The Park Record is grateful to Amy Roberts for her column contributions over the past 13 years. This is her final column.

It’s been 13 years since I started writing this column. Well, a column at least. In the spring of 2010, I casually mentioned to my friend and then editor of The Park Record, Nan Noaker, I would be leaving the country for a few weeks; off to South Africa for the FIFA World Cup. She knew I had a background as a writer and a journalist and asked if I’d chronicle my experience for the paper. I said sure.

When I returned to the U.S. a month later and submitted my copy, Nan asked if I’d be up for writing a weekly sports column. I agreed. A few years after, Larry Warren retired his column and Nan asked if I’d consider leaving the sports page for the opinion page. “Ok,” I replied, thinking, “How hard can it be?” I sure was naïve back then.

While I say it in jest, it is true that Nan deserves credit for giving me my first international assignment. Which, fatefully, has evolved into many more since. Not for The Park Record, of course. On a small-town paper’s budget, I don’t even get sent on assignment to Kimball Junction. Rather, I’ve had editors from various outlets reach out after reading my column or being introduced to it by someone who does. And long story short, I’ve been able to freelance for some pretty impressive publications. Which, at this point in my career, I have decided to focus on more. Meaning this will be my final Red Card Roberts.

I have always enjoyed the freedom that comes with writing an opinion piece — I don’t have to hide my bias or present both sides of an argument. I don’t have to chase sources or fact check myself into tedious oblivion. An opinion piece is what I think and why I think it. I don’t have to give a damn if someone doesn’t agree with me. I get to write from the heart and tap into my creativity. At least, that is the way it’s long been in newsrooms across the country, including The Park Record.

With the recent changing of the guard, I’m not sure that will be the accepted custom any longer. Which, to be clear, is the right of any editor. Just as it’s my right to decide how much of my style I am willing to modify for a few extra dollars every month. And I’ve come to realize that I just don’t have the desire, time, or energy to do so. When you can earn roughly 35 times more per word elsewhere, simplify your life, and not run the risk of pissing off half the town, a difficult decision gets a little less so.

But still, it was a decision I wrestled with. Over the years this space has allowed me to share meaningful stories (and outrage), hold power to account, spotlight hypocrisy, and express my heartache in a way I simply could not verbally. Being able to write about my grief after my sister died also allowed me to find a way through it. This tiny corner of the newspaper has given me a chance to discover my own voice, if not my own path. I certainly wouldn’t have guessed it would lead to the opportunities, friendships, and frustrations it has. The frustrations mostly being over the paper’s unwillingness to recognize the Oxford comma. 

I estimate I’ve turned in roughly 650 columns since 2010. That’s probably close to about 400,000 words, surely at least 575 Sunday evenings spent in a panic that I didn’t have a topic, 2,000 hours willing my fingers to move across a keyboard, and countless unsolicited conversations about why the words I wrote were “spot on” or “dead wrong.”

Say what you want about my style, but playing it safe has never been my goal — I’ve always gone with principle over popularity. A belief that has certainly made people angry — once to the point I feared for my safety. But over the last 13 years, I have also made people laugh, cry, and hopefully — if it did it right — think.

Thank you for 13 years of agreeing, disputing, debating, considering, supporting, scoffing, challenging, and most of all — reading.

The post Red Card Roberts: Over and out appeared first on Park Record.

Nothing about skiing is cheap. Not the season pass or daily lift ticket, not the equipment or clothing, and definitely not the housing or nightly accommodations. And judging by my American Express bill, not even the après ski drinks would be considered affordable by ordinary standards. But when you live at a ski resort, it’s normal to get a little jaded and lose sight of reality. We watch visitors drop $10,000 on a weekend of skiing so often that spending $200 to sip a few cocktails inside what most would consider a haphazardly erected greenhouse seems like a steal. While it’s true that under any other circumstance I don’t think my ski buddies would consider this a reasonable sum of money to exchange for the ambience provided by painter’s plastic, we’ve managed to find it acceptable, chalking it up to the cost of having a social life in Park City. Cheers to the Vintage Room.

