A Riordan Is a Riordan Is a Riordan : Relativity: What’s in a name? No calls from Robin Leach, but neighborhood dogs pay heed.

“Are you related to . . . “ Stacy from church asked as I started to nod my head yes, “ . . . Riordan Plumbing?”

“Oh, no, we’re the other Riordans,” I replied. “My husband’s uncle is running for mayor.” She had no idea who Uncle Dick was then (this was in November, right after he announced his candidacy), and looked disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to get a low bid out of me for the plumbing on the new church site.

Nowadays, not as many people ask if I’m related to the plumbers. They ask if I am related to Richard Riordan, the venture capitalist/lawyer/mayor-elect/uncle of the guy I’ve been in love with for 15 years.

While I am really proud of what Uncle Dick has done, especially with his charity work donating thousands of computers to inner-city schools, the greatest impact his candidacy and election has had on me is that it has given me a famous name.

I grew up in an unextravagant home in the West Hollywood hills, worked to support myself in the magazine trade before I had children, and now, everybody thinks I’m rich and famous. Like Robin Leach would film my lifestyle driving up to my favorite store, Builder’s Emporium, inmy luxurious Jetta. Recently, an acquaintance named Charles, whom my husband hadn’t heard from since high school, called to ask if we’d finance a golf course in New Mexico. He must have assumed that somehow, through osmosis, a few of the millions Uncle Dick made on Mattel or Adohr Farms had seeped into our bank account. Sorry, Charlie, but that’s out of our league.

Unexpected fame has shown up in various ways. When I went down the street to the house where I always vote, the two elderly ladies at the polling place treated me like I was a movie star. I could hear them whisper while I was punching my ballot, “I bet she’s his daughter.” I chatted with them before I left to set the record straight and learned: “We have other famous people in our precinct, too.”

Then there was the dog who used to regularly relieve himself next to our driveway. On my son’s chalkboard easel, I wrote a “To Whom It May Concern” letter, addressing our problem navigating garbage cans through this minefield and, using my new clout, signed it, “The Riordans.” No dog has pooped there since.

It feels like I am famous in the same way Billy Beer was, a novelty by association. Remember how people paid up to $1,000 a case for that stuff? My husband and I were thinking up ways we could clean up on our celebrity. We knew plumbing was out, even though my unhandy husband did show some sign of domestic competence when, plunger in hand, he unclogged our toilet. Riordan Beer? No, that wouldn’t float. I’ve got it: The Riordan Consulting Company. Now all we have to do is figure out something to consult.

My 6-year-old, Michael, routinely followed the campaign in the newspaper, trying out his new reading skills. He loves seeing his name on Page 1; it’s an added thrill that the headlines drop the extraneous “Richard” part. And on his way to school, he amused himself and drove me to distraction by yelling “Riordan!” at the top of his lungs every time he saw a sign.

At school, he gave out campaign buttons. One of his friends, Christopher, asked as he put on his button, “If your uncle wins the election, does that mean you’ll be the bosses of the city?” Michael’s face lit up as visions of himself with police officers throwing bad guys in jail danced through his head. “Yeah,” he said. “I think so.”