A mermaid moment, Jennifer Love Hewitt and the official “Fat Whore” stamp.

There’s nothing quite like a little domestic cleansing to get that man out of your mind. I just made cumquat marmalade and swept the floor singing “I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair” into the broom handle. Simple satisfaction.

The reason for all this washing, singing and cleaning goes something like this:

Last Saturday saw me at the lake with the new man. (I shall call him Gayef, in honour of his Russian connection and in fitting reference to Chekhov’s character in The Cherry Orchard.) Gayef is that particular kind of man that every good lady has stored away like a pair of broken down knickers, gracelessly thrown to the back of the lingerie draw. Loose elastic at the waist, faded, moth eaten holes in the crotch, saved for those special times of the month, or for a particularly sad day at the office when the all the dirty pretty undies are eyeing you off from a heaped pile in the corner your bedroom.

In times of great physical need Gayef waltzes right back into my life, on cue, with the same great haircut and his desperate woman radar completely tuned to perfection. How does he know? I’m sure his daddy taught him, just like his daddy’s daddy taught his pa before him.

Gayef is rather a sad chap in that he is constantly bored with his own existence, gets his thrills out of pushing people’s buttons and the boundaries of social conventions, and basically staggers through life making enemies and womanising. Just the kind of a-hole I seem to have a well developed palate for.

So into the water we go. Gayef is not a particularly generous character, in any sense of the word, so we have a few awkward moments clambering down some slippery rocks holding hands out of necessity and not affection. We spend a good hour in the water enjoying each other’s velvety limbs and some rather nice kisses. Gayef tells me the water is very becoming to me and I look like a beautiful mermaid. I, like an idiot, get suckered into his one grand moment of creative kindness and convince myself that I have finally melted a little hole onto his thawing heart. We leave the lake, looking slightly less like hitch-hiking buddies and more like Brad and Angelina baby shopping in Cambodia.

You can feel the love, right?

Anyway, to the credit of my eager stupidity, I got a week long kick out of the weekend romancing with the Russian, which continued long into the balmy summer night. This very cheap thrill (did I mention he was tight around the purse strings as well?) gets me through to Tuesday when two news worthy incidents thankfully re-directed my interest back to the world.

Firstly, the release of Mission Australia’s National Youth Survey revealing that out of the 29,000 young people surveyed between the ages of 11-24, their top concern was body image. And secondly, I will admit the headline ‘Jenifer Love Hewitt hits back’ did grab my attention, after images of her holidaying in a bikini were ridiculed on the internet with comments such as, “We know what you ate this summer, Love – everything!”.

Now I’m no Jennifer fan, but I am a well trained tabloid monkey whose eyes are immediately directed to this kind of misogynistic headline. The article infuriated me, Love Hewitt is quoted as saying,

"I've sat by in silence for a long time now about the way women's bodies are constantly scrutinised. To set the record straight, I'm not upset for me, but for all the girls out there that are struggling with their body image. To all girls with butts, boobs, hips and a waist put on a bikini - put it on and stay strong."

Hewitt also wrote on her web site that she is a size 2, is not fat and that a size 0 doesn’t make you beautiful.

Yes, I was riled...

Of course Hewitt has “sat by in silence”. Very few women actually have the strength to stand up for the rest of our sex out of fear that they themselves will come under the watchful eye that scrutinises women’s bodies and women’s actions. It’s easier to just sit there, smile pretty and be thankful that some other less fortunate lady is taking your share of female abuse. And why are we still justifying our bodies according to numerics? Size 2 means you’re safe, but size 14 or 16 throws you into the dangerous territory that makes you susceptible to female ridicule? Have I got the equation right? As for the comment “put on a bikini and stay strong”, I think it speaks for itself really. Didn’t the feminist sisterhood used to call for a hammer to bring the patriarch down, not a bikini?

Well, I must say I was a little cross but perhaps it’s easy to feel this way until it happens to you.

Yes, this is the part where the anti-hero Gayef re-enters this happy scene.

Some mid week romancing takes place, in which after a rather intimate moment, I voice my concerns that “little old me is just gonna end up sad and lonely.” To which the reply comes “Little? You?”, then he grabs my bare buttock, gives it a good shake the way a butcher handles a fine cut of pork and laughs merrily, “how much do you weigh?” And continues with “are you worried that you’re going to be alone because you are such a whore?”

Yep, it’s been approved. I now have the official stamp of “Fat Whore” branded on my brain, stored away for a rainy day of self loathing.

But what I want to know is where do they get these lines? Is there a secret male book entitled “Standard insults to knock ‘em down: how to use female insecurity to get what you want”? I don’t want to group all men together by any means, there are definitely some great men out there that I have had the pleasure of knowing, but then there are those whose only means of interaction with a woman is through humiliation. When are we as a progressive and privileged society going to move away from this negative male-female dynamic?

So, the Russian succeeded in making me feel awful, right down to my curves and bones. To combat this feeling of shit-house-ness I adorned myself in my finest wares, hit the town for some serious eating with a lovely lady friend and took Jen’s advice to heart.

I put on that mini skirt and STAYED STRONG!

Now all that's left to consider is how to behave at the next lunch date with the Russian, scheduled for this week. Perhaps I should order the lobster?