If you’d have asked me last week, “What’s the least expensive thing about skiing?” I’d have probably answered, “Getting to the mountain.” Taking into consideration we have a free bus system and my Jeep is paid off. But now, even that is questionable.

Last week, the luxury 4X4 vehicle manufacturer, Land Rover, debuted its 2023 Range Rover Sport Deer Valley Edition. For a mere $165,000, you can be one of only 20 people to drive this custom SUV, which comes with fitted roof box for skis, “Deer Valley Edition” etched across the doors, and the signatures of Lindsey Vonn and Ted Ligety incorporated into the cupholder cover. And if that’s not enough, owners will also receive a special note indicating they’re one of just 20 people on the planet openly vying for the title of “Most Aspirational Bougie Driver.”

There’s no word yet on whether snowboarders will be allowed to purchase the vehicle.

The announcement about the marketing partnership between Deer Valley and Land Rover was filled with buzzwords carefully crafted to entice a very specific clientele, explaining that the “Deer Valley Edition is influenced by the beauty of the iconic high-altitude locale.” And that the vehicle “has been tastefully elevated to support those who pursue adventure in cold weather climates.” The press release went on to state that the 20 vehicles were “created to appeal to the most dedicated Alpine Winter lifestyle enthusiasts.” It’s unclear to me why alpine or winter were capitalized. You’d think a company selling $165,000 vehicles could afford to install Grammarly on at least one computer.

The press release revealing this limited-edition SUV made its way across social media, accompanied by the expected amount of eyeroll emojis. I’m on a group text with several Deer Valley ski buddies — the ones whom I regularly après with inside a translucent tent — and this announcement became the subject of our recent group chat. While expensive, most of us decided that if the Range Rover came with a designated parking spot at the resort, it’d be worth the price tag. One friend disagreed though and said that for $165,000, he’d expect to pull up to the Sterling chair and toss the liftie his keys.

I’m also on a group chat with friends who ski at a different resort. I asked them if their home mountain boasted any partnerships like this and they seemed comically perplexed by the suggestion, explaining to me that Land Rover was the perfect fit for Deer Valley because “It will go for two hours, then require a 90-minute rest break.”

I offered that while it might putter out by mid-day, there’s no better place to recover than a Saran wrap-inspired tent serving $40 cocktails.

The post Red Card Roberts: Dear valet appeared first on Park Record.

If you ask 10 people what they love about Park City, you’ll get 100 different answers. If you ask 100 people what they don’t like about Park City, responses are likely to be limited to just a couple, with parking and traffic jostling for the top spot.  

We’ve complained about the traffic and lack of parking for years, always insisting it simply cannot get any worse, then shaking our heads in disbelief when it inevitably does each season. Over the decades, the situation has gone from inconvenient to bad to terrible to whatever we call it now. Car-astrophic?

With good intentions but questionable effectiveness, the city has responded by adding more buses, more bus routes, more bus stops, incentives to ride the bus, paid parking programs and whatever it is you call the current nightmare at the base of Park City Mountain. I attempted it once this year and can only explain it as the motorized version of an escape room. Luckily, I was only dropping off some friends who were visiting and was able to break out of the labyrinth with limited physical and emotional scarring. 

My ski pass is at Deer Valley, which admittedly has had its own vehicle-related issues this season. Not the kind that makes you feel like you’re competing in 24 Hours of Le Mans while blindfolded, but a test of endurance, patience and luck nonetheless. Most weekends, the notification that the lots are full goes out before 9 a.m., and occasionally that’s the case during regular weekdays too.

Despite the alerts, people still drive. In circles mostly.

