Posts Filed Under Stop acting like an asshat and I’ll stop judging you.

I have an idea: Let’s stop telling women how to give birth

by Janelle Hanchett

I recently read an article cleverly titled “You should get an epidural” (I know, I know I should have stopped there) that told a story about some “natural birther” who was rude to the writer in a grocery store. Apparently she asked the writer – WHILST STANDING IN A CHECKOUT LINE – how she planned on giving birth then shamed her for wanting an epidural. This is almost unbelievable in its fucked-upedness (yeah that’s a word).

Who the hell would do that? I’d like some stranger to ask me when I was visibly pregnant “how I planned on giving birth.” I’d be like, “On your face, asshole,” and leave.

But that’s irrelevant. The point here is that in response to her outrage at being told how she should give birth, she wrote an article telling women how they should give birth.

Because this is how we do in the interwebz.

Why god WHY?

She implies that women who want unmedicated birth are trying to “win” something and attempts to discredit the real and valid reasons people opt for unmedicated births by bolstering the benefits of epidural and invalidating the “science” stating that epidurals “slow down labor” with the words “but I’ve talked to a few doctors who say it speeds it up!”


Can we all please stop making shit up at random and calling it “evidence?”

Yes, that includes you, lady on the internet who declared that not leaving the placenta attached until it falls off on its own is an act of “violence.”

Yes, I read that. I read an actual human writing those actual words. I can only imagine how fun she is at dinner parties:

Non-Violent Placenta lady: “Oh! You just had a baby. What, pray tell, did you do with the placenta?”

Normal person: “Well I cut the cord and the doctor like, took it away.”

Aghast and appalled, Non-Violent Placenta Lady breaks down weeping right there next to the triple-cream brie.

I have an idea: Somewhere between one must let the placenta fall off untouched in soft moonlight and a choir of angels and FUCK THESE ANTI-EPIDURAL MARTYRDOM WANNABE HEROES is the land of Not Being a Dick.

Also known as, informing yourself and doing what is best for you and your baby and body and family.

Also known as, not caring how strangers birth their babies.

Also known as: Not being a dick.

Always, we’re back there. It’s like Oz. All roads lead to it.

This seems so reasonable, and yet, the nonsense prevails. We pick and choose data and statistics and studies. And we all know how I feel about those. We strategically ignore and omit and focus on this information over that information to prove our points and back our game.

There are valid and real and intelligent reasons to opt FOR and AGAINST epidurals.

And yet, rather than treating both options as sound decisions, there are actual people CRUSADING for and against the use of epidurals. Straight up ON A MISSION. People arguing that all women should have medication. People arguing that all women should have homebirths. To me, they’re all missing the fucking point.

Everybody keeps talking about women’s empowerment by demanding women do things THEIR way.

Am I the only one who sees a problem here?


Look, I gave birth four times, each time without an epidural and twice at home. Yes, I wanted a birth without an epidural, and yes, I wanted that adamantly, for myself. Not for you. I truly could not care less how you have your baby. In fact I can’t really think of anything that affects me less than how strangers have their babies.

I wanted births without epidurals because I am a control freak and wanted as much power over my body as physically possible. I wanted to move freely and birth how I wanted. I was MORE afraid of losing that power than I was of the pain of childbirth. Of course I do not looooooooove the pain, and I certainly didn’t “dance my baby out” (some hippie suggested I do that), and I may or may not have wanted to kick (gently! I love you!) my midwife on account of her infinitely soothing voice, but I was not really concerned about the pain.

Not because I am a martyr. Not because I believe Eve must be punished for her sins. Not because I’m anti-feminist and not because I hate doctors and not because I think YOU should do it. That’s just my preference.

Wait. Seriously, stop calling me a fucking martyr. I am not a martyr. Martyrs are heroes. I am not a hero. What am I fighting for? WOMEN ACROSS THE LAND?

Stop. There is nothing “heroic” about my choice. I was not particularly brave and I was not impressive and I was not trying to “prove a point” and I am not anti-epidural.

Which brings me to my next point: Having an epidural is not cowardly, unnatural, or un-“womanly” (whatever the fuck that means). In the past, I have used the term “natural” to describe “unmedicated.” I don’t do that anymore. It’s a loaded term. I apologize for not realizing that sooner. (On that, the writer of the article and I agree.)

To me, we’re all brave. And I don’t mean that in some cute woo-woo way. I mean it truthfully: We face a thing we are a little (or a lot) afraid of. All of us have grown up in a culture of fear surrounding childbirth. How that manifests in each of us will be unique, but universally, we face the unknown. Whether through surgery or birth at home or in a hospital, we face something infinitely new, with stakes higher than anything we’ve ever faced. And we have no choice. We walk in. We handle it.

That is bravery.

I felt safest with the littlest intervention as possible.

We get to define that for ourselves.

All this shit-slinging about choices is nothing more than self-righteousness masquerading as “helpfulness.” It’s not about other women. It’s not about new moms. It’s about THEMSELVES. It’s about their own damn choices. It’s about pretentiousness and insecurity.

