what a wonderful thing love is.

I'm always confused when someone calls me by the wrong name. Not to sound self-centered or anything, but I thought that my follicles having a good three inches around on most of those around me would really give me some leverage. At the birthday party of a complete stranger on Saturday, a guy named Al I met in the kitchen on my way in insisted on calling me Lois instead of Lauren.

I'm still hoping he was going more for Lois Collier (b-movie heroine extraordinnaire) than Lois Griffin.

At work, there are two Laurens. Sales-lady Lauren (me) and stock-room Lauren (her). Come to think of it, she may be one of the only people I know personally whose hair may be wilder than mine. Working in the stock room and mostly out of the view of the general public and the Whole Foods Market recyclable bag toting, judgemental eyes of the Yorkville yuppies who frequent their local Williams-Sonoma, she is not restricted to the ponytail, the bun, the french twist, or the chignon that my hair has practically formed a mold to thanks to a recent 50+ hour workweek. At the time I took this job, I wasn't aware that it was not only my dress, my piercings, and my tattoos were unacceptable. Yes, I was told I was going to have to 'manage' my hair. Their words, not mine.

Lauren from the stock room, a U of T graduate who is currently 'figuring out her life' from behind a towering pile of immersion blenders and from under an assortment of silicone spatulas, has managed to be the only Lauren I've ever met who pronounces Lauren with an accent and can get away with it without sounding like a pretentious asshole. I realise the fact that she was born & bred in Toronto makes this even more surprising. After over a month at Williams-Sonoma, I've given up on correcting my associates when I hear "Laureeeeen-with-an-accent-egu-over-the-E! There's a man in electrics who needs the down-lo on the $4,000 Jura Z5 Espresso maker!" crackling in my headset. Sometimes, I sort of secretly wish that when I started my life over and moved to Toronto, I had introduced myself as Lauren-with-an-accent-egu-over-the-E.

But even re-reading that last sentance, I know I already sound like the pretentious asshole I assume most Laurens who pronounce their names with an accent are.

After two somewhat-major relationships and too many not-so major ones, I still to this day have fortunately never called the wrong name in bed. It's inevitable that if you're seeing or sleeping with a number of partners at the same time, you're gonna fuck up sometime and letting the wrong name slip is a pretty easy mistake. I've done it once or twice. As long as you're not in bed (or on the couch, or the kitchen table, or the washing machine..), I honestly don't think it's that much of a problem. The initial awkwardness will pass, and alot worse could have happened. This may just be because I come from a serial cheater of a father who is famous for his "it's good to have a port in every storm" theory and a couple theories about how your mistress needs to be at least two area codes away from your partner.

"As long as they're further than forty five minutes away from eachother, it's okay!" He once told me. I'm being serious. His only relationship that hasn't ended in a marriage since he was 25 ended because the woman lived closer than forty five minutes away from his then-mistress. I guess Kelowna and Penticton are closer than they appear on Google Maps. Their names were too close to call, and without seperate area codes to seperate their dirty text messages, he had nothing left to do but dump 'em.

I believe I am one of the only women in the Western Hemisphere that doesn't condemn a man for accidentally blurting out "Elaine" in lieu of "Eleanor".

This week, my current gentleman-friend (again, for the lack of a better word) is going to be meeting good ol' Papa Wilton & I for a relaxed dinner at the Jamie Kennedy Wine Bar, my weakness south of Queen St. West. It's not often that I offer up my dates to my parents on a silver platter, but this one is under 30 and can hold his liquour (for the most part) which is a pre-requisite in my family on my father's side. And because he's not my boyfriend, it takes the pressure off me to make him look or act better than he actually is- although to be honest, he's pretty damn great.

Now I can only hope, pray and quiz my father over the phone from the 416 to the 250 to make sure he'll get his name right.

Because like Superman and Lois Lane, we are just as strong, we are just the same.