Of course, none of this is a surprise. A few months ago, City Hall transportation officials released a calendar predicting the worst days for traffic this ski season. Between November and April, staffers projected 93 days of peak traffic, with roughly two-thirds of those days considered “maximum peak days,” meaning the number of cars would exceed road and parking capacity. Suffice it to say, the mathematical formula staffers used to come up with 93 days turned out to be about as accurate as the one The Chicago Tribune relied on in 1948. Predicting a mere 93 peak days is Park City’s “Dewey Defeats Truman” moment.

Finally — and thankfully — Deer Valley has provided a solution. Last weekend, the resort began offering direct shuttle service from Treasure Mountain Middle School to Snow Park Lodge. The private shuttle is free, it leaves every 15 minutes, and there’s no stopping between pick-up and drop-off. And guess what? It was a smashing success. Both Saturday and Sunday, the middle school lots were full. Deer Valley parking attendants directed drivers so there was no confusion about where to park or catch your ride. And on Sunday, the resort hadn’t even run out of parking spaces by midday. Which is pretty notable given the capacity issues we’ve seen most weekends.

The solution isn’t remarkable — we’ve been screaming it for years: direct access works.

The city’s status quo has been to have multiple buses wind through neighborhoods, stopping at essentially every other mailbox, hitting local businesses, being sure to swing by Main Street where passengers may or may not have to transfer to another bus, and then, eventually, delivering riders to their destination. It’s a fair assumption that when given the option, people are always going to take the fastest route to their destination. The old saying that time is money is no longer true. Time is far more valuable. After all, anyone can get more money. As long as the buses take more time than driving, they’re essentially a waste of time.

I hope the city takes notice and begins revising bus routes. Instead of stopping 40-plus times each ride, offer direct access from parking and people hubs — the schools, the park and rides near Jeremy Ranch and Richardson Flat, and of course Main Street. There can still be neighborhood bus service, but it doesn’t have to be so frequent. In an attempt to make public transportation convenient, we’ve made it exceptionally inconvenient in terms of time. If you don’t believe me, we can discuss on the Deer Valley direct shuttle next weekend. 

The post Red Card Roberts: No place to park city appeared first on Park Record.

When it comes to Sundance, Parkites tend to fall decidedly into one of two camps: Love it or hate it. You’d be hard pressed to find a local who shrugs their shoulders and convincingly says, “Sundance? I don’t really have an opinion on the matter.”

Over the years I have ebbed and flowed across the Sundance spectrum. My first few years in Park City, there was something magical about living in a small mountain town that hosted such a big event. Bragging rights and excitement formed the most perfect union. In the early 2000s, the event followed the town’s trajectory and seemingly exploded into a see-and-be-seen destination where only the bougiest survived. Main Street became a chameleon, changing overnight from quaint downtown to paparazzi ground zero and a parking lot for media satellite trucks. Those years, the VIP parties received more buzz than the films.

In the late teens of the 2000s (which is an odd way of suggesting somewhere between 2017 and 2019), the pendulum swayed mildly back toward a film-first, or at least film-acknowledged event — forced perhaps by 2016’s infamous #Choppergate. That was the year Uber announced it had created an on-demand helicopter service for Sundance celebrities and planned to chopper the stars wherever they needed to go in Park City. But the company failed to apply for the required permits and didn’t quite understand that local land use ordinances were not mere suggestions. Lawyers got involved. So did the sheriff and a judge. It was quite the standoff for a few days. That seemed to be the year even the most ardent Sundancers agreed that perhaps it was time to dial it back.

Despite efforts to do so, the don’t you know who I am? crowd still came — and even with a hiatus over the last few years, it seems as though they returned this year. These are the people usually dressed head-to-toe in black, who cluelessly dart across a busy road in the middle of the night, the glow of their cigarette the only source of reflection. Or those who wear their lanyards like status symbol, likely not even removing them to shower. And the people walking up and down Main Street wearing miniskirts and attempting to climb over snowbanks in their six-inch heels. Or the people furiously punching keys on a cell phone, looking about as frantic as a pack of rats in a burning meth lab.

