Cary Randolph Fuller, the WASPiest woman to ever live, continues her self-transformation from midwestern podunk sk8t3r girl in Brooklyn to Hamptons hitting, polo match attending, Manhattan socialite. It’s a long road from drinking beer in a flannel shirt to perfecting your disordered eating at the Ralph Lauren offices, but that’s still not enough to get Scary Mandolph the Kennedy Jefferson Wittenbach Mr. Big whatever man who will marry her and confer on her the legitimate WASP status she droolingly craves. There is a final step: making the rounds in magazines as one of NYC’s “bachelorettes”.

That’s right: Cary “my parents were socialites I was born in Connecticut I worked at a hotel one summer in Newport which is the same as spending summers there” Fuller has been named one of Complex Magazines “50 Most Desirable Bachelorettes in NYC“, presumably because Man Repeller is no longer available. She promptly began bragging about her new importance on her twitter:

Who wrote that @complexguide list of bachelorettes?! Whose hand to I need to shake?!

Oh give me a break. The list is a mix of random bloggers and a couple of actual celebrities/models. New York City is a small town, I’m sure Cary knows exactly whose back to scratch here. But whatever. Things like this will truly notch up her social currency enough to land herself a husband with a house in Maine, so mission accomplished!

Cary Randolph-future Kennedy, current Jefferson and the ne plus ultra of high society-graciously answers questions from the unwashed masses. Today she got an anonymous question that was right in her wheelhouse:

Anonymous said: Which do you prefer: Hamptons or Newport?

Cary: I prefer them both to pretty much anywhere else, but if we’re splitting hairs I’d like to be tearing down Further Lane in a charcoal gray Mercedes-Benz SLK350 with the top down, hair loose, white linen shirt over a black string bikini, bloody Mary in a Solo cup, and Bob Seger on the radio, the right man at my right side.

Well thank God. I thought this seemed pretentious but the mention of a red Solo cup really brought this answer down to earth. I understand answering a question creatively, but this is a self-indulgent wank over the trust fund or bank account that Scary Mandolph just knows is out there, waiting for her to come and really turn its life around. Mandolph created this fiction of herself as a dyed-in-the-wool WASP at least a year ago, and nothing has come of it. It’s time to admit she really is just the bland Midwestern transplant we all know she is. If she would stop trying to be the second coming of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy she might actually be interesting.

Thankfully, there is at least one person who isn’t impressed by Mandolph’s response:

Philistine. I’ll bet they never even heard of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald.

Well, I’ve learned my lesson. I took a short break from GOMIBLOG and almost missed some more word vomit from our very own Scary Mandolph:

Recently: standing at the kitchen counter, attempting to peel a hardboiled egg. The white kept coming off with the shole until there was hardly any left, and I stood there, pissed off, late, a million things to do, thinking, “How am I going to do this when I’m a mom?” That’s the question I ask whenever these mundane tasks don’t come easy, like removing an egg shole in one deft maneuver, the flat side of the thumb, the way my dad does it over the sink. He makes it look simple, but it’s not so simple. It’s a craft. And I worry that in ten, fifteen years, when there’s a passel of children pulling on my skirt hem, rolling their sippy cups across the linoleum, screaming for their breakfast, how will I breeze through the mindless bullCrap without losing my mind? Example: opening a can of soup over the sink without losing the grip of the can in the opener and dropping the can and spilling all the soup? Or laundry? Loads and loads of laundry? Or hauling groceries into a car and a child in a car seat at the same time in the rain, and the hubby’s on the phone, “What’s for dinner, darling?” How does anyone do that? (I can see my mother now, reading this, saying aloud to her iPad screen, “For God’s sake, Cary, stop THINKING so much.”)

Christ on sale, what the Crap is that about? I’ve peeled hard boiled eggs and even used manual can openers for years and I’m not even a (omg) mother. Also, how do you even manage to “peel” an egg and end up taking off the white too? Is she whacking at the thing with a steak knife? All that aside, I don’t know why Mandolph even thinks she’ll have to do any of this stuff once she marries the Kennedy-Vanderbilt-Guinness-Mortimer-de’ Medici-bank account of her dreams. Rich people have servants to do this stuff. I’m no WASP, but I just assume daddy’s too busy banging younger women and mommy’s too busy drinking to care about actually using *gasp* kitchen appliances.

Honestly this looks like something Poundcake would write, and once you’ve hit that level there’s really not much hope. It’s normal for someone to be nervous about raising a child, but don’t eggs and can openers seem like really minor worries? I can’t wait until people stop treating every single aspect of their lives, no matter how insignificant or annoying, as The Link that Binds Us All Together as Humans or something like that.