Fun fact: People secure in their choices do not feel compelled to run around screaming how other people should be like them.

Oh, and BTW. If you’ve never had a child: Shut the hell up with your demands on my vagina/uterus/offspring. No, really. Shut the actual fuck up. Nobody cares.

I see people who made choices like mine treating women who get epidurals or planned caesareans as some sort of strange subspecies that barely loves their children let alone possesses the spiritual depth necessary to raise them. They act as if Ina May Gaskin is THE GODDESS of motherhood and we all must embrace her or die alone in parental wasteland.

Perhaps I’m overshooting the mark a tiny bit, but seriously.

You know what? Yes. I believe our maternal healthcare system is pretty fucked, and I believe it needs to change. But that will not happen by running around spewing orgasmic birth as The Only Way.

We have one job. We know what it is.


You know what I want? Women to have equal access to information and education to make informed choices that work for them. I want women to have doctors and midwives who explain the pros and cons of choices openly and honestly, treating women like they have brains in addition to vaginas. (I know, revolutionary.) I want women to be treated like humans, not cute little pets. I want women to be respected, validated, and heard. I want women to be the central player in the birth of their babies.

I want women to have POWER, however they define it.



We’re all warriors here. We can own that.


let’s be real: it’s all about the fucking newborn breath. omg newborns. I NEED ANOTHER BABY.

Can we all agree to teach our kids some freaking manners?

by Janelle Hanchett

In most ways, I don’t really care how you raise your special snowflake. You probably don’t care how I raise mine. Go to church, don’t. Bottle feed breastfeed play soccer play video games eat organic eat McDonald’s be a vegan. Be Amanda Chantal No-Bacon Bacon. Whatever. I don’t care. I may talk a little shit about you on the internet, but these things do not affect me and I wish you all the best with your maca powder and activated cashews.

But can we all please, as parents, agree on a few things in the interest of creating a decent community?

Despite social media feeds claiming otherwise, parents can’t create perfection. We don’t have the power to save our kids from their fatal flaws, from the mistakes they’ll make to learn critical lessons, from heartbreak and breaking hearts and doing really stupid shit in their 20s. We can try. We can do our best to help them learn, but they are who they are and they will have what I like to call: Super Unfortunate Features.

This is a daunting reality. I hate this. It hurts. I watch my kids with certain personality situations and think, “Wow, that’s going to make life hard for them if they don’t knock that shit off,” and I tell them everything I know, and I let natural consequences happen to help them learn – I do everything I can – but on some level, kids are who they are and we can’t “fix” them into a No-Problem-Ever version.

I hate not having this control. I hate feeling powerless over the fact that my kids are going to grow into the humans they were meant to become, and some of us were meant to drop acid in Honduras when we’re fifteen. NOT THAT I DID THAT.

Anywho, since we don’t have omnipotent powers, it confuses me when parents don’t take advantage of the few things we have control over, such as, for example, COMMON DECENCY.


Basic kindness.

Not being a dick.

This is not hard. This is easy. This is like one area of parenting that isn’t complex and confusing and yet, not all parents do it.  Why? This is the “gimme” of parenting. The low-hanging fruit. The freebie.


And yet, so many assholes on the playground.

Here. Fine. Maybe we do something like this, all of us, every parent in America: “Hey kid. Don’t insult the way people eat, look, dress, or talk. Say ‘thank you’ when somebody gives you a gift.”

We could just start there and see what happens.

Is that hard? It doesn’t seem hard. And yet my kids are bombarded by kids with the manners of drunk uncles talking politics on Christmas.

My kid gets called all kinds of names, gets her lunch made fun pretty much daily, is terrified to wear anything “not pretty” because people “will make fun of her.” One of my other kids gave a “friend” from another class a Valentine and the kid in question scoffed and threw it side, asking, “Why are there only TWO candies?” My kid came home humiliated. I won’t even go into the shit my 14-year-old hears in junior high.

My kids are not perfect. They are annoying as hell sometimes. Especially in hotel rooms. They all have their “special features” that make me, on occasion, want to pummel them. Gently. Just a little.

But they have manners and know how to treat people with basic kindness because THIS IS A BASIC FUNCTION OF BEING A BASIC HUMAN and frankly we have “BASIC HUMAN” NAILED.

Basic human is my bitch.

Is it yours?

If not, why not? Why does it not matter to raise a human that functions on a  vaguely pleasant level with other humans? How the hell does a 10-year-old not know that when somebody hands you something pleasant, you say THANK YOU?

God almighty.

The other day my 5-year-old asked me about my belly. Something super subtle like, “Why is it so big?” It was an innocent observation, but still kind of a dick move, so, as her mother, I realized – like a fucking genius – that it’s my job to teach her something.

So I answered, “Because I have fat. But we don’t comment on other people’s bodies, honey. It’s rude.”

BOOM. IN THE BAG. Parenting goals. I walked outta that room like a superhero, teaching manners like a motherfucking ninja.

