In these days when grocery budgets are stretched thin, we somehow find ourselves flush with cash. It's embarrassing.

A friend stopped by and had to clear a pile of 100s on the sofa before she could sit down.

We are rolling in the dough. Literally. This morning, I found a $500 bill in the dryer. I didn't even know they made 500s.

Bills of every denomination are scattered under the dining room table. I just discovered $10,000 and $50,000 bills on the hall tree. And I thought the 500 was a shock.

Naturally, I stuff my purse and yell, "I'm going shopping!" Just kidding.

It's doubtful the orange, yellow, green and blue bills could get past a cashier or bank teller. You could always try, but you'd definitely need a "Get Out of Jail Free" card.

I also have in my possession a small bill labeled Homeowner's Insurance that says, "This Policy Protects Your Home From Damage and Theft."

Too bad it doesn't cover small scale vandalism from grandchildren.

Three times today I have found "Salary Cards" scattered throughout the house. Two were for $80,000 and one was for $60,000. I wonder what my new profession is. It's clearly no longer a columnist.

The big bills I can manage; it's the coins that do me in. Someone (the usual suspect also known as "The Fun One") brought home a large bag of play coins. They are replicas of the real McCoy but made of plastic and slightly smaller. At a glance, they can easily be mistaken for the real thing.

I am constantly stooping for coins to determine if they are real. If Fitbit counted deep knee bends in addition to steps, I'd be at the top of the leaderboard.

The sudden surge in wealth is amusing, although I know when I go to the game shelf that Life, Monopoly and Dogopoly will have been trashed.

All the loose coins on the floor, under the furniture and between sofa cushions grow annoying. They are on par with wedding invitations that come with glitter in the envelopes and graduation announcements that come with confetti.

Don't make me sweep the floor if you want me to come to your party. That's right, you can address my invitation to "Mrs. Old Crotchety."

And know this: If you want Grandma's homemade cookies, put the play money back where you found it.

Sometimes you just have to get tough. It only makes cents.

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