“I walk through the playground and little kids I don’t even know slide over towards my legs like little flesh magnets, my big hips their umbrella. Stray cats see me and meow for scraps. Dumb dogs lick my hands. If you know me in real life, you know I’m followed around by a single word, repeated over and over. “Mom. Mom. Mom.”…. Sometimes Hera longs to venture from her hearth for a moment — to go to a movie or maybe even to a bar. She glares at Aprhodite on the television screen. Sighs and flips through a magazine. Skims through a story about some asshole turning some girl to a swan, a lute, or a damned linden tree. Hey, Target’s having a sale on bed sheets tomorrow.
Hera yawns and falls asleep against her throw pillows that smell like the shoes of little boys.”
I know first hand that there are men who adore Hera. Mortal men who think Aphrodite to be as unattainable and insubstantial as a wisp of steam. Who want their goddesses to have substance, gravitas, and hips to rest their eyes on. Who wonder why Hera puts up with Zeus’ antics. Who wish Hera would give a mere mortal a chance. We should form a fan club.