my love affair with apple is over

Sorry, Apple. But you're not who I thought you were. Or maybe, you have become someone else. Someone much less good.

After nine months of trying to fix a multitude of issues through Apple Care, I write to Tim Cook's office. I get a response from someone named Britani Woods, and I'm hopeful (see an email to tim cook).

As it turns out, Britani is in Corporate Executive Relations. She is not a technician. In fact, if I were to guess her job description, it would read something like this.  

Continue to frustrate the customer by having them try many possible solutions that will involve hours and hours of time. If none work, then suggest a solution that will involve months of trial and error, during such time that the customer has no access to his/her data. But under no circumstances, allow customer to replace their computer. 

So here are just a few of the highlights from my past seven weeks working with Britani. 

First, Britani assigns me to Carlin, and tells me that Carlin is the most senior level tech available — higher than any of the other levels I've worked with.

September 14, 15
I spend a couple of hours with Carlin who frustrates me with his overuse of unnecessary analogies. "Let's suppose your computer is an old piece of furniture that has termites. And  then let's suppose that you move this old piece of furniture into your brand new house ..."

Later he begins, "Let's say you are overweight and you have trouble breathing. Your doctor....."

"Carlin, stop!"  I almost shout.

"I get it.  Please, no more analogies."

After two mind-numbing hours of getting nowhere, Carlin suggests a complete reinstall of my operating system, ignoring the fact that I have already done this twice to no avail.  He then advises me to contact Britani for our next session.

September 16
I can't reach Britani but I do hear from someone new named Tim, another senior technician.

"Hi Lyn, my name is Tim," he begins in a  voice mail.  "I spoke with Britani and I will be taking over your case..."  This is an exact quote.

Huh?????!!!!

I call Tim back and then spend the first 1/2 hour trying to understand why the case has been handed to him. And then the next hour explaining all over again the issues. 

I like Tim better than Carlin. He uses no analogies and doesn't think I need to uninstall/re-install my operating system.

We plan session two for Monday.

Monday, September 19
Tim calls on time and we talk for another hour or more. He doesn't know how to address my issues and says he'll talk further to Britani and Engineering. We schedule Session 3 for 6pm.

At 6pm Tim doesn't call.  I wait until 6:30 before emailing, asking when he'll call. I get this  response:

Lyn. 

I exchanged email with Britani today, apparently she will be following up with you from here on out.  

Regards, 

Timothy Metzger

iOS/Mac Senior Advisor

What the???!!!!

I leave two messages and two emails and don't hear from Britani until the next day. 

September 20
Britani calls.  It is a painful conversation in which she claims to never have spoken to Tim, and adds,  "I have no idea how Tim got involved but I am looking into it."

She tells me she is going on Carlin's advice to do a complete re-install and will be sending me an external hard drive to aid in the upcoming agonizing process.

Britani refuses my plea to at least get another opinion.  This time I am the one using an analogy. "Even the best doctors encourage second opinions when drastic measures are being suggested," I say.  Britani is intractable. "You are not getting a second opinion." 

I am hours and hours into this mess and am still no better off than when I started.

October 4
I receive an external hard drive. It's a very stylish little aluminum thing that holds 2TB of data.  I speak to James, my new go-to person, and we set it up like a new computer.

Brand new.  Except no data.  No calendar. No email. No contacts. No photos.  And I am supposed to populate it over the next week with fake stuff to see if I can replicate any of my problems.

October  4-11
I am now testing out the new operating system with no data, but I still have use of my computer with data. 

October 11
James calls. "After reading through all the past notes on your case, I think it was a waste of time to test everything on the external hard drive.  The only way to know what the problem is is to partition your computer and slowly migrate data on to it. But at this point, I realize that would be asking a lot. Plus, there is no promise that after doing all this that the problem will be identified as a software issue. Things like crashing and freezing suggest a hardware issue." He promises to write up his findings and wait for Britani to make a decision and get back to me. I am optimistic.

James's hopeful position helps erase some of my anger at wasting a week on a solution he thinks was of no value.

October 17
I finally connect with Britani. She tells me that James has recommended that the next step would be to partition my computer. I said that was not my understanding, and reiterated what it was. She said she would "look into it some more" and get back to me.

