I am not a packrat. I am not a packrat.

I've done my work on the bathroom, and have moved to the pantry/utility room. No wallpaper there.

We are prepping these rooms to be painted while we are at the coast next week. I am not running from the work. I like picky little home improvement projects. But Kilz is coming into the picture, and Kilz and Lucy are not compatible.

So rather than killing one little bird with a surfeit of fumes, we'll attend to inventory there, so our renters this summer will have sturdy oven mitts, and better flatware, and such luxuries as should be awarded people who spend $1100 a week on rentals.

But what a mess in the pantry. For some reason, I have at one time held onto every tattered dishtowel and washcloth. I know we need rags. Old towels are necessary so the boys won't use current handtowels to wash their cars. But, really, Janis.

Then there is the collection of cheap bud vases, and every piece of Tupperware that Girl brought over here that belonged to her mother. Then there are excess party dishes. And the handsome '62 chrome Hamilton-Beach stand mixer needs to go to the attic. It wants replacing with a fat machine that is strong enough to knead dough. The little yoghurt maker that Daddy picked up at the flea market when I was in my healthful twenties needs to be trashed, much as I hate to do it, and we just don't have room for the toaster oven. I will keep the Panasonic juicer that I bought in the eighties that hasn't been fired for 20 years -- or maybe I'll try it first. And that stupid, stupid what?

Every other room in the house has been redone in the past ten years. These are past due.

I am not a packrat.

I don't want to hold a garage sale. I want a giveaway. But we know that someone would come snap all that crap up to sell to someone else.

And I need more garbage bags.