One has to look no further than their mailbox for proof. Those of us in the 84060 received our ballots a couple weeks ago. And I’d venture to say, most of us personally know many, if not all, of the people listed on it. By the time my next column prints, we’ll have a new mayor and at least one, perhaps two, new city council members.

As for who I think those people should be — I’ve remained strategically, if not abnormally quiet on the matter. It’s counterintuitive to be sure — an opinion writer stating she’s keeping her opinion to herself. But, alas, it is a small town. And no matter who is elected, I will have to see them at the grocery store and work with them professionally. Both of which are less awkward when you haven’t actively campaigned against them.

Aside from those reasons, I’ve also remained rather mum because truth be told, it’s been a bit of a struggle to truly differentiate the candidates, at least by their platforms. They all seem to want the same things: More open space, less traffic. More affordable housing, less development. More community, less carbon footprint.

Despite not being overtly vocal this election, I have certainly paid attention. I’ve attended candidate forums, questioned them in person, and read their answers in the voter guides. As such, I’ve noticed one topic that seems to be missing from all the likemindedness — Park City’s vanishing middle class.

Perhaps it’s not part of the discussion because, at last count, there were only 12 of us. It’s not wise long-term planning to commit to a group on the brink of extinction. There’s a lot of talk about the working class. To keep them here, the plan seems to be to tax the other 96% of the residents who, presumably, can afford it. But therein lies the problem. That’s a woefully misguided assumption.

I am fortunate that I don’t qualify for affordable housing. This isn’t due to my salary, but rather my stubbornness. When I moved to Park City in my twenties, I was determined to buy a house. I couldn’t afford it, but back then, banks gave anyone with a pulse any amount of money requested. I got a loan, roommates, another job, and made it work.

Purchasing my home turned out to be a wise decision, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a struggle to live here. Every year the cost to do so rises; my income does not keep pace. Many of my friends in the same tax bracket as I am abandoned ship. The pastures in Heber and Kamas might not be greener, but they sure are cheaper. They still work here, their kids still attend Park City schools, and this town is where they recreate. All of which adds to our traffic and carbon footprint. But it’s the seasonal workers we tend to focus on most. Maybe that’s the right thing to do, but my friends driving back and forth from Heber four times a day would likely disagree.

To be clear, I believe we should help the underserved. I give to The Christian Center, People’s Health Clinic, and Habitat for Humanity, because I absolutely believe this community benefits from each of those organizations, and the people who need them.

But this town also benefits from our middle-class residents. And they’ve been largely left out of the planning.

Not too long ago I heard a candidate state something to the effect that if Rocky Mountain Power would not honor the town’s commitment to solar energy, we’d build our own solar grid.

As I considered this statement, I realized that if it ever came to fruition, I would have to buy solar panels for my house. I looked into that once. It was going to cost about $8,000 and save me $40 a month. It wasn’t an expense I could justify then, and I committed to making other eco-friendly changes. But as far fetched as it might be, if the town went totally solar, I’d have two choices: 1. Cough up the money. 2. Live without electricity.

Or I guess, I could move to Heber and let this town’s 11 other middle-class residents figure it out.

Amy Roberts is a freelance writer, longtime Park City resident, and the proud ofwner of two rescued Dalmatians, Stanley and Willis. The opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the writer. Follow her on Twitter @amycroberts.

The post Amy Roberts: Popular platforms appeared first on Park Record.

In large part my wanderlust stems from how much I learn when I travel somewhere new. It’s more than the food or the scenery or what side of the road is preferable for driving. I love interacting with people who are distinctly not American. Not because I don’t like us, but because I find it so fascinating to learn what other people don’t like about us. The answers often cleverly disguised as a question.

“Why are Americans so loud?”

“Why is there so much food everywhere?”

“Why is everything so huge in the US?”

“Why do you always want to know what others do for a living?”

My responses are somewhat standard.

“You think we’re loud in your country? You should see us at an all-inclusive resort in Mexico.”

“In America, we have competitions for the most innovative fried food. In many states, winning a blue ribbon at the county fair is more of an accomplishment than winning the Nobel Peace Prize.”

“We need larger cars, houses, and clothes to accommodate how much we eat at the county fair.”

But that last question, why do we always ask about another’s occupation, I don’t really have an answer for. It’s such normal small talk, until recently I didn’t realize others find it rude.

A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine who lives in South Africa called me. She has a crush on an ex-pat American and she was running some form of reconnaissance. “He wants to know what I do for a living! He has asked me twice!” She exclaimed, obviously somewhat put out by the question. “Why does it matter if I’m a CEO or a housekeeper? It’s so rude.”

I tried to explain to her this is our way of small talk. It’s an innocent question designed to lead to other questions. “Oh, you’re a lawyer? What type of law do you practice? Maybe you can help me with a dispute I’m having…” That kind of stuff.

Personally, I’ve long found it complicated to answer the question myself. I have a ‘big girl’ job that pays my bills. But I also freelance in an entirely different field. I write this column, and pen articles for various magazines. I’ve also written a book, I refurbish vintage refrigerators, and once or twice I’ve been hired as an interior decorator by someone who thought I had good taste.