They all returned. And, anecdotally at least, I’d venture to say they all rented vehicles and were contractually obligated to burn through a tank of gas every day — even if doing so required them to drive in circles for hours. For impossibly in-demand people working on a tight deadline, efficiency seems to be surprisingly low on the priority list.

Most of us moved to the mountains to get away from that type of grind, so it can be difficult to understand the appeal of this fast-paced, hyperactive lifestyle. Frankly, I’ve seen more relaxed people in an electric chair. If nothing else, the 11 days of Sundance makes me grateful I did not pursue a career as a publicist. But it does make me grateful to live here.

I know the festival is hardly convenient — the traffic, the egos, the chaos. But the on the other side of that are some significant benefits that make the other 355 days of living in Park City pretty unbeatable. There’s the economic bump to local businesses to the tune of an estimated $150 million, free year-round transportation, low taxes, and amenities we couldn’t fund without the festival. If nothing else, this year’s Sundance Film Festival is probably the only reason a lot of us finally got our garbage collected last week.

The post Red Card Roberts: Sundance subsidies appeared first on Park Record.

Sometimes, you have to age yourself to explain yourself. And I’m about to sound ancient.

When I was in high school — before the internet and cellphones, and cellphones with internet — my family took a vacation to Cancun. Due to a couldn’t-skip soccer game, I departed a day later than the rest of my family, leaving me to navigate my first international checked bag experience solo.

I have no idea what I packed. Given I was 16, probably a lot of hair product and shoes. A family friend drove me to the airport and suggested I use the curbside check-in process before speeding away. When I handed the uniformed employee my ticket and my suitcase, he informed me it was two pounds overweight and therefore, too heavy for him to put on the baggage carousel. 

A reminder – I was a teenager and pathetically untraveled. I didn’t have the experience or problem-solving skills I’ve since developed — and I essentially panicked, frantically trying to decide what I could part with that weighed two pounds. The employee saw my reaction and reassuringly said, “Don’t worry. If you take care of me, I’ll take care of you.”

Which my adolescent brain interpreted to mean, “Give me a hand with these bags and I won’t make you part with any of your prized possessions.” Like a complete rube, I jumped behind the counter and started loading suitcases onto a cart. It was only after I noticed the stack of bills overflowing from his pocket that it dawned on me — he wanted a tip, not a temp.

That was the first time I was gratuity green. But it apparently wasn’t my last.

I have always tipped servers generously. Mostly because I know they barely make more than $2 per hour. The tips are their income. And because I think it’s wise to stay on the good side of the person who is handling your food. I also tip any person who cuts my hair, drives me where I need to go, or generally works in the hospitality field. In fact, animal lover that I am, the only scenario in which I am entirely opposed to tipping is one that involves cows.

Until recently, I thought I’d been doing this whole tipping thing right. But now I’m equal parts confused and a little annoyed. Our tipping culture has reached a tipping point.

Last week, I spent a considerable amount of money on adult stuff — a new furnace and some duct work. It wasn’t cheap, but it was necessary. The invoice was emailed to me and when I clicked the “pay now” icon, I was asked if I wanted to leave a tip. I was baffled. And given one of the people installing my new furnace was the company’s owner, the request felt tacky.

That same day I saw questions posted online asking the appropriate tip amount for a snowplow driver because many companies sent a notice to customers suggesting they tip. No doubt drivers are plowing around the clock this season, but they are compensated for the overtime and extra work. We all pay for additional pushes and labor. Not to mention, it’s been a pretty quiet gig the last several seasons.

The literal icing on the cake came a few days ago when I stopped by a local bakery and picked up a cake for a friend’s birthday. It was just an over-the-counter, already made, chocolate dessert — no special order, I didn’t even request a name or message on top. When I checked out, I was asked, “How much would you like to leave for a tip?”

For what? For walking into a place of business and purchasing an item that was for sale?

