I just happen to enjoy journaling, and I also appreciate and enjoy stickers. Always have. Like the yellow smiley face I got on my early writing papers or the proud little star on my second-grade spelling test. Stickers are tiny bursts of sunshine, affixed to whatever lovely thing I choose. They are silly, small, and—at least to me—nearly pure pleasure. These days, I have stickers in spades. I belong to a couple of sticker clubs, so fresh treasures arrive in my snail-mail box monthly. I love getting mail, and I love stickers, so that’s a double whammy of happy.
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My favorites? Trees and flowers in a certain style, or creatures with cute, sassy expressions. The glittery ones? Hard pass. I give those to my neighbor for her granddaughters. The misty woods, the fairy-dust shimmer, the crow with an attitude—those stay with me. I even keep an entire expanding folder (labeled carefully, of course) for my loose sticker sheets. The sticker books themselves are lined up on a sagging shelf that groans under the weight of all this so-called “pure pleasure.”

And yet—despite this bounty—I don’t always use the stickers I like best. I save them. I hoard them. The sassiest crow? Still tucked inside a little envelope. The prettiest tree? Waiting for the “perfect” page that never quite arrives. There’s never a spot special enough.

Which is ridiculous, even by my own estimates. What am I saving this little crow sticker for, anyway? A presidential address? My memoir release party? What possible hopes and dreams am I hanging on a one-inch piece of sticky paper? Really, Laurie? The little voice whispers: If you use it now, you may never see it again. It’ll sit on this journal page, and what are the odds you’ll ever flip back to it? You’ll miss seeing it. You’ll have to buy more. Suddenly, my sticker joy comes with a side of scarcity neurosis.

I’ve worked with clients in my Senior Move Management business who had similar attachments. Useless, silly things—at least by most standards. Paper clips, post-it notes, china, linens, spoons, you name it. One person’s trash is another’s treasure, and I learned fast that judging was not my job. My job was to gently, diplomatically help them see that not everything could—or should—make the cut. The china set, for example: everyone wanted to believe their kids would love it. Spoiler alert: they don't.

My very first referral never even knew I existed. He’d already skipped off through the veil, leaving me his earthly junk pile. My attorney, who was helping me set up paperwork for Onward & Upward, Inc., handed me the job. The client was gone, his son lived out of state, and I was hired to dispense with the belongings. It was an old, dark ranch near downtown Saratoga Springs, never renovated, packed with over a century’s worth of stuff. No debates, no bartering—everything had to go.

That’s where I found a whole basement wall of pegboard—eight feet tall, sixteen feet wide—every inch sprouting bent and twisted paper clips, each one valiantly holding something: a wrench, a pen, a baggie of screws, rubber bands, hinges, nails, cordage. The wrench itself had a hole in the handle. It didn’t need a paper clip to hang. And yet, there it was, tethered by a fragile loop or two or three of bent wire. As if that weren’t enough, unopened boxes of brand-new paper clips sat nearby, waiting in reserve. The scarcity gremlin had clearly set up permanent residence.

The Great Depression left its mark on more than one generation. Hoarders in training, all. Saving wasn’t optional; it was survival. Every bag, every jar, every rubber band might be needed later. I get it. But me? I have no such excuse. I’m not starving. Sticker clubs send me reinforcements every month. And still, I hesitate. Still, I tuck my favorites away like the world’s supply might suddenly dry up.

So, what are stickers to me, really? A way to mark my territory? A way to decorate my favorite things? A tiny test of my artistic intuition? Sure. But mostly, they are pure, uncomplicated pleasure. They’re also a form of self-expression—tiny declarations of who I am, what I like, what makes me smile. And maybe that’s the real rub: by saving the best, I’m holding back my own expression. And still, I hold some back. Why? Because some sneaky fear tells me that once it’s stuck, it’s gone forever. No take backs. No do-overs. The scarcity gremlin whispers: What if this is the best one you’ll ever get?

Most kids don’t seem to think like this. They slap stickers on lunchboxes, sneakers, foreheads—zero hesitation. Me? I curate them like crown jewels. Somewhere along the way, play turned into preservation. When did stinginess creep in? I don’t know. And honestly, I don’t need to know. The “why” is unknowable and unneccesary. What matters is the feeling. Once I FEEL the ickiness of it, I can pause, notice, and let its unsavory nature register. That pause cracks open a choice.

And here’s the heart of it: fear vs. trust, scarcity vs. abundance. The fear says: hold back, or you’ll miss out. The trust says: use it now, and watch what happens. Abundance is cheeky like that—it only proves itself once you dare to test it. And it’s not just stickers. It’s the good dishes, the nice clothes, the candles we’re “saving for later.” Newsflash: today counts. Life is the special occasion. I want to use the china. Wear the scarf. Light the candle. Stick the sticker.

When I finally do use one of my prized stickers, I get a double hit of joy. First, the zing of seeing it in its new home. Second, the smug satisfaction of proving my scarcity story wrong. The drawer isn’t empty. The mailman will bring more. The universe has a sneaky way of restocking joy, usually when you least expect it.

So yes, I still hesitate sometimes. I still notice the clench. But now I see it for what it is: just fear in drag. Not truth. Not reality. The truth is that joy multiplies when it’s spent. A sticker is only doing its job when it’s stuck to something. Better a sticker stuck than sulking in a drawer. Better the crow strutting across my journal than caged in a plastic sleeve. And when the scarcity gremlin hisses, save it, I just smile, peel, and press. Use it up. Stick it down. Trust the flow. More is coming. Always.

Field Guide Rule #20: Better spent than stashed—spend now, trust and save space for the unexpected gift.

