Let’s Stop Calling Your Plague “Allergies”

Your green mucous is fooling no one Cassandra

I sat across the table from Cassandra at my latest ladies who don’t lunch gathering and watched through judgmental eyes as she whipped out three billion tissues and blew into them. After she had cleared out her nasal passages, Cassandra sat back and hacked up a lung full of phlegm.

“These damn allergies are killing me!” she shrieked in an unnecessarily loud voice due to her ears being completely plugged. The fuck they are Cass.

“I’ve tried Zyrtec, Claritin, Allegra — and nothing!! I just can’t get any relief!” she whined.

Because those aren’t meant to clear up the Bubonic plague, dear friend.

With each cough and blow I inched my chair further away, causing Cassandra to raise her voice even more.

“Maybe you should go to a doctor,” I smugly suggested.

“But they’ll make me take all the tests. Why bother when I know it’s just allergies,” she protested.

Good point. Why live with the knowledge that you’re spreading around Ebola faster than a monkey can fart?

As she spewed her germs into her arm once again, I decided my time was up.

“Good luck with those, um, allergies,” I said sprinting out of the restaurant as if it were on fire.

Two weeks later, I ran into Cassandra at some kid’s birthday party. We probably weren’t even invited to the birthday party, but my instincts guide me to Urban Air’s Treacherous Trampoline Park at 10 a.m. every Saturday, or 2 p.m. every Sunday.

Cassandra’s son Timmy (obviously a fake name — it’s not 1952) was in the foam pit in close proximity to one of my spawn and started to projectile vomit.

My worst fears about foam pits were confirmed before my very eyes.

Parents rushed in and grabbed their kids as if they were in a pool with a Baby Ruth (reference to Caddy Shack for those who are Amish, or my husband).

I dragged my son out by his shirt collar like a fierce lioness, only the shirt didn’t hold up very well and I cut off his air supply for a solid 30 seconds. He’s fine.

“Ugh!” screamed Cassandra, running towards the scene with a roll of paper towels. Pretty sure you’ll want something a little bit stronger.

“His allergies are SO bad this year!”

The crowd around her dispersed faster than a MAGA rally that runs out of bail bonds.

Last I checked — though I’m no MD — seasonal allergies do not cause exorcist-style vomiting.

Timmy continued to play with the foam blocks, now soaked in his vomit, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.

Cassandra ran around squawking about allergies and telling everyone how bad the oak pollen has been this season.

After she massaged the vomit deeper into the foam blocks with a few paper towels, she lifted a drenched Timmy out of the pit. She wiped him up and down and sent him on his way.

She caught me staring at her and shouted about allergies as loud as she could.

We see you Cassandra. The jig is up.

I know you want to get your rowdy kids out of the house as much as the next haggard-ass mom, but for the love of Lysol please keep the Black Death to yourself.