In the “oh puhleeze” department, the Post is giving full-team coverage to the resignation-cum-gentle-ouster of White House social secretary Desirée Rogers. Frankly, you’d think the administration was down a Secretary of State, rather than a social secretary.
Indeed, I nearly spit my Diet Doctor Pepper all over my keyboard this morning when I read the comments of one Monica Mingo, a 40-year-old housewife from Montgomery County and creator of the Facebook group, “Toast to Ms. Desiree Rogers, White House Social Secretary.”
“She was sacrificed * sigh *,” Mingo wrote.
“Devastated,” is how Mingo describes feeling. “She is flyness. I know people come and go in any administration, they move on, but I just feel that she was such a force to me personally.”
A force? For what? Yes, flyness, I know, but really? She’s the president’s event planner, not a policymaker. Sure, she did know the “difference between Nina Ricci and Lanvin and regularly wore both,” as Robin Givhan helpfully weighed in from Milan on her first-lady-slash-fashion beat, informing us that “Rogers’ departure has the fashion industry practically in mourning.”
Despite Givhan’s contention that Washingtonians don’t know fashion from Foosball, D.C. is hardly the dowdy hamlet such broadbrush characterisations would imply. Half of the Hill staffers and PR interns in this town have their own fashion blogs, for chrissakes, and the pantsuit died with Hillary Clinton’s Senate career.
No, Rogers’ failing wasn’t her fashion. It’s that she didn’t do her job as an administrative staffer. She let two invitation-less wanna-be reality stars into a high-security state dinner, and she failed to apologise or accept responsibility. But I supposed you’d have to know politics from ping pong to get that.