The dog days of June

Look, we all knew the daily blogging thing wasn't going to last, ok?

Anyway, I don't feel like blogging.

I'm annoyed.

I'm annoyed that, mostly through my desultory attention to the process, I still don't have my next assignment lined up. (Update: Belgium's out. A couple of new DC possibilities opened up, including one which looks pretty good, but the timing's poor on all of them. I'd hazard that my chances of being handed an Iraq/Afghanistan slot just jumped up to about 20 percent.)

I'm annoyed about, and hugely depressed by, recent news on the election and hope to blog about it soon. (Suffice it to say that if Obama does choose Webb, I'm voting for Nader, so help me.)

I'm annoyed that the mainstream media sees nothing wrong with writing an article about Mrs. Feinstein and Mrs. Clinton but Senator Obama, and that people look at me blankly or dismissively when I try to explain what I know to be true, which is that such things, when they occur consistently and en masse, which they always do, shape our society.

I'm annoyed that my choral group has been rehearsing for what feels like practically every night lately, thanks to an upcoming concert and a cantata that's much too technically difficult for us, and that my voice is gone as a result and is now unlikely to recover by the performance.

I'm annoyed that I've had insomnia for the past week.

I'm annoyed that thunderstorms and heat advisories have kept me from commuting by bike for a solid week -- which, I've just now realized, perfectly coincides with the insomnia -- and I'm further annoyed by how offensively the bus smells. I don't remember it being quite that bad in previous years, and, of course, take it as further evidence of Our Parlous First-World Status. (Thoughts on personal hygiene as one of the three hallmarks of civilization here.)

I'm annoyed that some people who really don't seem to know what they're doing are scheduled to do something very painful to me on Monday and that my crappy, crappy health insurance (I'm talkin' to you, GEHA) has yet again found some fine print that ensures I'm paying over $100 every time each of my many doctors opens her mouth, on top of high biweekly premiums.

And that I had to awkwardly explain the situation, obliquely, to my boss, to account for why I need to take sick leave next week but don't yet know how much, and he cut me off and asked whether it was a "female problem," and I meekly agreed (anything to end the conversation) and now he's giving me all this unsolicited information on laparoscopies and other irrelevant uterine procedures, and I very much fear we're headed for a "Curb Your Enthusiasm"-type situation.