Speaking of Yuma, the last year that I lived there I had a job in which I frequently drove to Tucson with a co-worker, picked up a customer, and drove back to Yuma - all of which took about 9 hours, give or take. Somebody had to do it. I didn't mind; it beat working. I got to drive a rental car, dine out on per diem, and occasionally have an adventure (such as the time the customer had a bladder problem and needed to go to the potty every 15 minutes - a real challenge when you're in the middle of the Sonoran Desert).
My favorite story from these trips is another illustration of this blog's overarching thesis that I am a fat, stupid jerk.
My co-worker and I had picked up our customer, who seemed to be a somewhat confused and cantankerous old man. He sat in the backseat while I drove and my co-worker and I kept up a lively stream of conversation. As we approached point where I-10 turns north toward Phoenix, and where Yuma-bound travelers must exit onto I-8 to continue westward, I drove by in the left lane, oblivious.
The customer noticed, however. He became increasingly agitated as the exit approached, interrupting the shop talk in the front seat with ejaculations of "I ate there! I ate right there!" I looked around, saw nothing but desert, and decided to humor the old fellow. "That's nice," I said. "Did you have a picnic? 'Cuz I don't see any restaurants..."
It was only as we blew right by the exit that I realized he wasn't saying "I ate" but "I-8."
You see why I say these things can only happen to me? God put me in just the right place, at just the right time, to enable my stupidity to shine in all its glory.