I blame technology. In the last few years, digital tip jars have been thrust in our faces for nearly every purchase. A coffee, a slice of pizza, a ski rental. And often, they start with an 18 percent suggestion and increase to 35 percent, with a range of emojis to imply the happiness level your tip will bring.

If I had tipped 18 percent on my new furnace, I would have needed to take out a loan.

As business owners can more easily shift the cost of compensating workers directly to customers, the whole tipping culture has shifted from a reward for excellent service to expectation for existence.  

It’s left me wondering: Where is the line is between being generous and just being a sucker?

The post Red Card Roberts: Tipping’s tipping point appeared first on Park Record.

Instead of “dry January,” Park City appears to be doing “why January?”

As in, why is traffic so continuously dreadful and why is there never anywhere to park once you finally get to your destination? Sure, it ultimately boils down to too many people in too many cars. But continuous snowfall, a couple of holiday weekends, and the return of the upcoming Sundance Film Festival don’t exactly alleviate anything.

According to a traffic calendar created prior to the ski season by staffers at City Hall, all but two days in January are expected to be somewhere between “we might as well live in LA” and “don’t leave the house.” In fact, of the 31 days in the month, 21 of them are considered “maximum peak days,” with another eight days identified as the only slightly less maddening “peak days.” Only Jan. 10 and Jan. 11 are considered safe in terms of driving somewhere with merely a normal amount of frustration.

Given this is the first in-person Sundance in three years, many of us might be a bit rusty when it comes to what we can expect. People In Black and gridlock, for sure. If history is any indication, it’s also likely those PIBs, fed up with traffic and finding nowhere to park, will just make their own spot in whatever neighborhood happens to be close to a theater.

I live in Prospector, within walking distance of three major venues. It’s common for the neighborhood to become a makeshift parking lot over Sundance. Orange-and-white barricades and signs threatening to tow away violators are hardly a deterrent. I guess when you’ve spent $10,000 to attend Sundance, what’s another $150 parking fine?

The extra cars zooming through the neighborhood and often blocking driveways can be frustrating, and often even dangerous. Throughout ski season, but especially during Sundance, crossing Comstock Drive can feel like a game of Frogger. Like many who live in my neighborhood, I’ve been known to yell at drivers to slow down, and I make it a point to wear gloves that first weekend of the Festival, because flipping someone off when wearing mittens doesn’t have the same impact.

Until last week, I had no idea I could go to jail for this.

You might have seen the recent news stories that city councilman Jeremy Rubell was charged with disorderly conduct for allegedly swearing at one of White Pine Touring’s Nordic ski instructors. Apparently, there’s been an ongoing conflict between him and the instructor — mostly over the parking in Rubell’s neighborhood, which is near where the lessons take place. According to the complaint, Rubell was on his own property when the verbal confrontation and some lively gesturing occurred.

I’m not going to take any sides; I wasn’t there to see or hear what happened. But I will default to the side of being shocked to learn it’s apparently a crime to swear at someone from the deck of your home. Rubell is charged with a class C misdemeanor, which is punishable by up to 90 days in jail and a fine of up to $750.

If yelling at drivers for being entitled parking jerks is a crime, I probably should be serving a life sentence.

It’s true we all signed up to live in a resort town, one that depends on, if not caters to, tourists and by extension the people and companies that serve them. But it is also true that our homes — and by extension our neighborhoods — are meant to be safe havens. Home is where we escape and often hunker down when the busyness of town becomes too much or even hazardous. Home is meant to be a place of refuge in a life, a town, a month that is stingy with respite.

Is swearing at people who infringe upon our places of sanctuary acceptable? Probably not. In some cases, it might be understandable. But it shouldn’t be criminal.

The post Red Card Roberts: Driving the conflict appeared first on Park Record.

We aren’t even a full week into 2023, and already it has been a bizarre year.

