An Eccentric Raconteur

“I’m sorry you had to wait so long,” said the nurse at the doctor’s office when she was taking me back to the exam room 40 minutes after my appointment time, “but that first patient just couldn't stop talking.”

 “I do apologize for the delay,” the doctor explained with a bemused smile when he joined me, “but our first patient was quite the raconteur.”

Beside the fact that he actually is a competent physician who I trust with my medical care, this is why I like this doctor so much.  I personally appreciate anyone who uses the word “raconteur” in everyday conversation.  Beyond just demonstrating his highly developed vocabulary, isn't calling the talkative patient a raconteur rather than someone just couldn't stop talking just a more genteel way to communicate the very same idea?   It makes the patient before me sound rakish, like a “bon vivant” instead of just a troublemaker.

I've decided that I too want to be a raconteur, instead of a “blabbermouth,” or a “chatterbox,” or “that lady who talks too damn much.”  Because words really do matter.  Sometimes it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. What a lovely, civilized place the world might be if we all just learned to call each other nicer names.

For instance, Mr. Rip and I know that we are a couple of odd ducks.  Really though, we much prefer the term “eccentric” to “weird” or “strange.” Mr. Rip wondered if eccentricity was reserved for rich people rather than every-day folks like us, but I assured him that I have known many colorful eccentrics from all walks of life.

Over the years, many have accused various family members of mine of being stubborn (I can’t imagine why).  My father handily rejects this notion, saying “I prefer to think of it as having the courage of my convictions.”  You know I think Dad is onto something here.  It is far preferable to come from a family that has the courage of its convictions, rather than one that is full of people who are as stubborn as mules.

My furniture is a fascinating mix of styles and periods, all different ages and in varying conditions.  Some I brought into the marriage, some were Mr. Rip’s and some were “inherited” from family members or received as gifts from friends.  Anyway, none of it goes together, and yet we like to delude ourselves that it all somehow blends into a whole that is more than just its parts.  It probably doesn't.  My point is that you can call my furniture mismatched, but isn’t eclectic a better way to describe it?

Of course, I don’t necessarily want to be eclectic.  I’d give anything to have just one room full of furniture that matches.