Yesterday I hit the update button on my IPhone 5c, innocently, unaware of the adventure I was about to embark on. Did I say adventure? I meant hell ride. I want my phone back! The initial agreement that requires you to accept the terms should have highlighted "Oh, and by the way, I hope you don't need your phone for the next 15 hours." And, "Oh, by the way, any app you bought, all your music, and your sanity needs to be deleted before you'll have enough memory to upload this fix."
My poor, poor eleven year old daughter, had to give up her precious apps. Now all the work she'd done giving animated hotdogs to animated elves were for naught. We kept deleting, and she bravely would put another app on the chopping block towards the goal of updating her IPad. Good bye, Magic Piano. Good-bye, TempleRun. Sniff, sniff. Yes, I know, you think any eleven year old that owns an IPad has nothing to complain about. Obviously, you've never MET an eleven year old. Her device is presently updating, stating 15 hours to go, but she's at school, so I won't have to suffer the backlash of that until she bursts through the door this afternoon, looking for her fix.
Woe is me.
My poor, poor eleven year old daughter, had to give up her precious apps. Now all the work she'd done giving animated hotdogs to animated elves were for naught. We kept deleting, and she bravely would put another app on the chopping block towards the goal of updating her IPad. Good bye, Magic Piano. Good-bye, TempleRun. Sniff, sniff. Yes, I know, you think any eleven year old that owns an IPad has nothing to complain about. Obviously, you've never MET an eleven year old. Her device is presently updating, stating 15 hours to go, but she's at school, so I won't have to suffer the backlash of that until she bursts through the door this afternoon, looking for her fix.
Woe is me.
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