October 20
Britani calls back and tells me that "Apple's position " is that I partition my computer. She ignores everything else James told me.  But then, maybe what James told me is not what he tells Britani.

October 26
James calls. He has now morphed into the male-version of Britani. We talk for an hour; I summarize our conversation in one last plea to Britani:

I just spent an hour on the phone with James, and he ended the call without my agreeing to do what he was told by the engineers I should do.  And this is why.

The recommendation is for me to totally erase my hard drive, and migrate all my data back,  piece by piece, and see when the problem replicates itself.

The most critical issues I have  are crashing and stalling, and these problems are sporadic — yesterday my computer crashed twice, but  I can go two weeks or more without it crashing or freezing. So essentially, in order for me to test each piece of data, I would need to add a piece of data, try it for two weeks, and if it doesn’t crash or freeze, then add more data to see if the problem occurs.

So, let’s say I add just my Contacts. I use the computer for two weeks and it's fine. Then I add my Calendar in. And it crashes on the third day. In my opinion, it’s not even clear if its the Calendar data that’s causing the problem or the Contact data.  And worse, under this scenario of slowly adding back data, this could take months.  I need to give each piece of new data at least two weeks of use before adding more, since the crashing/stalling problem is a sporadic one. In essence, I could be without use of my computer for months.  This is not reasonable as I need my computer (and the information on it) to work, and I don’t have access to another one.

I said I would be willing to do this if I was sent a loaner computer to use in the meantime. James said no.  Asking a loyal Apple customer to be without use of her computer for months is not a reasonable solution.

As I know you are aware, I have been working with Apple for 8 months trying to resolve the issues/problems with this computer. Might it be possible this computer is a lemon? I have been a loyal  Apple consumer since 1995 when I got my first Mac.  I have never had problems like these. I have spent dozens of hours trying to work with you to fix it. It doesn't want to be fixed. What do we need to do to get a (laptop) replacement? Or at least a credit and I'll go to my local Apple Store. Please help. I am really so frustrated.


Today
I speak to Britani.  She concurs with James and despite my email, and my pleas, she just keeps saying, "I understand how you feel but this is Apple's position."

I ask to whom I can write if I am unhappy with the proposed next steps and view her as the problem.


"There is no one else. I am sorry you are not happy with the solution but If you write another letter to Mr. Cook's office it will be routed to me."

My heart is broken. I am no longer in love. And after months of trying, I am no where.

If Steve only knew, I doubt he would be pleased.

family affair

My mom is visiting.

Around eight this morning she calls. "I'm on the bus; on my way."

Despite my many suggestions to fly or take the train, my mom prefers the bus. It's easier. "I don't have to deal with luggage. I just get on and get off." There's a lot to be said for just getting on and off. But it still means a seven and a half hour door to door trip.  Mostly in a bus. It's amazing my mom arrives looking beautiful and energized.

I work all day, and take advantage of my surroundings. I get my makeup done with the talented Lorine in Armani, with the hope that it'll detract from my Mephisto bootie work-shoes. Around 6:15, I head over to The Smith, a nearby restaurant where Jessica and Daniel's engagement party is being held. Jessica is Abbey's niece.

It's a great venue for a party. Intimate, but big enough for the 60 plus people. Amazing and varied hors d'oeuvres. Great drinks (two cranberry margarita's). And desserts that are too good to resist. Everyone of course looks stylish and chic. I have a very fashionable family. 

closet purge

Before I worked in retail, my bi-annual closet switchover was a lot harder.

I have two small closets in my bedroom, and that's where I keep current-season clothes. The big closet in the hall is where the other season  clothes are stored.  I used to have emotional attachments to my clothes. But not anymore.

For years I held onto my maternity clothes.  Or, more specifically, the three dresses I bought while I was pregnant: a beige flowered spring dress, a yellow dress, and this denim jumper.

A dress I wore once to Carol and Michael's wedding in 1989 sat in my closet until just last year. I would have kept that but at a size zero or so, I finally had to admit that it'd never fit me again. 

And just three years ago I gave my mom this Morgane LeFay swing coat that I bought in 1989 in Soho. Many of my clothes at the time were from Morgane Le Fay. Those I wish I'd kept.

