My husband just returned from a funeral. I’d chosen to stay home instead of go. He ate lunch afterwards with the granddaughter of the deceased, the granddaughter who happens to be a managing editor at Random House in NYC.
“What was her name?” He gave me two posibilities for her first name.
“Last name?” He didn’t know.
“It’s a pretty big house. What area or genre does she manage?” He couldn’t tell me that, either, but he was very excited about meeting her. Then, before I could act, or worse yet, overreact, he wisely and quickly left the house to get a hair cut.
Author Sandy Carlson 
P.S. This post is NOT about stalking editors, like writers who follow them into bathrooms at conferences. Of COURSE, were I to have been there at the luncheon, I would honor the moment of the funeral, and not pitch.. then.