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I've got a hot idea for a blockbuster sequel.

It's about an average woman who manages to save the world by being all things to all people: Wife, mother, friend, artist, earner, athlete, chef, sex kitten, cleaner, interior decorator, self-actualized spiritual guide - you name it, our heroine does it. The title, in case you haven't figured it out yet, is Superwoman Returns - and it's coming to a theatre near you.

That's right, Superwoman is back. Just when you thought she'd retired her cape and spike-heeled designer boots, that pulled-together, working-mother-with-a-social-conscience-and-impossibly-great-hair has returned to show us all up once and for all. Unlike the last time, she is not going to give up and move to the suburbs. The new Superwoman is hot, hip, defiantly downtown and eco-friendly. To head off the bad press sparked by her last attempt to make the universe perfect, she even has some character "quirks" that make her seem more "real."

(For instance, she admits to having struggled with postpartum depression in the three weeks before returning to work after her third, smokes a cheeky cigarette once in a while and - Wait! Is that a laugh line on her brow? No injections for this chemical-free nouveau boho - the wrinkles on her face are a road map of her past, which has been incredibly fulfilling, thank you very much.)

The new Superwoman is just like you or me, except that she's way better at everything. Forget the shoulder-padded, gym-slaving, working mom of yesteryear - this is a woman you actually want to be but, of course, never will. The only thing she has in common with her predecessor is her breathtaking talent for making the rest of us feel bad. Which we do. Because we're women.

I knew something was afoot last Sunday night, when I was scarfing cheese doodles and watching Kate Winslet accept her second Golden Globe of the night. Observing Winslet's new arm sinew and detoxified glow, I suddenly remembered I was supposed to be on a cleanse (a.k.a. diet).

My girlfriend from Toronto (who, unlike me, happens to be an incredibly busy mother, wife and successful magazine editor) had e-mailed me earlier in the week extolling the virtues of a new cleansing "system" she had been reading about. "I know you love a good January cleanse," she wrote. "Too bad you're not here so we could suffer together."

I wrote back immediately, vowing to eat brown rice and kale with her for 21 days, tracking our daily progress together online. No alcohol, no caffeine, but think of how gorgeous our colons would be! For five minutes I was very excited. Then I forgot all about it.

But Gwyneth Paltrow is cleansing. I know this because I occasionally amuse/punish myself by reading her weekly blog Goop, which could also be called Diary of an Unapologetic Superwoman. It's full of all sorts of unintentionally hilarious tips on how to "nourish your inner space" by eliminating white foods, pairing hot pink tights with a black mini-dress and "embracing the Kabbalistic view of families."

It's easy to roll your eyes at Gwyneth and Kate, with their self-consciously constructed I'm-just-such-a-regular-gal personas. Even more annoying is Caroline Kennedy, who, in her U.S. Senate bid, typifies the late-stage incarnation of the new Superwoman. A former member of the opt-out generation that eschewed the workplace in favour of full-time motherhood, Kennedy is now using her privilege to opt back in, proving that even traditional soccer moms, provided they're famous and well-connected, might eventually "have it all."

The real difficulty is in imagining how these Superwomen can possibly find enough time to do all the things they apparently do. Is it really possible to host a cooking show, run a website, work out with a trainer for two hours a day, do the cooking, spend quality time with your kids, be happily married to a rock singer, constantly update your wardrobe and be an A-list movie star?

According to Gwyneth, it's not just possible, it's a balm to the soul.

The reality, of course, is that any woman attempting this in real life would end up certifiably insane, uncontrollably bitchy, in need of serious medication or all of the above - which more or less describes the protagonist of my favourite new TV show, The United States of Tara, set to air Monday on the Movie Network.

Written by the only ex-stripper we know of to win a screenwriting Oscar, Diablo Cody of Juno fame, it follows the story of a suburban mom (Toni Collette) with one major flaw - she has three other personalities. Judging by the first episode, the show is the logical conclusion of the Superwoman myth. Tara's tendency to flip from biker dude to teenage beeyatch to Betty Crocker homemaker is a clever illustration of why it's impossible - even brain breaking - to be all things to all people. Now there's a lesson every aspiring Superwoman should heed.

Well, that's my un-Kabbalistic view for the week. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to the kitchen to eat some white stuff. Even real women have got to nourish their inner space.

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