I remember the day I bought this coat. I was on my way to a party given by Andy C, from my hometown.  I was trying  to rid my mind of Eric, after our first breakup (there would be many more).  A hypnotist was at the party, and I asked him to hypnotize me into forgetting Eric ever existed. It didn't work. (I am grateful for that, lest Alexander would not have been born). 

But since working in retail, I have been upgrading my wardrobe. And, I have been donating/giving away anything I have that is similar and that I like less than what I just bought. My test?  If, when I go to my closet to wear a white blouse, I always chose A over B, C and D, even though B, C and D are perfectly fine, than out go B,C and D.

I make a pile of pants. All black except for one in navy. All in good shape. All still fit. All still in style. And all I never wear. A nice open space remains where these pants used to hang.

It is very liberating to have a shrinking closet.

It makes the spring-summer/fall-winter switchover so much easier. I was done in under an hour.

Bookcases are next.

customer non-service

My reading glasses break on the way to work. I stop by a Duane Reade and buy a $15 pair of readers. The next day the arm thing falls off.

I go back to Duane Reade, and ask for the manager. A Chinese man whose English is not good identifies himself as the manager.

I explain the problem. He addresses me in the third person.

"Customer come in. She buy glasses. Glasses in perfect condition. Customer come back. Glasses broken. Customer break glasses."

I'm not exaggerating; this is a direct quote.

Losing my patience I say, "First of all. The customer is me."

"You break glasses," is the response I get.

"I did not break glasses. The arm of the glasses fell off. That shouldn't have happened."

"Glasses good when you bought them."

"I am returning these!!!!  Where is your boss?"

"I am boss.  Okay. You can return."

Then this morning, I receive an email from Liberty Mutual stating that I owe $13 on my home owner's policy. 

Your current amount of $13.00 for your Renters policy bill is due today. We understand that sometimes a due date can come quickly, so we wanted to remind you to pay now .

But I never received any bill until now.  How can I be late?  I call and get some guy who is reading from a script.

"A bill was sent to you.  What is your email address?"

I tell him, and add the obvious, "You must have my correct email address because I received a notice about my bill today.  But I never got the first bill."

"Well, it was sent in July." He later amends July to October 3.

Later, he makes yet another change. "The first bill was sent in the mail." 

I say again, "IT DOESN'T MATTER HOW IT WAS SENT; I NEVER GOT IT."

Then I ask, "So what is the $13 even for, since I never received any bill."

"You added a necklace in July."  True, I did.

"Why is it so much, since the year is more than half gone and the necklace wasn't all that expensive? $13 seems high."

"Well, it's actually $8 and then another $5 for mailing you the bill."

"What?!!! Are you telling me that I am being charged $5 to receive my bill?"

"Yes, m'am; it's expensive to mail out bills."

"Fine, then it's too expensive to keep this policy.  Cancel it."

Well, that's the answer I wanted to give. Too bad I don't have the fortitude to go through the pain of finding another insurance company.  

Instead, I get the fee waived and make sure I am signed up for paperless billing.

lured to lure

I tell M I won't be able to make dinner. 

The reservation is late because T, M's husband, is arriving late from Boston.

Lure Fishbar is way downtown and I'm uptown.

Traffic on a Friday night is always bad.

I'm working all day and know I'll be exhausted.

And, I'm done work at 6 and dinner isn't until 9. 

But then I re-think it.

I don't see M often.

Dinner is also with M's husband, son Sam, and Sam's girlfriend, all of whom I adore (M's husband would be surprised and embarrassed to read this).

9 isn't that late.

And I'm too young (I want to believe) to rush home on a Friday night to watch Dateline.

So around five I call M and tell her I'm coming.

Work is awful. According to my tracker, I walk 8.5 exhausting miles with little to show for it. I earn $71. 

I have three hours to kill and use it to do nothing. I sit and read and rest my feet.

But it's worth it.

The restaurant is filled, the noise level high, but we have a great little round table. 

Sam knows restaurants and is a pro orderer.  We let him take over with the hors d'oeuvres and sides. It appears he over orders but surprisingly there is not a scrap left.

