Can you believe this? Neither of my senators—or the representative—has written me back! What the hell are they doing in Washington? Certainly not paying attention to their hard-working and attentive constituents who bothered to learn their names! I especially have a problem with the representative. What excuse do you have? You’re not even important! I even closed my letter to Representative Dana Rohrabacher by telling him that the swell has sucked lately, so he’s not even missing anything (He’s a surfer. I’m a surfer. I reached out to him as one surfer to another. He was not feeling it.). Hello! I bothered to look up personal information about you! The least you could do is respond! Oh, by the way, Dana, the swell is totally picking up. You’re about to miss some epic swell.

You better not be vacationing in Hawaii right now.

I’d like to clear up any lingering confusion over my previous post: No, I did not write two senators and a representative about how outrageously snobby that second-hand store Buffalo Exchange is, as some of you (you know who you are and you’ve spent way too much time in Texas) thought. Come on, people. No, I actually wrote them about the Republican takeover of the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, and by extension, my beloved NPR. Can you believe they’re calling it “liberal”? Honestly, I’ve never even heard of such a thing. Unfortunately, I have heard of how Bush’s new budget conveniently increases funding for faith-based programs and abstinence-only education while slashing funding for something you’ve probably never heard of, a little thing called HEALTHCARE.

At least I think that’s what I read or heard somewhere. Unless I totally messed up those facts. Which is possible. Because I did have the following conversation the other day:

ME (in midst of one of those witty and intellectually stimulating political discussions I often have): I can’t believe you used to think George Bush was cute!

FRIEND WHO NEEDS TO GET OUT OF TEXAS: He is cute!

ME: Well, we have the Governator. He’s kind of good-looking.

FWNTGOOFT: That’s nothing! You should see our governor, Rick Perry! He’s really good-looking.

ME: [ogling website] Wow, he really is good-looking.

F-GOOFT: Yeah, he looks like what someone who’s a politician is supposed to look like.

ME: Yeah. I can’t believe you know who your governor is. I don’t even know who our governor is. Who the hell is our governor, anyway?

F-GOOFT ["expressing utter shock at my lack of awareness"]: ...?!

I mean, I suppose you could be forgiven for forgetting who your governor is if it’s someone like this. (No offense, Bob.) But when your governor is a two-hundred-plus-pound former Mr. Universe whose most famous utterance previous to his election was a Spanish phrase in a thick German accent right before he blew people away with his machine gun—there’s really no excuse.

Man.

But now that I’ve figured out who our governor is, don’t you think I’m ready to fulfill my civic duty as a jurist next month? I hope I don’t get knocked out because I’m too smart.

I’m just waiting for the historical moment when frizzy bangs that stick out at odd angles and that my-hair-is-a-pain-in-the-ass-to-brush style is in. Then I will be so hip you will beg me for my secret to Perfect Hair, and when In Style interviews me, I will coyly respond: “Gosh, it’s just that way naturally!” And smile in that ecstatic, I-was-just-proposed-to-by-a-freakishly-exuberant-A-lister-who’s-twice-my-age! way. You know who I’m talking about.

And you will be jealous. Oh, will you be jealous.

You’ll spend countless hours standing in the bathroom running the hot water in the hopes of steaming your way to that perfect frizz. Those of you who are lucky enough to live in humid regions will thank your lucky stars and cut your bangs, in the vain hope that they will one day hit the exactly angles of noon, ten o’clock and two o’clock, just like those of your idol do -- naturally!

What can I say? Some say it’s a talent. I say it’s a gift, and I would not presume to take credit for what evolution has chosen to bestow upon me. Even though it will confer upon me an extreme reproductive advantage once the fashion world moves into the avante-garde realm I inhabit.

You know. Not that I care about hair and clothes and designer bangles and being trendy-thin, now that I live in the OC again, in the benevolent shadow of Hollywood. Because there’s a difference, I’ve noticed, between normal-thin (good genetics), trendy-thin (way too much time looking at the mirror in the gym), and thin-thin (yo Lindsay).

Which basically means, by SoCal standards, that I’m fat.

Not that I judge myself by OC standards, because as we all know they are completely unrealistic, unhealthy standards that only exist because you look 10 pounds heavier onscreen. Which is completely ridiculous. I’m like so beyond that bullsh*t!

But my self esteem is taking a serious hit here, guys. I think it started when my clothes were rejected by a second-hand clothing store. Let me say that again: they were rejected, spurned, deemed highly unworthy! by a second-hand clothing store.

F*ck you too, Buffalo Exchange. YOU THINK YOU’RE TOO COOL FOR THE GAP?

I guess I should have taken the hint when the first item I saw was a pair of Salvatore Ferragamo pumps. Or the second-hand jeans on sale for $75 bucks. There’s a bargain if I ever saw one.

Whatever. L.A. is sooooooo jeans anyway. I’m sooooooo over it. (I can say this. Because I live upstairs from a real fashion designer. And he said it.)

So I wrote a letter to my congressman to make myself feel better. How intelligent and politically aware am I! Can you believe I even know who represents me in the House of Representatives? The thrill ranks right up there with scoring a used pair of jeans for only seventy-five bucks!!!!! You have no idea.

You know how sometimes that feeling of deep inner satisfaction gives you a feeling of impending doom? The knock-on-wood feeling? The certainty that things are so good that something disastrous must be about to happen?

Well that's how I feel.

My life is perfect. And that's an ominous thing.

I work from home. I love my job. I can go surfing during lunch. I get to walk my doggy in the most gorgeous sleepy little beach town ever, with the cool ocean breeze calming every last frayed nerve from living/driving/working in Glenferno, Arizona as the sun does its best impression of a perfect summer day...I live in paradise.

Which makes it an absolute certainty that changes in the climate due to global warming are going to exacerbate global geopolitical tensions and cause widespread suffering within my lifetime. I'm just sure of it. Either that or I'm going to get a cavity before I sign up for dental insurance. Or I'll leave my credit card at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. Or some other dastardly thing. I can just feel it creeping up on me!

In fact, the only sucky thing about my life right now is that there's nothing to complain about.

Except the fact that there's nothing to complain about.

Which, when your hallmark characteristic is active inner cynicism, is a pretty serious condition.

I mean, seriously. Did I have to live upstairs from a fashion designer whose creations Halle Berry has graced and who has all sorts of beautiful and fabulous friends and who invites us over for fondue? Couldn't I live above some insipid, uber-trendy jeans-wearing, Louis Vuitton-toting account executive and her collared-shirted, sunglasses that don't actually block out sun-sporting, spikey-haired, evenly tanned boyfriend so I could revel in my enlightened, nonmaterialist lifestyle? NO. I had to go and live near cool people in an awesome location. And now see what happened? I'm HAPPY. What-T-F.

When they say you live in La-La Land, they're really not kidding.

La de dah.

Wait. My boyfriend is watching American Pie in my office.

That's not so cool.

Today I went to work in underwear and an old T-shirt.

I love working from home.