I used to answer the “what do you do?” question by saying I work in healthcare. But when you tell people that, they often can’t wait to show you a growth they have on a place you do not want to see, and then try to cipher medical advice.

So then I started telling people I work in public relations. But too often I would have to explain to them that I don’t spend the majority of my day covering up my boss’s affairs, namedropping to journalists, or lunching with lobbyists. The television show “Scandal” really throws people off.

A few times I’ve told someone who’s asked that I’m a writer. Their concern is tangible. Not only do they assume this means they have to pick up the check, but also that I’m a sadistic, tortured soul who prefers dark, windowless rooms so that the sun doesn’t whitewash my creativity.

I can’t win with the answer to this question, so now I just tell people I’m a pirate.

But even as I was explaining the question’s innocence to my friend, I began to see her point more and more. Why does it matter what we do? Who we are in this world is so much more important than how we earn our paycheck. We are more than how we keep the lights on, or pay our mortgage, or put gas in the car. Our job description is not our life description. So why is it so often the first thing we ask at a cocktail party?

Why don’t we ask people what brand of toaster they have, or about their favorite emoji? I’d venture to say I’d learn far more about a person by understanding why they hate the color yellow or what they love most about their life, than where they spend 40 hours each week.

“What do you do for a living?” pins our identity to our profession, not our personality. If it’s not socially acceptable to hand out your resume at a party, why is it normal to verbally recite it? Our jobs are not the most interesting thing about us. Winning a blue ribbon for your deep-fried BBQ Twinkie recipe is a far better story anyway.

Amy Roberts is a freelance writer, longtime Park City resident, and the proud owner of two rescued Dalmatians, Stanley and Willis. The opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the writer. Follow her on Twitter @amycroberts.

The post Amy Roberts: What to do about what we do appeared first on Park Record.

My dad and I typically take a trip together every year, just the two of us. The poor guy has three daughters, two of which do not shy away from the word “princess.” And he’s been married to my mom for 45 years, who would be the first to consider “diva” a compliment. Somewhere along the way, I sort of became my dad’s only son. At least to the degree I am willing to do “guy stuff” with him. Our trips usually include tickets to a football game, a fly rod and/or a tent. (Trips with anyone else in my family usually involve azure waters, pool boys named Raul and a second mortgage.)

For a variety of reasons, our annual trip together turned into him visiting me in Park City — I couldn’t take time off work and he couldn’t be too far off the grid. I hadn’t noticed it until this weekend, but there’s something to be said for both people being in a new environment. When one has home-field advantage, it changes the dynamic considerably.

I quickly realized my sanity depended on being out of my element with my pops. After one day together, it was apparent we still needed some type of getaway. My patience wore thin after the first of many requests for the phonebook. “No one uses those anymore, Dad. We Google things now.” Then he asked me for the number to Google so he could call them for the information he needed. “No one calls Google, Dad,” was repeated more than once over the course of his visit.

Saturday night I went out with some friends (after he went to bed at 8 p.m.) and he locked me out of my house. He had left a note on the kitchen counter that read: “Call me when you get home and I’ll let you in.” I crawled in through the dog door and in the morning tried to explain to him why the note doesn’t work when it’s sitting inside a locked house. He also asked me to help him use the internet one day. I tried to weasel out of this request because I have attempted to teach him at least 25 times and it has twice ended with a broken computer and at least one threat to sue the NSA. Eventually though, I caved and sat him in front of my laptop, planning to show him how to use “the Google.” This lesson ended in another request for the phonebook and an exasperated, “Dad, you enter .com not dotcom.”

Less than 24 hours later, the rest of Park City got a taste of my life. We went to dinner and the restaurant’s menu said, “Burgers cooked to perfection.” When the waitress asked my dad how he wanted his hamburger cooked he pointed at the menu and told her, “Cooked to perfection.” Then we went to a concert and he complained the music was too loud. He stuck two pieces of Nibs licorice in his ears to block the noise. And later, he told a child who was crying at the grocery store, “Fair is where the hogs and cows go to win blue ribbons. Don’t whine about what’s not fair.”

One day I will thank my dad for giving me just enough emotional baggage to work in a creative field, but not enough to be a stripper.

After a few days of this, I knew I had to employ operation staycation and called Blue Sky Ranch. It’s just 20 minutes away, but it felt like we’d been transported to a land of serenity — where all the frustrated headshaking, eye rolling and head scratching give way to the typical vacation mindset.

Located just outside of Wanship, Blue Sky Ranch is where the Wild West straddles urban sophistication. The ranch offers an array of Western-inspired adventures. Dad and I signed up for two; the Blixt & Company-designed sporting clay course and a morning of fly-fishing in private blue-ribbon waters. It was exactly what we needed — we both got to hit the reset button and be completely out of our element. Despite never really leaving, it was one of the best trips I’ve ever taken with my dad.

Amy Roberts is a freelance writer, longtime Park City resident, and the proud owner of two rescued Dalmatians, Stanley and Willis. The opinions expressed in this column are solely those of the writer. Follow her on Twitter @amycroberts.

The post Daddy issues appeared first on Park Record.