Many of us are still trying to dig out from an epic snowstorm the likes of which we have not seen in over a decade, maybe two decades. It’s been a long time since we measured the snowfall from one storm in feet. Over the weekend, I attempted to take the dog for a walk on the Rail Trail. I don’t know how tall he is, but he definitely doesn’t fit in a purse. He stands somewhere between my kneecap and mid-thigh. Our walk though was more of a tunneling/jumping/plowing strategy with hopes of forward momentum. At times, the snow was over my dog’s spotted head. We didn’t make it that far, but it took us a long time to go nearly nowhere.

After our 100 yards per hour walk, we arrived home to see trash and recycling all over the street. The waste collection service hasn’t been able to pick up garbage or recycling for weeks. A few days ago, I received an automated voice message from Republic Services explaining how a literal perfect storm has resulted in delayed services. Roads leading to the dump were too icy for the trucks to attempt, and the unrelenting snowstorm made it nearly impossible to collect trash anyway. To make matters worse, because Christmas and New Year’s Day fell on Sundays, both holidays were observed the following Mondays, meaning the dump was not open for business. Not knowing when the service would resume, neighbors left their bins out. Many of which were knocked over by snowplows. From what I’ve read online, it seems this scenario is being played out across town. Snow isn’t the only thing littering the city right now.

The flakes also created a lot of parking problems — with simply nowhere else to put the white stuff, many would-be parking spots were used as temporary snow storage. That seemed to be the case at Deer Valley on Monday. By 9:30am lots were already at capacity. I was one of the hundreds adding to the congestion — a Monday morning gamble that went the wrong way. (I should have hopped on the bus.) I managed to snag one of the very last parking spots, mostly because the attendant hand-picked me from the line of cars and said, “Put your Jeep in 4-wheel drive and think skinny thoughts. You might be able to make this work.” 

I did, with little more than one inch to spare.

Other drivers weren’t as lucky and were turned away. Some decided to salvage their ski day and park at China Bridge instead. That used to be a decent Plan B. At least until cars started catching fire in the garage, which is what happened on Monday afternoon. At the time of my deadline, details were still sparse. But video from KPCW shows a car fully engulfed in flames and firefighters on the scene. Fortunately, no one was hurt and damage appears to be limited.

Tragically, the same cannot be said for an event that happened at Park City Mountain, also on Monday. According to news reports, a resort employee was riding the Short Cut lift when a tree – possibly succumbing to the weight of the snow — fell on the cable, which caused the employee to fall from the chairlift. Sadly, the employee did not survive the fall.

Living at a ski resort, we’re generally aware of the potential impact of a lot of snow — everything from a delightful powder day to traffic accidents to avalanches — and it can get wild. But even the most imaginative among us would struggle to envision the snow causing a tree to snap, resulting in such a devastating outcome.

May the rest of 2023 be a little more predictable.

The post Red Card Roberts: One wild week appeared first on Park Record.

Despite having lived in Park City nearly all of my adult life, when I refer to “home,” I usually mean Nebraska. Not in a nostalgic way — there’s no hint of fondness. It’s more matter of fact. As in, “I have to go home for Christmas,” the “have to” being key.

Nebraska is where I was raised and the place my family still lives. And while I have a general disdain for the state (it’s so flat you can watch your dog run away for three days), most years I find myself back there between Christmas and Jan. 1. The reasons for this have evolved since I moved to Park City 20-plus years ago. First it was important to my mom to have the family together for the holidays and besides, my ski pass was blacked out that week. Then my sister was diagnosed with brain cancer and we didn’t know how many Christmases we’d have left together. Later, my niece was born and the magic of the season was somehow only complete if I was there. “A child only believes for so long,” I was told.

While the reasons I must be in Omaha have shifted over the years, the subtle nods toward guilt are the tie that binds. So this year I continued the tradition of begrudgingly making my way to the Midwest to celebrate Christmas with my family, all the while dropping hints that once my niece no longer thinks a bunch of flying reindeer are to thank for her presents, I intend to make different holiday plans.  

Despite how much has changed over the past decade — the death of my younger sister, the birth of my niece, my parents’ new-ish house, my older sister getting married — there is still a long list of traditions that stay rooted in time.

