I work for a national bank, and as the most senior member of our team, I’m sometimes asked to train our newer employees. I’ll often provide materials to hand out so people can make notes and add them to their files.

One time, I had trained our entire staff on a new process, and afterward, my boss sent me an email saying I needed to be more careful when using actual client names and account numbers in my training materials. I asked my manager to look at the materials again.

“Account name: John Doe. Account number: 12345.”

Back a decade or so ago, I was home from college between semesters, lounging with my brother, when I got a call from my mother. She sounded worked up, which isn’t usual, and asked me rather insistently if I knew how to count change. My confused response must not have inspired confidence because she said she was going to come home and make sure.

Sure enough, when she got home she started grabbing change to put on the table, asking us again if we knew how. My brother and I were able to talk her down a bit with several assurances that we did, in fact, have a basic understanding of currency, and we finally got the reason for all this. Mom had been out shopping and the cashier had given her the wrong change, and had apparently been entirely clueless about how to count it out. This had worked my mother up to the point where she apparently felt the need to make sure her sons weren’t in the same boat.

I can certainly understand why that would be a frustrating experience. But I can’t help but be amused that she feared that a student who had run As in the advanced math track, tested out of every math requirement in college, and was routinely referred to by friends and family as a “human calculator” would be incapable of counting change!

I work in a store in a fairly small town, and I was recently promoted to department manager over the online pickup department. As this happened immediately before the Christmas season, and the department had gone without a direct manager for several months before this, training was sparse and there were few people to explain the management side of things, especially how to handle reports.

While most things worked themselves out and were pretty self-explanatory, the report labeled “To Be Received” was one thing that I couldn’t get much information on. Apparently, the report is for packages that should have arrived in our store already but hadn’t actually shown up. However, none of the old items in the report had cleared out, so several of them were from as far back as June. Eventually, I found out I could pull up detailed tracking history on our internal handheld system, and I decided to check out the order from June.

At first, things looked normal, with the package leaving Indiana and getting scanned a few times in Illinois on its way to Saint Paul, Minnesota. Eventually, it arrived, but instead of going to our store from there, it went to Saint Cloud, a city on the other side of the state, about a three-hour drive west, while the package should have gone almost straight north from Saint Paul. The next few scans were the same day, having the package leave Saint Cloud and return to Saint Paul.

The next leg of the trip was even stranger, with the package then leaving Minnesota and being scanned in at Kansas, and then in Texas, getting scanned a few times there before finally being delivered in a city in Texas.

I still have no idea why a package that got delivered in Texas showed up in our delivery system, or why such a package decided to take the scenic route and go from Indiana to Texas by going through Minnesota.

(A few days ago, my friend’s car died in the snow. Luckily, they were on a country road really close to a small neighborhood, because they didn’t have a cell phone with them. Hearing this from them made me a little paranoid about getting stranded myself. I am driving between my town and one about forty minutes away on a deserted stretch of highway. Snow is lightly falling and there is no one around, so when I see a car sitting off to the side, I am immediately worried that they are stranded. I pull carefully off to the side behind them, grabbing my phone, and hop out. As I get closer, I realize that their engine is running, even though the lights are off, so I think maybe they’ve gotten stuck. I hike up to the window and bend down and knock. After a second, the window rolls down to reveal two uniformed patrol officers staring back at me. The snow piled up on their car meant I didn’t recognize it as a police car.)

Officer #1: “Can we help you, ma’am?”

Me: “Oh! Sorry, I was worried that you were stranded and might need a lift or help to call someone.”

(The other officer bends over and starts giggling, while [Officer #1] struggles to keep a straight face.)

Officer #1: “No, ma’am. We’re fine.”

Me: “Okay. Well, keep warm.”

(He just nodded as he rolled up the window, and I hiked back to my car. My husband giggled about as hard as that officer when I told him the story after getting home.)

(I get to the express lane at the same time as an older gentleman. He has twelve items to my two, but I’m in no hurry so I let him go first. He loads his items on the belt as the lady in front of him is paying.)

Cashier: “Sir, are all of these yours?”

(No answer.)

Cashier: *louder* “SIR, are all of these yours?” *then looks at me*

Me: “Yes, they’re all his.”

(Satisfied, she starts scanning and bagging his items.)

Cashier: “That’ll be $36.28.”

(The man seems to ignore her and starts putting his stuff back in his cart.)

Man: “I don’t like having the bread in the front part. Half the time it gets squashed when you put something heavy on it.”

(I’m amazed, since my bread ALWAYS gets squashed when I put something heavy on it. He goes on making comments about all five bags of groceries he’s got.)

Cashier: *repeats* “That’ll be $36.28.”

Man: “Eh?” *holds a hand up to his ear*

Cashier: “$36.28!”

Man: *pulls out his wallet and hands her a $20, a $10, and a $1.*

Cashier: *counting* “I need a five and another one.”

Man: “Eh?” *holds a hand up to his ear*

Cashier: *louder* “I need a five and another one!”

Man: “What?”

Cashier: *louder* “I need a five and another one!”

Me: *holding up one finger on one hand and five on another* “She needs a five and a one!”

(The man looks at the money in the cashier’s hand. He counts it, but inexplicably adds a five that’s not there and comes up with $36. He gives her another $1.)

Cashier: “I still need another five, sir!”

Me: *holding up five fingers, still* “Five!”

(The man counts two more times, the first time still add the five he never gave, but doing it correctly the last time. He gives her the missing $5.00.)

Cashier: *gives him his change and starts scanning my two items* “That’ll be $17.11.”

Me: *puts my card in the reader, payment is accepted*

(As I take my bag, I hear the man, still behind me.)

Man: “Oh, wow. That line really grew!”

(The cashier, about half of the people in line, and I start laughing. I assume all of us were thinking the same thing: “The line grew because you took so long, buddy.”)