So last week some girlfriends and I went to see "The Holiday," one of these cheesy romantic comedies where sad good looking English girl Kate Winslet switches houses and lives with sad good looking California girl Cameron Diaz. In between surreptitiously crying, we all scoffed at the "unreality" of the movie: in one series of scenes, Cameron Diaz' character, finding herself well and alone in her flannel PJs in Kate's english cottage, a) puts on the Killers at top volume, dances around and sings, b) talks to the dog and plays Simon Says with the dog, c) checks her split ends and d) talks to herself about various topics. "How unrealistic," we scoffed to each other. "Who does that? Who dances around their house alone to music and talks to themselves?!"

It's a sunny Saturday afternoon and I'm trying to get the house clean and the chores done so I can get out there and enjoy the sun. Two minutes ago, I stopped dead when I realized I was was folding laundry in my flannel PJs, with my "Motown Sound" CD cranked loud, and I was, shamefully: a) dancing, at various times with my cat, b) singing "This Old Heart of Mine" at the top of my lungs to aforementioned cat ("I looove youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu, yes I doooooo", and c) taking a break after each pair of socks folded to check my cuticles.

Um. Yes. Perhaps art (or commercial releases aimed at women aged 18-45) does imitate life? Perfect! In that case, I'm looking very much forward to what happens next, when in 10 minutes or so a drunken Jude Law knocks on my door and asks to come in for a brandy.

I guess I'd better go brush my teeth.