Dirty old men

Ah well. It had to happen sooner or later, I guess. I've been at the library now for just over a year, and finally, we've had a phone call from a Dirty Old Man. Oh, I didn't take the call myself: it rang on my phone, but as I had my hands full (ahem) my lovely colleague answered it. I watched her face as the weirdness of the call began to register. I kind of guessed that things weren't quite right when she repeated "gyrations ... copulation?" Daunted, she put the phone down and asked me who we should refer a call to from someone asking for information about "the gyrations of copulation between a male and female". I started laughing. "It's an old fella trying to amuse himself," I said. Still, she transferred the call to one of the reference librarians, who no doubt was thrilled to hear the dulcet tones of this old f****r on the line. After she'd done this, my colleague told me that he sounded about sixty or seventy years of age. She'd asked if he was a student (you do occasionally get some well-seasoned students) and he'd said no. Bless her, she treated him professionally, as though he were legitimately information-seeking, and her feathers weren't ruffled at all, which was probably a disappointment to him.

In my twenties, I worked a for quite a time as a temp secretary, and twice in my phone-answering career I got dodgy old men trying to sass it up. Strange thing is, they're always 'mature' gentlemen; there's that old-man crackle in their voices. They must be at home, bored and a bit lonely, and decide to try to get their jollies by ringing random numbers and talking dirty to any lady who's unfortunate enough to answer. Who says retirement's all walks in the park and a chance to read through back issues of the Reader's Digest? For some old fellas it's a fresh new chance to make a nuisance of themselves. Perhaps the old duck has popped down to the shops and he's got twenty minutes on his own, alone with the telephone. The other thing that betrays their age is their use of often archaic language. "The gyrations of copulation?" Are you sure you're not actually 105, sir?

I don't remember one of the calls, but the other was memorable for the request that I get on my hands and feet, followed by some other nasty muttering that escapes me now. It seemed a strange and quite uncomfortable request. Are you suggesting a downward dog, by any chance, buddy? A friendly yoga session? I think they enjoy the fact that it's about the last thing you expect to hear when you've just brightly rattled out your "Good morning, this is _____, how can I help you?" In my twenties, I could be relatively easily shocked by callers like these and both times I spent a few moments trying to respond professionally before giving in and just hanging the f**k up.

Public libraries are often magnets for these kind of weird callers (and visitors), but mine not being a public library, I've not witnessed it until now. It reminds me that I'll have to start honing my brutal, withering comebacks, so that when my time comes I can deliver a quick one-two: the short, swift verbal takedown followed by a resounding ring-off. Any thoughts, readers? I'm taking suggestions.

Yes. I am obsessed. What of it?

What a f**king librarianish thing to do. A picture of a cat. I should be experiencing burning shame, but instead I'm just bursting with pride over this pic of my sister's cat, Frankie. He has such a long and luxurious tail that my fella and I think he needs a more exotic name, and so have dubbed him Francis - or Francois - or Franswizzle. They're all ridiculous; they all fit the bill. Go on, admit it: he's cute, isn't he? And yet, he'll kick your ass. My sister has the scars to prove it.

Oh, and here's some exciting news (for me, at least): after spending some ridiculous number of hours trying to track it down through a library somewhere, my fella and I found some great classic movies at our new local video store, including (wait ... for ... it ...) Mommie dearest (starring Faye Dunaway as a psychotic Joan Crawford) and the original Freaky Friday with Jodie Foster. Lordy, what bliss. Now I just need to track down a copy of Go ask Alice, which I saw in high school, so I can enjoy anew those campy psychedelic party scenes.