Lure is recreated as the inside of an exquisite yacht. The tuna tacos and lobster roll alone would make the restaurant worth the trip to Soho. But the food is of course secondary to a night with good friends I've known for over 35 years. And their son whom I first met when he was days old. And his girlfriend whom I've now known for a few years. 

How could I ever have contemplated not coming?

a night of celebration and friendship

Abbey, my brother-in-law, is celebrating 70 years in business, and I am invited to the event at his company's offices.

Hundreds of people are invited, mostly clients and friends. I wear heels because the occasion calls for it, and am quickly reminded that I shouldn't. Walking from the subway to the event is difficult. I wobble. I walk slowly. And my feet ache every step of the way. I think all future shoe purchases will have little elevation. How sad.

My hair looks frightening. I had the keratin treatment a week ago and my hair is still stick straight and flat (albeit healthy looking). To make things worse, I can't color my hair for two weeks after the keratin treatment. I wish I'd planned better.  It's now been four weeks since my hair was last colored, and the half inch white roots are bright and noticeable.

Hordes of people are at Abbey's offices when I arrive. I only know family members, and immediately find some. I am a much better conversationalist when my feet aren't killing me and my hair looks good. Odd how these factors affect my socializing ability. 

I am proud being related to Abbey, and his amazing mother Rita. At 93 years old, she still stands tall in heels and looks as she always does, elegant and poised.

After the event I meet M at Bowery Meats in the East Village. She is visiting from Boston and staying the night.

I have my third drink of the evening with M, which is three more than I usually have. Though I really don't need any alcoholic to feel relaxed around my very close friend. The food is excellent (we both get strip steak) as well as everything else about the evening.

But in typical M fashion, when I try to take a picture, this is the best I can get.

a brief visit home

"I might come home this weekend."

"When will you know?"

"I'm not sure; it depends on what's going on here."

In other words, I'll wait till the very last minute and then weigh my options and consider my choices and then go to the place where I think I'll have more fun.

So late Friday my son decides that this weekend it'll be Manhattan.

Alexander arrives sometime on Saturday while I'm at work.

I know he's reached New York when I get a text around 5: Let's do sushi tonight.

I don't make it home until 8:15.  My son and sushi are both waiting for me. My son is so happy to see me;  now he can finally eat. He greets me with: "I'm starving; I almost couldn't wait."

It's been six weeks since Alexander was last home. We talk often, but seeing him is obviously so much better. Even if it's only an hour over dinner and one episode of Law and Order: SVU. I'm happy to take what I can get.

Soon I'm in my room and Daniel is over. They leave just as I'm falling asleep. I'm long past the days of going out at eleven.

And that's about it for seeing my son this weekend. 

Alexander wakes me to let me know he's home safely. 

Sunday morning I see him briefly before leaving for work. He doesn't have time for breakfast.

Today I'm organizing some photos and come across this one of Alexander.  My son will be 24 in a few weeks. He's only two years younger than his father was when I first met him in 1989.  

.   

As Alexander gets older, the resemblance between father and son grows stronger.

Eric in 1993, age 29; Alexander age two months

I'm in there somewhere. I'm just not sure where.

a beautiful, but sad good-bye

I meet Allen and his wife Maddie around 8 this morning. We are driving up to Westchester for Carol's funeral at 10.

We arrive at 9:30, and already the very long road leading up to the synagogue is lined with cars. While Carol never liked being the center of attention, I think she would be happy seeing the large number of people who have come today.

There are no empty seats. In fact, video and audio equipment are brought in, so the 50 or so people who can't find standing space within the sanctuary (even including the balcony) can be part of the service.

The eulogies are all beautiful. They are filled with humor and warmth. Sadness and love. Her children and Michael (her husband) show remarkable strength. Carol was a thoughtful, giving person. Involved in the community. The synagogue. With her friends. And most importantly, her family. 

When Michael talks about Carol's natural instincts as a mother — how each child was mothered differently, depending on who they were and what they needed— it wasn't possible to remain dry-eyed. 

When Melanie, Carol's only daughter, says, "Every morning, my mom would come in my room to wake me up and say, 'Waking you is like unwrapping a present,' I think, what a beautiful thing to tell your child. And what a precious gift to give her.

