Yvette's Inner Geek Blog

The word niche has been popping up everywhere in my life lately. Home, school, every damn book and periodical I’ve read in the past couple weeks. Perhaps you also experience word phenomena like this in your life from time to time?

What’s really been bugging me, however, is the pronunciation of the word. I don’t recall growing up hearing it one way or the other, and dictionaries include multiple ways of pronunciation: neesh, nitch, nish. For the most part, I say neesh, though I’m pretty sure I’ve said nitch and nish in the past—probably when repeating the word back to someone in conversation.

This past week, my marketing professor used the word multiple times while referring to niche markets, and she pronounces it nitch. The pronunciation really started grating on my nerves, not unlike times when Cincinnatians say pin instead of pen and when Utahns say fill instead of feel. (I’m aware that I have a little xeno-dialectic snobbery problem.)

I polled my Twitter followers, most of whom are American, to find out whether they say nitch or neesh. The results are:

• 6 say nitch
• 5 say neesh
• 2 are bilingual and say neesh in French but say nitch in English
• 2 avoid saying the word at all costs because of this confusion

So though the results lean toward nitch, the sample is not really large enough to reach a solid conclusion.

But it made me think about this word and why pronouncing it nitch bothers me. I’m not bothered by the sound—I don’t have an issue with the words which, witch, hitch, kitsch, pitch, stitch, or bitch—so what’s the big deal?

I think I found the root of my problem by researching the etymology of the word. Not surprisingly, it is derived from the French word nicher, which is pronounced nee-shay and means to nest. Which means that neesh is closer in pronunciation to the original word than nitch. I know some French, so I’m guessing my preference stems from that.

Other derived-from-French words that are spelled with a ch in English but are pronounced with a soft sh sound include quiche, cache, and microfiche. If you mispronounce those words, you might inadvertently say things like “Real men don’t eat kitsch.”

And that just doesn’t make much sense, since “real men” will eat pretty much anything.

So keep all of this in mind if pronouncing the word niche has previously caused you stress or confusion. Say it either way—I’m not going to start proselytizing that neesh is the only pronunciation because clearly nitch has its own little niche in English.

However, if your speech also includes words like exspecially, nuculer, or supposably, I will not feel bad about sticking my linguistic lessons all up in your face.

As if I needed ANOTHER reason to learn how to crochet, I came across this creative DIY project: the Pie-ret, presumably pronounced “pie-ray.” It’s 44 flavors of fiber genius!

Product image yoinked from Monster Crochet

As soon as I learn how to crochet, I’m going to buy this little pattern ($10 to have the Monster Crochet creator email me a PDF) and make wearable pie berets for every day of the week. And then maybe grab some recipes from pieofthemonthclub.org and bake a pie every day of the week! I’ve been pie-ning for a purpose in life like this…. (Um, I just made myself groan from my own pun. That can’t be good. And yet, I’m still not going to edit it out. You’re welcome!)

Speaking of pie, don’t forget that Pi Day is coming up on March 14. I’m going to start planning a party on Friday, which is approximately 3.14 weeks before Pi Day. Hmm… I hope I have enough time to learn how to crochet so that I can greet people at the door with a beret that looks like this:

Photo yoinked from Monster Crochet

One of our cats has been having some frustrating health problems in the last year or so. DISCLAIMER: this is a story with an insanely icky middle but a happy ending. By “insanely icky,” I mean that you should not read this while eating or if you have a weak stomach.

Isis is now about 9 years old and has been with us since she was between 6 and 12 months old. She was a gaunt and dirty stray when we took her off the mean apartment complex streets. We soon discovered that she had worms… and was pregnant. But we took good care of her, eventually found good homes for her 5 kittens, and she became our little darling.

Our lives were content as a two-cat family. Isis is a tiny cat who at her fattest weighed 7.5 pounds—a contrast to Loki’s bumbling 20-pound average. Except for an occasional can of cat food or licking leftover milk out of a cereal bowl, both cats have eaten standard dry cat food their whole lives. We tried some “light” food for Loki at one point, but that didn’t seem to do much good for his weight (or mood) and we always ended up back at budget-friendly Purina Cat Chow in the blue bag.

When Phoebe joined the family in the summer 2007, Isis made it known that she was not happy with our little addition. She started shedding more and eating less. We figured she needed more time to adjust. In November that year, we discovered a lump on her belly. I flipped my shit a little worrying that it was cancer, but it turned out to just be a hernia. We opted for surgery, which went fine, and the scar healed nicely.

But she basically stopped eating.

