I'll be the first to admit: I'm not easy to have a conversation with. I have no focus. Or rather, my focus is in 100 different places at any given moment. Small talk with me is sporadic and spastic at best. Here's a common example:

Someone: "Hi, nice day, huh?"

Me: "Yeah. It's nice outside."

Nice. I washed my nice red dress today. Did I accidently put whites in with it too? Crap. And whites. Oh, did I remember to RSVP for that wedding next month? I need to send them a gift. Gift. I still have to return that Christmas gift that didn't fit. Fit. I should go to the gym today. Gym. Jim. I gotta return Jim's call and see what he wanted. And I need to buy bleach for that load of laundry I'm sure I washed with my red dress.

This is the activity constantly happening in my head when someone is trying to speak to me. A flurry of loosely connected details adding to a never-ending to-do list, which I tackle in my head, all the while being completely zoned out and oblivious to the person standing next to me.

I'm fully aware I need extra-strength Adderall or electric shock therapy or intense counseling. But in lieu of any of those treatment options, this is how my brain works. And this week's column is a reflection of that.

Like most Parkites, I'm watching the Olympics, somewhat in awe of the fact that I know many of the athletes. In what other town can you turn on the TV to watch the most celebrated international sporting event in the world and think, "Oh, I work with that guy twice a week.


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But there's one sport I have a hard time getting excited about. Ice dancing. No disrespect to the athletes, but to me, ice dancing just seems like a colder version of ballet. I half expect the commentators to say something like, "Wow! There's some serious twizzle in that shizzle." I think Barry Manilow invented this sport. It's kind of like a plush, glittery Valentine's Day card to the Olympics. Only it makes me what to stab myself in the eyeballs a little bit.

Odd Olympic sports curling. I don't understand it. And I have a hard time getting excited about a sport where a pregnant woman or a middle-aged man with a beer gut can be Olympic champions. But I wouldn't mind dating a curler simply because I like a man who isn't afraid to use a broom.

Broom = witch. I met a real witch this week when I had to go to small claims court. I was a witness in a case against a local business. When it was over, the woman suing stood outside the courthouse and yelled obscenities and me and the business owner. She was a complete, mean-spirited lunatic. Hurling swear words that would make a sailor blush. It was like Judge Judy meets Jerry Springer. I couldn't believe a grown woman, a grandmother no less, would behave that way. It made me sick.

Sick. I've been sick all week. Caught the post-Sundance crud and for the last seven days, it's felt like a small animal with sharp claws was trapped in my throat, trying to scratch its way out. The Department of Defense could have classified my cough as a weapon of mass destruction. I spent most of the week stumbling around in a NyQuil fog.

Stumbling sounds like stumping. This week, I was briefly excused from my quarantine to attend an event where I got to meet Wendy Davis, who is running for governor in the state of Texas. She was stumping in Park City, raising money for her campaign. She was inspiring and engaging and it was an honor to meet the woman who donned pink sneakers and held an eleven-hour long filibuster standing up for women's reproductive rights last summer in Texas. I hope she wins.

Wins, #winning! Whatever happened to Charlie Sheen?

Amy Roberts is a longtime Park City resident, freelance writer and the proud owner of two ill-behaved rescue dogs, Boston and Stanley.