My mother always seems to have a better grasp of pop culture than I do. I find that especially shocking since I’m the one who spends copious amounts of time on Facebook, the herald of all things menial, while she spends her days running a business and a family. Somehow, somewhere she discovers the latest gossip, scandals and generally perplexing celebrity news.
There are those rare occasions, however, when I will present her with information she has not yet heard, usually about people she doesn’t recognize. For example, I could barely expect my mother to know who Macklemore is — he’s not married to Angelina Jolie, or any other glamorous, gossip-worthy celebrity, and he spends a lot of time in thrift stores. Not my mom’s kind of celebrity. Regardless, in such situations, she refuses to accept defeat. Instead, she’s found a one-liner that erases any stain of lost credibility: No, I don’t know this Macklemore you speak of. Does he know me?
Does he know me?
Little did I know that my mom’s sarcastic yet witty go-to response would become a pseudo-motto for my time in Washington, D.C.
It all started after one-and-a-half semesters worth of unpaid internship bliss. I did my time, so to speak, and was thrilled to hear that after months of diligent work, the media company was offering me a paid (Yes! With actual compensation for my work — what a novelty!) position.
Before I knew it, my GUTS bus-chasing, desk-sitting, phone-answering job transformed into a party-going, photo-snapping, social-networking experience with just as much GUTS bus-chasing, only in heels.
As a D.C. “scene reporter,” my job is to go to events and parties around the city, take pictures of guests and write a short blurb about the event and who was there that’s later published online.
Nine months into the gig, I’ve been to more events than I can keep track of — from corner bar happy hours to glitzy galas and everything in between. I’d like to think that I’ve mastered the art of showing up fashionably late, mingling and small-talking while asking people to pose for their 15 minutes of Internet fame and, of course, of acting like I totally belong in a room full of people significantly more important than I am.
Perhaps, however, I’ve become a little too comfortable.
And just to make sure I have plenty of embarrassing stories to tell when people ask me how my job is, I’ve managed to trip up on multiple occasions, failing miserably at the “Who’s Who of D.C.” game, unable to recognize the B-list celebrities present.
For example, how was I supposed to know that the petite lady with voluptuous hair, big lips and expensive-looking bling was once on “The Real Housewives of D.C.?” To me, she’s just the socialite I took a picture of because she had an aura about her. Only after I Googled her to spell check her name did I realize my oversight. In my defense, wasn’t that show cancelled after one season, like, two years ago?
I’ve casually conversed, even going so far as to utter the words, “I recognize you from somewhere,” with Candy Crowley. Candy Crowley as in the chief political correspondent on CNN. Candy Crowley as in the person I watch on the nightly news over dinner.
Last week, at a fundraiser hosted by a Redskins player, I had the audacity to ask around about the man being interviewed by the local news. “Who is that guy? Why’s he so special?” Turns out it was Robert Griffin III, better known as RGIII, NFL offensive rookie of the year. When I told my sports fanatic friend about the incident later, I mistakenly called him JRIII. That didn’t go over so well.
Needless to say, I have subconsciously adopted my mom’s one-liner as the motto behind my work. I don’t know them … do they know me? If not, I’m not at fault. I call it levelling the playing field.
Perhaps it’s not the best strategy when dealing with people in such high-profile positions, but it helps me pretend that someday, I’ll be the one people will be taking pictures of.
Merjan Bubernack is a junior in the McDonough School of Business. PSUEDO-SOCIALITE appears online every other week in The Guide.
