PHONE INTERFERENCE?

I dislike politics. In extreme. But something weird is going on with my phone. Last Saturday daughter was here. She used the phone in the morning. We went to buy her school books. When we arrived she wanted to phone a friend and couldn't get through, the line was plain dead. We tried to fix the wires, the cables or whatever those things might be, without any success. My mother called me to the mobile. I told her what the problem was. Sunday was the same and Monday too. On Tuesday, Carlos changed his class to Sunday so I had a few spare moments which I took to report the failing phone directly at Telmex. I went to my other classes, and by night it was working properly. My mother reported it too, on Sunday and on Monday.

Well, today I called my mother, it is Grandparent's Day. I didn't find her. Time went by and I decided to call again. The phone decided to committ suicide. It was dead... again. My brother called to my mobile to see if I knew anything about my mother. I asked him to report my phone. He did, quite successfully. A few minutes later he called back to say he had reported it and to give me the report number in case they asked for it.

No, when my phone rang it was not from Telmex, it was a terribly disgusting recording of a female voice telling me how wonderful the president is. I mean... is my phone being interfered or what? Does my phone die in order for it to be resurrected by a phony president publicity? If they are trying to impress me, well they did, negatively!

ENDING RELATIONSHIPS

Ricardo erased me from his friends because I didn't want to take a class in Polanco. Because I didn't even know if I could take it! Again he's behaving like a stupid teenager, but this time I'm not coming back. This is the end. It's good.
The doctor said, "As soon as you close the thesis cycle, you'll see many other circles will start closing" This is one. I'm glad. There was no point in continuing with it.
I'm sorry, yes, because of the stupid way it ended.
Now he can be as unhappy as he wants with his wife and his children.

THE RING

I was dreaming.
A story.
A woman had a ring. She was an old peasant. She had to pay taxes and another woman, a rich woman who was I don't know who, bought it for a hundred coins. The old peasant's wife was happy and sad. They would have money to pay the taxes and some food.
But that ring was special.
A few days later the rich woman came back with four more hundred coins and gave them to the old peasants. The husband was happier even. The woman was still sad. The man asked her what her problem was. She answered, "I wonder how much might she have gotten for it?"
The problem is, I don't know what the ring looked like, or what it was made from. I know it had belonged to her mother and grandmother. The old peasant asked her husband, "Now tell me the difference between costly and valuable."

SHOES

I had never realized how much attention I pay to shoes. Not only mine, but those of others. Women, mainly. Men's shoes are quite similar and boring. Lately, as I have been walking quite a lot around the city and mainly in the subway I have noticed the kind of shoes most working women wear. Some are proud to wear nice shoes. High heels, fashionable, combining with the rest of their outfits, mainly young women between their 20s-30s. Younger women, students usually, wear colourful flats with details like bows, buttons, straps, buckles, floral or animal printings; they might wear very low heels and open toes or tennis shoes out of pure commodity.

Older women, mothers mainly, wear comfortable shoes. Not much personality to them, they are square shaped, monochromatic, no-nonsense shoes --designed to walk and resist running after children and carrying sweaters, bags, toys and whatever.

Aged ladies, who walk slowly and heavily, wear flats and also very old shoes, already shaped to the feet they carry, or cover, they might wear tennis shoes or the square kind, cushioned if they are lucky to have a little more money. Usually aged ladies in the subway are not exactly well-off. They are mostly beggars, really poor. Sometimes they wear sandals with a tire sole.

Children, poor children who beg for money, always for money, are usually barefooted or wearing tire-soled sandals.

I can't decide where to locate myself. I wear my old black boots. They are already shaped and domesticated. They are water resistant, and the wedges are high enough, and comfortable to walk and climb steep slopes. They are old. The leather is peeled off and they need new heels. Or rather, I need new boots. The time to wear new things will come. Someday.