Lots of news on the public marriage front this morning. It turns out Valerie Plame did sorta recommend the CIA send her husband on that trip to Niger and he was unspeakably mad about it and [redacted] [redacted] they live in New Mexico now, and also that some Democrats apparently thought Bill Clinton should resign over so publicly disrespecting the marriage to the woman he consulted every night of his first campaign, and then Sarkozy's marriage drama French blah blah, but somehow none of these public unions can claim the intrigue of the marriage we'd all be happier not knowing about, which is to say that of Tinsley and Topper Mortimer. Who is Tinsley Mortimer again? Well, she is a narcissistic blond Virginia carpet salesman's daughter who aspires to be a reality TV star, which would be one thing if we didn't have to know who she was. But she was all over Fashion Week, prancing around and causing us to think thoughts like, "isn't she a little old for this?" and "I wonder what those handbags she supposedly designs actually look like.." (Retch: here.) And this weekend the New York Times alerted us to the fascinating news that she has been married — for half her life! and they eloped in high school!! — to someone kind of AWESOME!
In brief: Topper Mortimer is one of those old-money types who is a direct descendant of one of the families that ruled everything in America when the country was slightly more like a monarchy, and he drinks a lot of beer and finds his wife pretty thoroughly contemptible, not even, it seems, from an "I am old money and we find famewhoring distasteful" sort of perspective but from an "I detest rich people as only a rich person can" sort of perspective, and he goes on and on about how he hates charity functions and picture-taking and thinks it's all really idiotic but he can't help but "adore" her anyway, and it's kind of one of those situations where, either, he makes us like Tinsley slightly more because he is such a mensch, or he makes us like Tinsley less because she is probably cheating on him, or it's all an act cooked up to create dramatic tension in the reality television show we will in two years find ourselves involuntarily immersed in a marathon of, and yeah I don't feel like un-dangling that participle right now. (Also: "in his cups" — I am a drunk and I had never heard this expression. Service-y!) Anyway, so confused right now. And it's not even 10!
Why Is This Blond Smiling? [NY Times]