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).

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.

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?