Maybe it's the new calendar on the wall, the new parking sticker in my car or the new lineup of must-see TV. But every year around this time, I get that urge to purge.

I'm talking about getting rid of everything I haven't touched in months. In my closet, on my bookshelves, in my kitchen cabinets, on my hard drive. It's almost an obsession. And yet, even after years of chucking college textbooks and broken watches, I still have more junk than I know what to do with.

How could I have donated stacks of books only to find I still don't have space on my bookshelves? How could I have given garbage bags full of old clothes but still can't fit one more jacket in my closet?

It's a mystery. Like how socks disappear in the wash or your mom calls exactly when you're doing something she wouldn't approve of. Everything in my apartment — from backpacks to body lotions — seems to be multiplying.

Here's the thing: I wouldn't consider myself a pack rat, at least not by obsessive-compulsive disorder standards.

Sure, I may have every report card since preschool and every prom dress I've ever worn, but I refrained from keeping all the cards I've received, papers I've written or "Choose Your Own Adventure" books I've read.

Over the years, I've ditched those ankle-zip jeans, Esprit sweatshirts and Bop magazines featuring River Phoenix. You won't find old lunch boxes or shredded cassette tapes in my closet. And you can actually see the floor of my bedroom.

But I do keep a lot of useless things: collections of rocks, an Aquabats tee that doesn't fit, and all four of my wisdom teeth that were pulled out more than a decade ago. Because, like my ever-practical mom always says, you never know when they'll come in handy. (Well, maybe not the wisdom teeth.)

Still, every January I get in a serious mood to clean up and throw out.

I've always subscribed to the theory that a clean house leads to a clear mind. (Which would explain why, around the holidays, I can't ever find my car keys.) So I make it a point to purge, to go through every drawer, every cabinet, every shelf and decide, "Do I really need this crocheted doily?"

And if you're like me, you get caught up in the cleaning. You open an old shoebox full of photos and, three hours later, you're still reminiscing about that first trip to Vegas.

So what's a pseudo-pack rat with a family history of stockpiling to do?

Take it all to her parents' house and hide the junk in their closet instead.

Reach Catherine E. Toth at ctoth@honoluluadvertiser.com. Read her daily blog at blogs.honoluluadvertiser.com.