Get Outta’ My Cloud


I landed the lead role in a Kafka play Friday morning.

My brain’s breakfast is an Americano and my iCloud calendar. The espresso machine growled and sputtered to life. My calendar revealed that I had absolutely nothing to do. Ever.

All past and present entries, appointments, phone conferences, and birthdays were gone. Jewish and Christian holidays graced the months and years, like spots of blood on a white canvas. I checked my pulse. I was alive, obviously. Like Ishmael, I am writing this on Saturday.

Meanwhile, Back on The Farm

It was 5:30 am. Apple would not have West Coast technical support until 6:00 am. I wanted to be the first caller, so I checked in at  and requested a call. I was put through immediately to Nick. In Orlando, Florida.

“I see that you have opted to share your screen with Apple,” he said.
“I am desperate. I give myself to you. I need to confess something.”
“I am not dead. My whole life – on my iPad, iPhone, and laptop – is gone. Last night I was planning an event for 2014 and accidentally scrolled to 2040. Maybe my iPad thought ‘She’s not going to be here then so . . .”

Nick was all business. We got to work. Nothing worked. At 7:30 am I was sent to Adam on Level Two Apple support.

Adam at Apple. The day was getting interesting.

Adam took a few moments to review my ‘case.’ While he was doing that, I remembered something.

“On Wednesday and Thursday, every time I accessed my iPhone WiFi, “FBI Surveillance Van” has popped up as a network option. Could this be significant?”

Silence. Customer Service protocol. Adam did not want to discuss conspiracy theories so early in our relationship.

“Do not worry. I see that there are 20,000 entries in your backup, so we just have to figure out how to get them back.”

20,000? I’m a busy, busy person. At 9:45 am I gave permission for Adam and Apple Engineering to have access to my cloud, my email, contacts, anything that had a password. At 2:15 pm, Adam called and said that it would probably be next week before my data was recovered.

“Why can’t I you just go to the server farm and harvest my stuff? I’ve been an Apple customer since before you were born.”

“You’re right. But server farms are everywhere.”


“Just know that your information will be back next week.”

Adam said he would email my temporary password. “You might have to reset your password . . . “

Great. I can’t remember what I have run up two flights of steps to get, let alone a password that’s lowercase, uppercase and numerical with no hope of word association. I tried to access my email. “Enter your User Name and  . . . Password.”

I have password-protected everything. This didn’t do any good when iCloud calendar gave up my stuff without a fight. My iPhone, iPad, iTunes, and computer were in another dimension.

Or worse.

Perhaps I am the protagonist in a Kafkaesque drama. I am citizen zero in my own version of The Trial.

The “FBI surveillance van” WiFi option. The accidental scrolling to 2040. My Google search for “I have nothing to hide.” “Rush Limbaugh/Dick Cheney support of Patriot Act.”

First aggravation. Now, aggregation.

An Apple engineer, somewhere on The Farm, or just outside the gates of Disneyworld, has been working through the night. Some of my life is back. Double. Two entries for each event, birthday, and appointment.

I am again a busy, busy person.

Too busy. The Jewish and Christian holidays have disappeared.

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