kept her fearsome leader otherwise occupied.

Hint: okay, yeah, it was an illness. Of a rather . . . delicate nature.

C'mon, girl—haven't you ever heard the expression, "no glove, no love?" These things are preventable, folks!

Yeesh.

And now I’m feeling sick.

Bad Girl Gone Good Girl Gone Bad

Did you follow that, folks? No foolin’: Everybody’s favorite model of rehab-chic, Regan Stanford, was, some might speculate, back in her cups at last night’s gala.

I mean, girl was certainly into something.

For someone who claims to drink strictly virgin, she sure did get sloppy. My sources tell me that Jeremy Brown propped her up and defended her to Vice Rector Andrews, who was all kinds of pearl-clutchy and etc. Something about a bad reaction to medication.

Uh huh. Sure. Whatever you need to tell yourself, Reegs.

Whatever.

But as long as we’re on the subject of prescription pills? Caitlyn Pierce? Needs to cash in her one-way ticket to the Valley of the Dolls. It’s not cute anymore, sweetie. And whatever you’re on? Is starting to make you bloat-y.

Blech.

location: blog central
energy source: Vitamin Water, spiked. For the happy-medium mellow.
reading: Defamer

BLIND ITEM: Fresh Meat

Really girlies? Really really?

You thought that despite being . . . er . . . generationally challenged, you’d be able to sneak in under the radar and insert yourself into today’s social planning committee meeting?

Two words for you, my darlings (well, really just the one of you. The brazen one, filled to the brim with bad-ideaitis):

Not. Even.

I don’t care what sort of master-jock your brother is, who your father manages, generally, and which junior-class wanna-bes you keep time with.

Not. Even.

(And if you don’t know exactly whom I’m referring to? You deserve to be held back, too.)

BLIND ITEM: Who’s Soiree Now

Which head-turning Mean Girl was making death-ray eyes at CaliforniaChic last night during an impromptu A-lister bash at Kenzo Takahashi’s newest restaurant?

Well, if it wasn’t everyone’s favorite Princess Grace, and it wasn’t our budding Fashionista, that only leaves . . .

Never you mind, dearies; I’m sure you can all guess.

Suffice it to say, girlfriend spent the better half of the evening looking like she’d accidentally sucked-down a rancid double-tall soy latte.

Watch your back, Reegs. Your new frenemy isn’t happy unless she’s the one making headlines. She gets front page billing . . . geddit?

Social Graceless

Well, my pretty kitties, most of you have probably already heard about the Main Line’s new Little Miss, AKA Regan Stanford. By all accounts, she’s “CaliforniaChic,” (read “boho”), "vegan” (read: “’rexic”), and, apparently, fresh out of rehab. She made her debut at the Kelly cocktail party last night, though apparently she behaved herself and stuck strictly to the mocktinis.

The jury’s still out on what Bradford’s resident GoldenGirl has to say about this West-Coast import, but regardless of where Regan ultimately settles on the social register, it looks like she’s already made one conquest:

Jeremy Brown.

Oh, yes.

Not back from his do-goodly mission even a week, my sources tell me he was spotted chasing after New Girl as she fled the Kelly carriage house—good and flustered.

Well, Jeremy always did give good fluster, right?

Looks like this fallen LA-Angel knows how to get a party started—sober or not.

In other news: Getting it on in the servant’s quarters, Dalton? With the hired help? How very . . . equal opportunity of you.

location: kitty-kat’s kwarters, AKA blog central (my imported fainting couch, just in case I happen upon any real dirt)
status: shaking off the catnip hangover
reading: DListed