The same wild rabbit has taunted my dad for roughly five years, since my parents moved into the house they’re in now. Well, we assume it’s the same rabbit, though truth be told it might have a stunt double. In the summers, the lone rabbit nibbles each one of the vegetables in my dad’s garden. The bunny doesn’t eat a whole carrot or cucumber, instead it munches just enough so the vegetable of choice can’t be salvaged by a human — and then it moves on to the next plant-based snack. This time of year, though, the rabbit chews through the cords of my dad’s outdoor Christmas light display. Every year my dad ends up replacing a string or two, and every year the rabbit somehow manages to avoid electrocution and turn the once peaceful display into some type of EDM light show capable of inducing seizures. A weaponless war has been declared and no one is certain who is winning, though I suspect the rabbit has the advantage. The concerns I’ve expressed about my father turning into Elmer Fudd have not been taken seriously.

My mother’s holiday traditions include insisting Santa might pass by if we are up too late and ushering us off to bed by 9 p.m. Christmas Eve. She still sets out cookies and milk for him, and carrots for the reindeer — though she insists it’s all for my niece’s benefit. Once we’re all safely confined to our rooms for the night, she takes my dad’s boots, dips the bottoms in flour, and walks them from the fireplace to the tree, trying to convince us in the morning they are Santa’s footprints. Minutes after her one-woman act is complete, my dad gets out the vacuum, muttering about growing yeast in the carpet.

My favorite part about Christmas morning continues to be opening gifts labeled “from Mom and Dad” and seeing how my dad is just as excited as I am to learn what’s inside. Perhaps next year I should suggest my mom buy me a humane rabbit trap. 

The post Red Card Roberts: Home for the holidays appeared first on Park Record.

The holidays are generally considered “the season of giving,” a roughly six-week period when we are all a tad more polite and a bit more generous with our time and money. We hear things like, “the Christmas spirit” when anyone does something remotely thoughtful or even just slightly less annoying than normal. Left a large tip? Let someone pass you in a line? Picked up your dog’s poop? That’s the Christmas spirit!

There’s also a lot of talk about “holiday heroes” this time of year. Those who work long hours delivering packages or stocking stores shelves — also anonymous donors who pay for someone’s groceries unexpectedly or buy presents for a family in need. Essential exemplars. Personally, I think elastic waistbands should qualify for holiday hero status, too, but I digress.

There are all sorts of reasons for our benevolence. Some of us get caught up in all the merriment and want to spread the joy; others take time to reflect on how fortunate they are and share what they can; some of us just need a tax write-off before the year ends. Perhaps a less recognized genre is one that I fell into a few years ago — the get-drunk-and-donate class. It includes alcohol and questionable, yet charitable, decision-making that you might not recall.

Three years ago, my philanthropic spirit was aroused while drinking and doom scrolling. I was upset about the Australian wildfires, had a few too many cocktails at a party, and, long story short, I ended up adopting a kangaroo, a wallaby and two koalas. It didn’t grasp any this until the following May, though. That’s when I’d noticed a sizable donation had been hitting my credit card every month. When I called to inquire, I learned that I had tearfully promised to provide food and medical care for several animals as long as they were at the sanctuary. Apparently, my only stated condition was that I also got to name them. When I asked the sanctuary worker what each animal was called, the man on the phone sighed and said, “Jacked Rabbit, Boop Snoot, Pina Koala and Roger.”

“Worth every penny,” I replied.

I occasionally receive email updates on my collection of marsupials. Each of my adopted animals suffered burns too severe for them to ever be released back into the wild, so now they’re more of an investment than a donation. By this time next year, I expect the kangaroo to be in grad school.

This is all a very lengthy way of suggesting that giving doesn’t have to look a certain way. Most of us likely have some indoctrinated belief that we must serve a hot meal at a shelter, or drop money in a collection plate, or pluck a tag off a tree and buy all of the items requested on it in order for our generosity to count. Count towards what, I couldn’t say. Do-gooder status? Extra points to make up for being a jerk? Some type of karmic trophy?