​Lake George. Stunning, pristine, an Adirondack jewel, strutting its stuff like a blue-green supermodel. Chris grew up here, spending childhood summers on or around the lake. Me? I grew up in the high desert they call Denver. No lakes, no boating summers, no boating DNA. Translation: I don’t drive the boat. My role on Lake George is simple: passenger princess with snacks extraordinaire.

We arrived and said hello to his mom then began the ritual of removing the covers and getting the Cobalt dream boat voyage ready. Launching without a hitch, soaking up the rays and the post card worthy scene unfolding. Glorious! About ten minutes into our voyage toward the Narrows--BEEP BEEP BEEP—loud warning alarms shattered the serenity. We limped to Boats by George, where his loyal techs plugged in and tried decoding the electronic tantrum. Not so easy. More time would be needed. So Mr. George himself chauffeured us—in his brand-new Jeep Wagoneer (NICE, leather still smelling like money)—back to mom’s. Nothing like a chauffeur named George to complete your day of busted best ever boat day expectations.

As if that weren’t enough, we reloaded the cooler into the car, only to find--click, nothing. Dead battery. After a few frantic calls, we secured a ride for the fifty minute trip home with a very nice and chatty Uber driver. After calls to the dealer and online research, the vehicle verdict: faulty tender. This particular car hadn’t been driven in months, and apparently the fancy “battery tender” was more like a “battery quitter.”  Solution: good old fashioned jumpstart, tomorrow. In the meantime, how's Chris? Frazzled, pissed, muttering like a man personally betrayed by machinery. Me? Calm as a cucumber spa retreat, sipping my imaginary mocktail. Because here’s the truth: when it isn’t your responsibility—when the mechanical failure isn’t yours to fix—it’s a helluva lot easier to stay chill.

Field Guide Rule #42: If you don’t use it, you lose it—or pay the price for re-entry. Applies equally to boats, cars, concerts, vacations, weddings and sometimes expectations.

Mechanical failures I could shrug off. Emotional expectations? Not so easy. A few days later, my mother broke the news: she wasn’t well enough for the big road trip I’d been planning for her 80th and my 60th birthdays. A once-in-a-lifetime adventure: driving from Colorado to Wyoming, re-connecting with her longtime friend Nancy at the family's ranch outside Cody—ranch house chic hospitality at its finest. A few private special nites at a bed and breakfast in town to facilitate... wait for it, the big one: attending the annual Wild West Arts Fest and Buffalo Bill Art Show, the centerpiece of Cody’s art scene. For Mom, art is her passion, her oxygen, her daily joy (I dig seeing her face as she takes in all the over the top western art!) And on the drive back, we’d stay two nights at the original Old Faithful Inn, revisiting Yellowstone—a place I hadn’t seen since I was twelve, when we made a similar trip and Mom was behind the wheel. This was supposed to be the big adventure stamped in our memory book. Instead, it became another field guide lesson in expectations—plotted, packed, and promised in my head, and that’s exactly where it stayed.

I dreamed it up right after Chris’s dad died suddenly—a wake-up call about family time and intimacy, about not waiting too long with the people we love most. I thought I was being gallant, maybe a little late, but ready to pour my love and attention into making memories. And then—denied. Reality check on aging. Reality check on timing. Reality check on expectations that had been polished until they gleamed like a glass ornament, pretty but breakable.

Ready the crash. Unacknowledged expectations, stacked and simmering all week, finally exploded. The little disappointments—the rose-killer virus, the bashed boat day, the flower-knoshing ravenous deer, the small nagging partner disagreements, the missed magical moments, the frayed nerves—detonated into something bigger. And then the trip cancellation yanked the rug out from under me. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Remember that game from the 70s? The one where you load little straws in each side of the camel’s basket until it collapses? Yeah, that was me. A small argument that morning was the straw. Mom’s cancellation was the basket.

Enter: full-scale meltdown, stage left. A private emotional greatest-hits reel on fast repeat: anger, fury, blame, resentment → disappointment, grief → rinse and repeat. The flow was brutal and fast: “How could they? How dare they? Why me?” I screamed louder, longer, and more guttural than I can ever remember. I grieved all the tender intimate moments I missed, all the caring and support I didn’t experience. Crying, raging, wailing at the world. Beating my chest (okay, maybe just metaphorically, but close). I was the Greek chorus, the banshee, the toddler in Target, and the boat alarm all rolled into one. For a woman who didn’t express emotions for decades, I was having a helluva banner day. Cathartic chaos. Emotional fireworks. Not my proudest moment—but, damn, it was honest and I was alone in the house.

Here’s the twist: I’m proud of myself. It took courage to stare those delusional expectations in the face and let them rip, messy and unfiltered—even if no one else was there to witness it. Yes, the tree falling in the woods makes a sound. And yes, a woman screaming in her living room does too. It took a couple of days to recuperate—emotional hangovers are real, and this one was Olympic-level. It was physically exhausting, like I’d been training for some bizarre CrossFit event called “Expectations Recovery Triathlon.” But in the end, I came out lighter. I didn’t trap those feelings like squatters in my chest. I let them roar, and then I let them go. Practice makes better!
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I’m clearer now: there’s a cycle of emotions that rises whenever expectations are missed. First the anger, then the blame, then the grief. On repeat.

And here’s the bonus: I noticed the pattern. The build-up, the straws, the basket. I can see it now, spot it sooner, and meet it with kindness, openness, and even gratitude. Not by pretending I don’t have expectations, but by noticing them—and my reactions—when they do or don’t come to fruition. The emotional release is astounding. I can loosen their grip, let them flow, and dissolve before they morph into banshee-level meltdowns. That’s progress. Maybe not Instagram-pretty, but deeply human.
Live. Love. Laugh. And let the fuck go.