She started hanging around the kitchen—crying every time we opened the fridge and gladly eating a scrap of chicken or licking out a bowl of human food—so we knew she was hungry. She went back to the vet in January 2008 for her annual shots, and he told us that older cats will sometimes start to become picky eaters for no apparent reason.

We tried some different dry food brands and types—sensitive stomach, senior cat, indoor formula, etc.—and she turned her nose up at it all. Though we were reluctant to give her canned food, mostly because of its much higher price point, we eventually gave in because she was just so skinny. Even worse than the gaunt state she had been in as a pregnant stray with worms.

She wolfed down any canned food we gave her. “Great!” we thought, until she started puking it up. This is where the story gets gross. I’ve never smelled anything more disgusting than Read more…

The entire festival is over at this point, so you can view all of my photos from Sundance 2009 here. (Of course most of them are nature and environment-related because I couldn’t very well take photos of the movies, could I? Well, technically I could have, but I chose to follow the rules and refrain.) Here’s my recap with some selected photos.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

I had a beautiful morning drive up Provo Canyon to the Sundance Resort Screening Room for another 10am-2pm box office volunteer shift. The first film shown was Barking Water, which people seemed to like but made them cry. I received hands-on box office training while the film was showing, though the process was slowed due to the fact that the festival’s internet connection wasn’t working. I learned that the Sundance Resort, because it’s away from the festival hub of Park City, doesn’t receive as much support as you’d think it would.

Don’t worry, nobody’s bitter about it or anything. Until the snacks run out, that is. Read more…

I have an evening class on Tuesdays, and walked to my car around 9:30 with a classmate last night. It was cold, but we stood around talking for a couple minutes and bonding over irritation for an obnoxious new guy in our class group. Then we both turned our heads at an odd noise in the mostly-empty parking lot: there was a gray-haired man sweeping a long, white cane in front of him and tapping it along the cement curb about 40 feet away from us.

Obviously blind, or at least mostly blind, he was walking at a steady, confident pace, so we continued our conversation. Then the noise changed and we glanced over again; he had turned the other way, then back again, and had a frustrated look on his face.

“Should we see if he needs help?” Becca whispered, echoing my own thoughts. We walked a few steps toward the man and she called out, “Do you need any help finding your car?”

I cringed at her question.

“No,” he said curtly. “I don’t HAVE a car.” His khaki trench coat swayed as he walked on. We stood there awkwardly for a moment, half shrugging our shoulders and not quite knowing what to do next. Was he trying to find the bus stop, or was he heading into the building? Had he accidentally turned off the sidewalk? If that were me, how the hell would I have known what to do without relying on a stranger’s assistance?

We had just turned around to go back to our cars when he called out in an irritated voice, “Where’s the entrance to this parking lot?”

Becca redeemed herself by telling him he was headed in the right direction, it was just a little farther—yep, almost there—and he turned back onto the sidewalk and crossed the street. I made a mental note to adjust my pedestrian vigilance while driving on campus.

I said good night to Becca and we got into our cars. She drove off right away, but I let my car warm up a little first. As I shivered, I watched the man as he continued walking confidently away from campus. He should have turned after crossing the street to reach the bus stop. My car’s thermometer read 30 degrees.

I was faced with the dilemma of wanting to help but not being sure if he needed help or would even accept it if offered. I didn’t want to offend him, but I also didn’t want him to get lost and walk around all night in freezing temperatures.

I finally decided that if it were me, or if it were a stubborn late-middle-aged relative, I would appreciate a stranger showing some polite concern—even at the risk of causing offense. There weren’t any other cars in sight, so I pulled up next to him and rolled down the passenger side window. It crossed my mind that this kind of scenario might stereotypically result in a “Hey baby, need a ride?” with cat call, but instead I said, “Excuse me, sir?”

He paused to listen, and a half smile spread across the left side of his face as I stammered my question.

“I was with the… other girl… back in the parking lot? And I just wanted to… make sure… you, uh… didn’t need any, uh… extra assistance?”

“No,” he said. “I’m fine.” His tone was more calm than it had been before.

“Okay,” I said.

“Thank you,” he added, with a little wave of his free hand.

“You’re welcome.” I rolled up my window and drove off. Yes, I thought, that was the right thing to do. I would not have liked to go home and wonder for the rest of my life if he’d actually needed help but was too proud to ask for it.

So what would you have done in that situation? What lines do you draw when you come across someone who you believe might benefit from the assistance of a stranger? Did I overstep my bounds? Would you have offered him a ride? I’m soliciting your opinions.

How do you ask a blind man if he needs help?