New Forms of Torture

Today, I discovered the most effective form of torture. . . the "Virtual Waiting Room".

The one thing I know my husband wants more than anything for Christmas is tickets to see the Red Sox. He (and the local news, the radio station, and the weekly e-mails I get from Red Sox Nation) have all been kind enough to remind me that tickets to individual games go on sale December 13th at 10am EST.

I entered the drawing to be eligible to go to Fenway and buy my tickets in person. . . Needless to say I was not a winner. . .

So, at 9am, I woke up. I dutifully researched what games would be going on sale, and made a prioritized list of the ones I thought he would prefer to attend. I researched seating, pricing, trying to guess where we should sit. Should we sit near first, behind the dugout and get to watch the guys walk off the field each inning? Or, assuming they get Teixeira, Youk might be playing third, so Mike might prefer sitting there, which would also make us closer to Jason Bay and allow us to watch Francona chew on bubble gum all evening. Oh, I thought of everything.

By 9:45, I had eaten breakfast, grabbed some juice, and settled into the office to get some tickets.

And so began my experience with the "Virtual Waiting Room". Evidently, when you try to buy tickets, you are placed in a virtual waiting room. "Patrons are selected from this virtual waiting room on a random basis for the opportunity to purchase tickets." I was excited. . . it was like Christmas Eve, watching the seconds count down from 30 to 0 before the waiting room would refresh, each time wondering "will I be selected". After an hour of watching time tick by (and trust me, I was in more than one waiting room), hysteria started to set in. I mean, I'm 7 months pregnant. Being forced to sit alone in a room with no companionship (excluding Nibbles, who felt the need to make her presence known every few minutes). My sciatic nerve shooting pain into my left butt cheek. The weight of my unborn child pushing on my bladder. But, if I leave to pee, will I miss my opportunity?

Shortly thereafter, I realized this is what prison must feel like. . . except worse because I was being punished for trying to do good. When Mike politely asked how I was doing (claiming he had NO IDEA what I was trying to do), I became hysterical, prompting my four year old to bring me tissues and offer to take care of me.

And, now, four hours later, refusing to give up until every game I want is left only with obstructed views, I can be found stoically sitting in front of TWO computers, wishing, HOPING, that something happens to end my misery. . .

It's the thought that counts, right?

Merry Christmas.

Love, The Trahans