Obviously, food pantries need volunteers, and nonprofits need money, and we should help those who are less fortunate. But we’ve been conditioned to believe that if we aren’t doing those things — especially this time of year — we sort of suck. Which is unfortunate. No one should be contribution-shamed. Besides, a little creative giving can be just as impactful. 

Take for example the city of Butte, Montana, where local courts are allowing most defendants to pay some of their fines with donations to the local food bank through December. For every 30 cans of food donated, their fines are reduced $150. Similar “food for fines” programs can be found in Grafton, Wisconsin; Greenville, South Carolina; and Burlington, Vermont, where canned goods can be used to pay off parking citations or other misdeeds.

I’m by no means encouraging anyone to break the law or donate under the influence just to say they gave. But a little out-of-the-gift-box thinking doesn’t hurt.

The post Red Card Roberts: ‘Tis the season appeared first on Park Record.

Recently someone asked me, “How old are you?” And for a moment, I couldn’t actually remember. I had to confirm the year and do some quick math before I could reply. While this could be chalked up to age or forgetfulness, it probably has more to do with a lifetime of underwhelming birthdays. Because I came into this world six days before Christmas, my birthday is not something traditionally observed, much less fussed over. I’ve been around the sun enough times to confirm than unless your name is Jesus, no one gets too excited about a December birthday.

So this year I decided to try something new and use my end-of-the-year birth month as a time to measure my personal growth and self-reflect, rather than pout about another unremarkable birthday. It is in that spirit I share the top lessons, observations, and universal truths I’ve come to accept over the last few decades of my life.

• You will be too much for some people. Those aren’t your people. 
• Some things you never get over, you just get through.
• You don’t realize how many people you don’t like until you’re asked to help name a baby.
• There are people who would love to have your bad days.
• Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.
• Be fearless in the pursuit of anything that sets your soul on fire.
• You are stronger than you think. Always.
• Growth is when your ex is no longer your type.
• Keep making new mistakes.
• Choosing whether to walk away or try harder is one of the hardest decisions you’ll ever have to make.
• In the height of your despair, remember life could always be worse — sex could be fattening.
• If you aren’t at least a little nervous about some of your choices, you aren’t taking big enough risks.
• Traveling alone is liberating.
• Never shy away from the depth of your feeling or the intensity of your hope.
• Most of the things you really want are on the other side of fear.
• Be careful about following the masses. Sometimes the ‘m’ is silent.
• It takes grace to remain kind in cruel situations.
• Choose yourself unapologetically and without guilt.
• If you line up all of your exes in a row, you can see the flow chart of your mental illness.
• Sometimes you learn more from one mistake than from all of the things you’ve ever done right.
• Never lose sleep over someone you don’t wake up next to.
• Don’t be afraid to have difficult conversations. 
• No outfit is complete without dog hair.
• How people treat you is their karma. How you react to it is yours.
• You can’t get mad at people for sucking the life out of you if you keep handing them a straw.
• Your words can’t fix what your actions broke.
• There is nothing rewarding about playing it small.
• Trying to understand some people is like trying to smell the color nine.
• It’s better to regret than to wonder.
• Not everyone will like you, but not everyone matters.
• Don’t ask a man if he’s single. Instead, ask him, “Is anyone under the impression they are in a relationship with you?”
• Know your worth and don’t offer anyone a discount.
• No one is truly confident with how they say, “Worcestershire sauce.”
• Not every situation requires your reaction.
• Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same thing.
• Only date people who don’t panic at the thought of you being left alone with their phone.
• You are not required to set yourself on fire to keep other people warm.
• Not everyone you lose is a loss.
• Who you are at your worst moment is not who you are.
• Don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for wanting more.
• There is zero connection between your net worth and your self-worth. 
• The only way to slow down the aging process is to make it work its way through Congress. 

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