I just received an email from Apple telling me my iCloud storage is almost full and warning that dire things would happen if I didn't do something about it. At least I think that's what the email said.

From what I could figure out, I need a certain number of GBs, but all I have are MBs and that's bad.

Fortunately there was an easy solution to my problem. For a small monthly fee, I could increase my iCloud storage capacity so that all my digital files would remain safe and available. I guess when it comes to MBs and GBs, there comes a point when there are no more freebies.

The solution — to pay Apple $2.99 a month for more storage — seemed obvious until I started to wonder what I was actually paying for. After all, nobody really knows exactly what the Cloud is. Even if you "think" you "know" how the "Cloud" "works," please do not write to explain it to me because either a) you're faking it, or b) your answer will give me a headache. Besides, I take pride in the fact that my "technological ignorance" is "state-of-the-art." If, on the other hand, you would like to write to tell me I use too many quotation marks for no good reason, you are certainly within your rights to do so.

Of course, I'm joking when I say I don't know what the Cloud is because everyone knows the Cloud is where Siri lives. She spends her days floating on the Cloud in something called the ether, and hanging out with her friend Alexa, who lives somewhere over the rainbow. Life on the Cloud must be pretty great because whenever I ask Siri about something, she either says she can't help me right now or she doesn't know what I mean. She won't answer my questions even when I ask nicely and time my request so it doesn't interrupt her dinner.

Now I realize Siri doesn't have time to talk to me because she's too busy trying to organize and store all the stuff I've put in the Cloud. It must be hard figuring out what to do with 327 identical pictures of my cat, all in the exact same pose, and all of which would be really cute if any of them were in focus. And she probably doesn't have time to eat dinner because I keep cluttering up her Cloud with all the recipes I've downloaded but will never make.

It makes sense that my digital filing cabinet is overflowing because every drawer, closet and cabinet in my house is overflowing, too. That's because I like to hold onto things even when I don't really need them, like every rubber band that has ever entered our house, cellulite, and grudges. It's a genetic curse I inherited from my mother. And what my mother doesn't want to hold onto any more, she gives to me.

Like the box I pulled up from our basement this week that was filled with old canning jars and a book on canning, because apparently my mother has never met me and she honestly thought I might want to take up canning some day. There were also some empty mayonnaise jars, which should come in handy if all the grocery stores suddenly close and I'm forced to make my own mayonnaise from scratch. Even the box they were in was old because there was a return address from a house we lived in 25 years ago. So I guess I'm like my mom's Cloud for actual stuff. Maybe I should start charging her $2.99 a month.

She doesn't hold onto everything, though. She has no sentimentality when it comes to digital stuff. I recently learned that her email inbox is nearly empty and she deletes every text the minute she reads it. I, on the other hand, save every text I receive, even the wrong numbers, and the amount of emails in my inbox is a number that requires multiple commas. Maybe with all the time I'm saving not canning my own food, I could take some lessons from my mother on how to clean out the Cloud.

But it's probably easier to just pay Siri a living wage and cough up the $2.99 a month. Besides, I want to keep her on my good side, otherwise the Cloud may open up and rain down a lot of blurry pictures of my cat. Which, if you squint just right, look really cute.

Betsy Bitner is a Capital Region writer. bbitner1@nycap.rr.co-m