I’ve mentioned before — and because I tend to forget to whom I’ve already told what, I’m sure I’ll mention it again — I dislike clutter and “stuff’. As a result, I’m almost always in “streamline” mode.
Technology provides me various ways to reduce the amount of tangible stuff. I no longer own any CD’s, for example; all my music is stored on my iPhone (and if I can figure out how, it will also be stored on an SD storage card for use in my computer and SUV). I have also begun scanning important papers and storing them on my computer (and external hard drive). I’ve already had about 30 VHS and Hi-8 tapes digitalized and, if I ever get my act together, I’ll reduce more boxes of photos and memorabilia than I am willing to admit to having to digital images and sleek, bound memory books for my son and daughter.
Yes, technology can be the friend of simplicity-seeking folks like myself. It can even, on occasion, be our hero.
Until it fails us. And then, things turn ugly. Gut-wrenchingly, anxiety-inducingly, tear-threateningly ugly.
This morning I opened “Notes” on my iPad, planning to enter an account number and password (in code — I’m very careful) for a series of online digital scrapbooking classes I recently signed up for. I have all of my online and real-life account numbers and passwords (in code — remember, I’m very careful) in a “note” titled “Grocery List”.
On a side note, I chose “Grocery List” as my note title because several online sources advised against naming it “Passwords” in the event that someone would find my iPad, somehow bypass the password required to log on, and then easily find all my account numbers and passwords.
Imagine my shock when “Notes” informed me that I have no notes!
At first, I thought it was just a glitch. I hit the back button and tried again. “No Notes” appeared on my screen.
I remained calm, but I’ll admit I was getting a bit concerned. I turned off my iPad and turned it back on — rebooting often works with computers, so why not with my iPad, I reasoned.
I hesitantly and with great hope opened “Notes” again. It again informed me I have not a single note.
I began talking to and bargaining with “Notes”, trying to somehow talk it into making my notes reappear. No dice.
My notes are gone.
I’m sure someone out there is saying, “Well, just get out your paper back-up copy, you silly goose!” And I had a paper back-up copy.
The operative word there is had. Yes, I had a mini black composition book (it was so cute) with all of my account numbers and passwords (in code) entered in alphabetic order with plenty of space for additions. I searched my home office. You guessed it — no mini black composition book!
One of two things must have happened. Option 1: When I moved here and unpacked things, I didn’t unpack the box holding my mini black composition book (and in-need-of-repair left hearing aid, which is also missing). Unfortunately, I’ve unpacked everything except for the Christmas decorations, and I’m 99.9% sure I didn’t open one of those bins and toss in my mini black composition book (and left hearing aid).
Option 2: In sheer delight at how well technology was working for me and utmost confidence that it would continue to do so, coupled with my desire to rid myself of (supposedly) superfluous stuff, I threw away (shredded, because I’m careful that way) the pages of my mini black composition book.
So here I sit, thinking of my various accounts and passwords. Realizing how desperately I’m going to need them when it’s time to log on to something I don’t use daily or renew a service/subscription or talk to a company representative for some reason or . . .
I’m not panicking. Instead, I’m one part numb and the other part incredulous.
How could “Notes” do this to me?! How can I get “Notes” to make my note show up again?! How can I even talk to “Notes” to resolve this issue?!
Grrrrrrrrr . . . it’s times like this that I want to grab technology by the shoulders and shake it until it squeals for mercy and then . . . yes, I’d like to wring it’s scrawny electronic neck!