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