Look what you did now.

I woke up at six-thirty this morning. Half-asleep, I rolled over to turn my alarm off. I grabbed my phone and opened my e-mail. An e-mail from my husband? That’s odd. The subject line read: Look what you did now.

Oh shit.

What did I do? Oh my God, did he find my VISA bill? About 700 things that might piss him off ran through my head. Does that say something about me? Don't answer that.

Last week, the GM of the team in Germany sent us an e-mail regarding our flights. He explained that they were trying to book flights for everyone and provided us with one option: absolutely heinous flights. Here to Philadelphia (through the night). Ten-hour layover. Philadelphia to Munich (through the night). Munich to … almost-home. And then a 40-minute drive.
 
Hallo, does this work for you?

Now, I know that I kind-of-sort-of vowed not to be picky or overly involved in anything but hey, they asked. So, I replied via my husband’s e-mail account, kindly reminding them that we are traveling with a two year old. I mean, forgive me for having flashbacks of my nine-hour hell-on-earth layover in Frankfurt two years ago …

Nutshell? They lost my BOBRevolution stroller and gave me this piece to use druring the nine-hour layover. Oh, and the wheels didn't work.

The email from my husband was the forwarded response from the GM. Which, frankly, didn’t feel like much of a response at all because it was the exact same song and dance as the email I had replied to earlier.

Hallo, do these times work for you?

Same flights. Ten-hour layover in Philly and all.

Except they were missing the last leg; the flight that put us just 40-minutes from where we will be this season. Instead, they said we would make the three or four-hour drive.

Really? I kindly addressed the fact that these flights blew in my e-mail, and then they decide to put us further away from our final destination? I don't speak German, but that doesn't make sense in any language!

Don't be fooled by the Mercedes emblem.
This thing is hell on wheels.

Visions of the two-hour drive from Frankfurt last season ran through my head. It was 85 degrees, we were in a van with no windows and no air, we had a driver who thought he was Mario Andretti’s long, lost, German brother, and Linden and I both vomited in a grocery bag. Multiple times.

It was nicht gut.

And it looks as though this season’s trek to Germany might be equally nicht gut. You’d think I would have learned my lesson by now, that my meddling only makes things worse …