Carol's two sons both speak of their closeness to her. It is unusual to see two young men speak of their mother with such admiration and profound and obvious love.

And Carol was, despite the cliche, the true love of Michael's life. He met her at Penn, fell in love, and then 11 years later (yup, it took a while), Carol returned that love. I honestly don't think any two people could be happier than those two were.

Mourners come from all over the country. I sit next to Carol's childhood friend who now lives in Boston. I see people I haven't seen in over fifteen years. One woman comes up and hugs me, addresses me by name. tells me how sorry she is, and even asks, "Did you drive up with Allen?" Neither Allen nor I have any idea who she is.

At the cemetery the rabbi says a brief prayer. And then the mourners use a shovel to throw dirt onto the casket. This is considered a last act of kindness one can do for a loved one — bury them. But the sound of the dirt hitting the casket sounds harsh. My friend should not be there.

Shiva begins immediately after the funeral. Michael's house is filled. But it is not dominated by sadness. People share stories about Carol. Her life is represented in part by the many people who have come to say good-bye. 

Carol is described today in many superlative terms. Woman of valor. Genuine. Generous. Unpretentious. Intelligent. Kind. Gracious. She was all these things.  And more. 

I will miss her big, welcoming smile. Her laugh. Her embracing hugs. And her friendship.

carol

Allen was my first friend when I moved to NY in January, 1985. 

He held the job I was taking at Lever Brothers, Brand Manager of Caress. Because I was single and age-appropriate, Allen made a point of introducing himself to me. Ostensibly he wanted to acclimate me to the world of beauty bars. His true motive was more social.

I came to NY with a job and no friends. But that didn't concern me. I knew NY would be my home soon enough.

Through Allen, I met my first group of friends. Allen had excellent taste in women, and when I met him, he seemed to know just about every available single female.

A month after moving here, Allen organized a weekend trip to Killington. I think it was on that trip that Carol, who was one of Allen's very close friends, soon became one of mine.

Carol, David, Abby and me

Carol's contagious laugh and general brightness, as well as her keen mind and sense of adventure, immediately drew me to her. 

That summer,  Carol and I were part of the same shared house in Westhampton that Allen again organized.









When I met Carol, she was a banker at Lehman Brothers. And while she was smart and ambitious, she was also laid back and fun. A year or two after we met, Carol bought a spectacular apartment on Gramercy Park, key and all.  

Soon after, Carol was sent to work in London. I visited her there, and together we bought twin wool coats for under $50 (I am wearing mine). 

And celebrated New Year's in Paris.

When Carol moved back to the states in 1988, she reconnected with her Penn boy friend, Michael, and soon they were living together. Carol never slept one night in her exquisite Gramercy apartment. 

In 1989 Carol and Michael were married, and soon after moved to Westchester. She was the first of my friends to have a baby. And eventually had three.

Carol was there when my mom surprised me with a 40th birthday party.

Terri, Alice, Carol and Jill

And she hosted a baby shower for me in 1992.

Lori and Carol

We stayed in touch, but saw each other infrequently. Maybe once a year. Some years more, some less. No reason. Just busy lives and a train ride vs a taxi ride away.

January 17, 2012 at Dovetail. Alice, Abby, Carol and me.

February, 11, 2014 at Cinema Café.  Me, Carol and Ellen.

Last October Carol and I met for lunch and a matinee (The Humans). She told me then that she had been diagnosed in June with an unkind cancer. But she looked beautiful. Age hadn't touched her. And as always, she was positive and optimistic.

She had recently been traveling with her family, and told me that in many ways she had never been happier. She was appreciating life more knowing how vulnerable it can be.

A couple of hours ago I get the news I'd been fearing. My dear friend is gone.

For the brief time Carol was here, she touched many lives, and made them all a little better. I know she did mine. 

a baby naming

Today is Chloe's baby naming. Or more precisely, it is the day Chloe is given her Hebrew name.

Adam picks me up at 9:30. While we should have had plenty of time to arrive on time, a closed exit (the exit being the one we need) and a relentless downpour contribute to a late arrival. But the rabbi waits for us.

It is a short, joyous ceremony and the star of the show doesn't disappoint. The paparazzi are out in full force.

