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Well, I did not even come close to winning The Manolo's Super Fantastic Essay contest, but after reading the things that did win, I'm not feeling too terrible about it. Anyway, here is my entry, which I think is definitely worth at least $1,000 worth of shoe merchandise.

Are there Shoes after Childbirth? Or, You Don’t Know What You’ve Got Until It Doesn’t Fit Anymore

My friend Roberta has, like, 300 pairs of shoes. Or rather, she has 300 pairs of shoes, gave birth, and now has 300 pairs of shoes that don’t fit.

It seems that in pregnancy, tummies and breasts aren’t the only things that expand.

I didn’t think much of it at the time, for fear of enabling her habit, but now that I myself am ready to give birth any day now (stress the word “ready”), I find myself mourning my few pair of fabulous footwear, the ones I rarely wore but knew were there, patiently awaiting my booty call.

My shoes were the first things I outgrew. No worry, then; I was managing an ice-cream shop and required to wear non-slip black industrials: the muumuus of the shoeniverse. But then I got fired for being pregnant, threw away my non-slips (no more food service!), and then sat in my closet, looking for something sexy to elongate my puffy tootsies.

No va, baby. Nothing fit. Not my anodized aluminum cut-out wedges with the mirrored cuff. Not my three-inch black stilettos I wore for a very important first date. Not my dancing pumps with the Lucite heel that I wore on my wedding day. And, worst of all, not my red lizard mules I bought one week before my positive pregnancy test and wore once.

So now I give new life to the cliché “barefoot and pregnant,” not only wondering what I’m going to wear to my discrimination lawsuit but also: if they warned us about this pregnancy by-product in Sex Ed, or on “Sex in the City,” would the world suffer a population decline? Roberta and I think it’s possible.

According to an article by the Associated Press, “Ricky Martin… says the fame and fortune he experienced in the late '90s left him feeling bored and embittered.”

Astonishing coincidence! Because the fame and fortune experienced by Ricky Martin in the late '90s left me feeling bored and embittered, too!

This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Hey, Ricky, wanna be pen pals?

Sorry Avram, Driv, Monstro — I have found the best blog ever. I recommend starting at Day One and working forward. The archive links are a little wonky, but with perseverence you will succeed. I just read the entire thing in one sitting. Enjoy!

So Ellen is back home from Louisiana, where she ate something called Boudin Balls that she says are to die for, but I've been a little apprehensive to type that into Epicurious.com for fear of what might turn up.

I just finished revamping a web site for my favorite client.

And I continue my battle against the insolent, inept, and insane. Happily, that's going well. It helps that I myself am none of the three.

Sunday night The Manolo will post the results of his essay contest — I am hoping that my 300-word tome “Are there Shoes after Childbirth” will rocket to the #1 prize of more than $1,000 worth of shoe merchandise.

Sunday also marks my ninth month of pregnancy, and baby boy could come at “any time,” sayeth the midwife.

Which means I've got a loooot of thank-you notes to write between now and then.

So my adorable friend Ellen is in Baton Rouge right now, serving as a night-shift volunteer for a Red Cross shelter. She's got Internet access and is blogging about it. She's an amazing writer (we met while pursuing our MFA degrees), and her enormous wit is surpassed only by the size of her heart. So, check her out! And leave nice comments! Because I think she'd appreciate it.

So in my paper yesterday, I read that Bush is telling us that we need to drive less. “I mean, people just need to realize that the storms have caused disruption and that if they're able to maybe not drive … on a trip that's not essential, that would be helpful.”

And the next paragraph says that he's ordering Federal employees to curtail non-essential travel.

And the next paragraph says that he's embarking on his SEVENTH trip to New Orleans in three weeks.

I guess private jet fuel is easier to come by than regular unleaded.

What an ass.

Here I've spent all week building my strength up after being ill, and then I read Mark Morford's Friday column and spent it all by laughing too hard. You gotta love a man who describes the Fashion Week models as “paper cuts with eyes.” Read it for yourself. Better yet, Register Here to receive his “Notes and Errata” via e-mail.

Just don't blame me if the act of reading wipes you out.

Hi All,

No more anonymous comments here. The spam has become prohibitively irritating. I've noticed that Blogger has started a “type the following” box for anonymous logins, to prevent spam. Would be nice if myblosgsite did the same…

I've been ill and therefore quiet, but am on the mend with a few things to say… check back soon!

Love,

MM (aka LBJ)

Mark Morford, San Francisco Chronicle columnist, has this to say about something else to which Hurricane Katrina has laid waste. And frankly, I couldn't be more delighted. Now, can the non-soul-sucking Republicans please come out of the woodwork where you've been hiding? Because I really miss my grand old party and would love to welcome myself back to the fold…