I met my mom for a smoothie on my lunch hour today. While we're in line, she hands me six folded-up twenties and says "Here's $120. I want you to hold onto it for me."
Immediately, I jump to the conclusion that Mom has whacked somebody in Reno for a modest fee of $120 and the Feds are finally onto her, so she needs to keep the hot money in safe hands for a bit. Turns out, she was on her way to work, forgot the padlock for her little personal effects locker and didn't want to keep that much cash unattended in the break room. She's perfectly justified, of course; those other 50-year-old Minnesotan ladies she works with at Williams Sonoma always looked like petty thieves to me, too.
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