Chloe is on her best behavior, and seems to enjoy the attention. She is very comfortable sitting in a big chair on the bimah. 

My guess is that within a couple of years. she'll be reading Hebrew better than Alexander does now. Her adoring parents are at her side.

Jeannie and Jim have driven up for the day, along with my mom and Jack.

After the ceremony, all the guests drive back to Chloe's grandparents' house. There, we indulge in a feast of food and conversation. It's nice to talk to the adults, but the real focus  is of course around the glorious one-year old.

Babies and puppies. Grown adults are reduced to mush around either. On the floor. Shoes off. We ooh and aah as little Chloe plays with some toy requiring a plastic hammer. "Look how smart she is. She knows how to pound."  We watch her deftly crawl after the three little dogs who want nothing to do with her. "She crawls so fast, doesn't she?" We laugh when she feeds the dog a biscuit, but only once. "She doesn't like the way the dog grabbed the biscuit out of her hand. She's not going to try that again!" Every action, small or large, is followed by an adult observation. 

Babies really are little wonders. It's impossible not to adore them. And Chloe Anabel is no exception. She really is one precious little girl, who will no doubt grow up to become one exceptional woman.

lost items

I could probably fill a closet with all the items I've lost over the years.

I still mourn the pale yellow Calvin Klein raincoat I left on a plane over 30 years ago. Its simple lines and luxurious fabric would make it still stylish today, I'm sure.

I've lost keys. Lots of them. But who doesn't lose keys?

Umbrellas.

Gloves. So many gloves. I am still holding a single cashmere fingerless glove hoping its mate will somehow show up. It's been two years.

And glasses. Those are easy to lose. 

Especially sunglasses, for some reason. And usually the expensive ones. 

I've left sweaters at theaters. 

Wallets in cabs. 

Scarves.

Credit cards and debit cards. Not stolen, lost.

Metrocards.

Socks in the wash.

I once even lost a portion of a bracelet. Not the whole bracelet. Just a portion.

Earrings of course.

Oh, and good pens. Now my favorite pens stay at home where they are safe. Although even in my own house I can lose things that never again surface.

But until today I've never lost pillow cases.

I don't even understand how that's possible.

It's not like I take my pillow cases with me and they fall out of my purse.

Or I forget and leave them in my seat at the movies.

Or bring them to a friend's house and neglect to bring them home.

I now have a set of white Matouk sheets minus the pillow cases that go with them.

I 'spose I can re-buy the cases. 

Or maybe they'll show up. 

Just like that fingerless glove I am still waiting to appear.

my son and football

Aside from a few key quarterbacks, I know nothing about football.  I barely understand the game.

My son loves it. He knows the stats on all the players. Understands the nuances of the game. And can discuss it for hours, given the right audience.

Alexander played football in high school. I was happy that he didn't play defense.

He made it through Horace Mann without injury and then decides to join the sprint football team at Cornell. I'm not thrilled, but there isn't much I can do about it.

But then Alexander gets a shoulder injury and has to quit. I'm not happy about the injury (unrelated to football, by the way), but am relieved that I have one less thing to worry about during my son's college years.

Now that my son has graduated, and fortunately has not joined any local football teams, he's become a rather rabid fantasy football manager (or is it owner, I don't even know).

My son, who doesn't text me often, now seeks my advice.

And since some communication is better than none, I play along, even googling top fantasy football picks.  Though of course I have no idea who these players are, and my son knows that beyond Tom Brady, the Peyton Brothers, and Russell Wilson, it'd be difficult for me to name even three more NFL players.

But after a few back and forths I miss him and just want to talk.

I ask him to call and he does.

I have no illusions that if I were asking Alexander to call and discuss his recent Uber bill he wouldn't. 

Or why I keep getting phone overages on ATT's data usage.

Or if he were going to go to work on Rosh Hashanah.

Or when he's coming home next.

But for football he calls.

I remind him that he'll be 24 in November.  He needs to start making his own decisions.  I will always be there for him.  But at times like this (choosing fantasy football picks), he'll just have to assess his options, weigh the consequences of each, and use his own judgment.

I hope his fantasy football team does well. Even without my contributions. But more importantly, I hope I still hear from him.