My friends here in New Orleans call me "Pathy" (full nickname: Pathy McFishActress, but the last name is a whole different blog entry-worthy story) because of my tendency to stay on the path and not stray from the straight and narrow when driving an electric golf cart. They chased geese and stole other players' balls, and I clung to that concrete path like it was my job (technically, as a caddy, it was). Sure I veered off a few times here and there to gleefully bounce over gnarled, exposed tree roots, but the extreme is what earns a nickname, right?

So it was no surprise when Friday afternoon we went to a Go-karting place in Baton Rouge and I exhibited more Pathy-worthy tendencies. Is it my fault I care about safety?

While waiting for our rag-tag pit crew to start our engines I asked, "do we get helmets or safety goggles?" (I wouldn't have asked for the safety goggles except for the large sign affixed above our starting point that clearly demanded, "YOU MUST WEAR HELMETS AND SAFETY GOGGLES") My esteemed mechanic's response? "Nope. Don't need 'em."

It's ok, I tried to tell myself, the hardcore go-karting place in the Netherlands only had us wear safety jackets, gloves, and helmets (with eye protection) because it was two stories with sharper turns and faster cars. We're outside in beautiful weather with palm trees lining the course and a friendly Comfort Inn parking lot on the other side of the course's fence. No problem! I'll admit it, my Pathy-nervous-wimpy side was screaming inside DON'T DO IT!

But I survived, and in the end I wished for some eye protection just because the engines sputtered so much and the tires spit up every particle on the road, so I drove blind for most of the way to prevent my eyes from being gouged with dirt and tar specks. It was a good time and incredible to see my 6'3" buddy crammed into the tiny plastic shell of the car.

Talk about HSE concerns - I think I might be harboring the next insect-carried disease pandemic in my house (Malaria had to start somewhere). My previous struggles against pesky flying bugs was to no avail, and I'm being overrun again. With their constant presence (and now in every room of the house, not just the kitchen), I vascillate between trying to accept them as the household pet I never knew I always wanted and hating every single hairy leg sprouting off their abdomens, wanting to scream in frustration, JUST LEAVE ME ALONE. And it's not for lack of trying - I spent hours today scrubbing any potential sources of buggish home; my kitchen is disinfected, as are my two bathrooms. My fridge is yet again a mortuary, though, and I feel like singing a dirge everytime I open the door to see the body count of the fallen rise.

The problem is escalating, too, with the identity of my enemy evolving. No longer am I just waging war against small fruit fly-gnat-small black specks, I'm now forced into battle with larger, scarier looking bugs who look professional. They know what they're doing in my house and how to best avoid being squashed. Where the black specks whizzed around aimlessly and were just kind of annoying because they had no rhyme or reason to their air dances, my new foes have a purpose and direction that drives them to dive bomb whatever I'm eating. Or preparing to eat. I had to fish one such bugger out of my peaches tonight after dinner. I'm starting to worry for my own health (and judgment capabilities) when I went along happily eating my contaminated peaches. Or when I find it normal to eat with one hand while continuously swatting the air with my other.

If my house is as clean as it can get and I'm still losing to these insects' geometric reproduction cycles, how can I expect them to DIE until my neighborhood is cleaned up? Because I'm sure the festering, rotting piles of poo all around my condo building aren't helping the situation.