I Scream, You Scream

In terms of screaming, quite honestly, it takes a lot to get an end-of-the-world geshrei out of the SJG. Strap me into a giant roller coaster or some other vehicle of torture. Make it dip and dive and spin, catastrophically, God forbid. Let my life flash before my eyes and then, sure, I'll scream like nobody's business. Otherwise, scream in public like a banshee? Puh-Lease. I'm just too much of a classy broad. I'm a lady, I am. Most days, I conduct myself as though meeting the Queen. I've been known to curtsy, spontaneously. I wear white gloves and a pillbox hat and take dainty steps and -- okay, fine, you're not buying it. I don't blame you.

Anyway, on Wednesday, I was subjected to the worst sort of scream, a wail of unbridled despair from which I may never recover. There I was in Studio City, at Joan's On Third, which isn't on Third, FYI, waiting for my take-out order, when a gal inches away, young and pretty and seemingly sane, let out a blood-curdling, ear-busting, padded cell scream. This was a "call 911" scream. This was five-alarm, wake-the-dead, send-your-adrenalin-through-the-roof, high-alert scream. Every head swiveled in her direction. Whatever caused this fetching millennial to shriek, operatically, must've been huge and life-changing and worthy of putting an entire restaurant, customers and staff included, on edge, right?

Well, no. It was just a guy surprising a gal with a sudden appearance and hug from behind. Post-scream, she was all, "Oh my gawwwd! Oh. My. Gawwwwwd! Hi!!!!!! How are you?!!!!"

Personally, I wanted to throttle her. I wanted to lecture and shame her. I wasn't the only one. There were universal looks of agitation and "What the eff is her problem?" But no one did anything, including me. Now I'm filled with regret. Next time, I'll take action. Or have someone with a little more authority do it for me.