Do ninjas teach manners? Probably not. Sorry. I’m mixing my similes.

A few days later, somebody called her “fat” at school and told her they “hate” her pants.

Would you walk up to somebody and say, “Your pants are stupid. I hate them.”?

 Or, “Your lunch is disgusting!”

I didn’t think so.

(And if you would, please stop reading. We’re done here.)


Clearly not everybody is doing their part here. Why have kids if you aren’t willing to help them grow into basically kind people? Why have kids if you aren’t interested in showing them how to not be assholes. 

You know the rest of us have to live with your offspring, right?

We have to share a planet with your tiny snowflake and if your tiny snowflake is a dick, nobody will like your snowflake. Someday, somebody may punch your snowflake in its snowy mouth.

But you know, all hypothetical empty threats aside, sometimes I wonder if our world has just become a giant cluster of humans scrambling to get on top. Like I wonder if parents are purposely letting their kids be assholes so they will be the bully instead of the bullied. Or maybe they’re mean to their kids. Or insult the way yet look. I don’t know. Something is wrong. It’s getting Lord of The Flies up in here.

It often feels like we do our best to raise decent kids and then we send them off into a world devoted to beating that decency out of them.

And that’s why I’m writing this. We have to work together to stop raising tiny rude people.

Or at least, fewer.

For community. For the future. For America! Raise a kid you wouldn’t mind working with. Standing next to in the DMV. Serving dinner to. Engaging with ever in any circumstances.



I just have a few questions for Amanda Chantal Bacon

by Janelle Hanchett

So, Amanda. I read your article in Elle about what you eat every day and I just wanted to thank you for offering so many creative and reasonable ideas for my working class family of six.

I can’t wait to announce to my children that we will be eating bee pollen for breakfast tomorrow after meditating and doing a 23-minute breath set.

Wanted to ask you though, what exactly is a “breath set?” And why 23-minutes? Are you breathing in a special way for 23 minutes? Why not 24? Or 22? I fear my 14-year-old, being something of a skeptic, may wonder why the fuck we’re doing a breathing thing for precisely 23 minutes. I’m sure you have your reasons though. Your eyes and draping white linen shoulder wraps tell me you are very, very deep. I’m sure you’ve “done your homework” with your “go-to yoga” teacher over there in Venice, appropriating Eastern spirituality like a motherfucker!

I try. But I live in a central valley town with a bunch of working-class people. It’s so hard to find enlightened people here. I have to really seek out people eating maca doing Kundalini yoga in head-wraps (I noticed them on your yoga place’s website. Can I get one on Etsy?).

I wish I were you. I’ll just follow you on Instagram and yearn.

I’m so glad you mentioned that you drink your “morning chi drink” “in the car!” That really leveled the playing field between you and me, made you so accessible and real. I’ll admit, I felt a little distant when you mentioned cordyceps, reishi, maca, and Shilajit resin, because, you see (I’m ashamed to admit), I’ve never seen those things at Costco and thought for a second maybe you and I aren’t the same, but when I found out you too consume beverages in the car, I realized you’re just another busy mom like me, trying to balance it all while achieving enlightenment through white New Age classism.

What a leader you are!

A light in a dark world. In fact, in that photo of you, the light seemed to actually go through you, as if you were an angel. Are you an angel? Or maybe you are in fact, MOON DUST. Like the name of your juice bar. Moon Juice by the woman made of Dust. OMG how CUTE!

I bet you have hundreds of thousands of followers on Instagram. You’re so inspirational. Whenever I’m in doubt, I’m going to gaze at your bright face and know how good life could be for me, if I could just figure out how to spend $700/day on “seaweed salad with micro cilantro and daikon, and a delicate broth of mushrooms and herbs.”

I tend to eat chicken for dinner.

I should probably be put to sleep.

Also, yesterday, I let my 20-month-old eat Skittles in his high chair so I could take a shower in peace. I never do that. Usually I feed him blueberries, his favorite thing. Have you heard of them? Excessively pedestrian food, I know, but still, he likes them.

Anyway I didn’t have any blueberries, so I let him eat Skittles. Lots of red dye. I feel terribly guilty now. You would never do that, would you, Amanda? Do you think there’s still hope for me? Do you think if I really work hard I can eat zucchini ribbons and pine nuts as an actual meal as opposed to a side-dish of questionable validity?

Which reminds me, what’s your sweet little Rohan’s favorite food? I mean, when he’s not requesting vegan restaurants on Abbot Kinney in Venice, what does he like to eat?

Activated cashews? What about regular ones? Do non-activated cashews count? DO NON-ACTIVATED CASHEWS HAVE ANY PLACE ON THE PLANET AT ALL?

You’re such a wealth of knowledge, Amanda!

You also mentioned that “your version of a taco” is “a nori roll with umeboshi paste, avocado, cultured sea vegetables, and pea sprouts.” This confuses me a little, because where I come from, a taco involves a tortilla, and some sort of meat. Have you ever had tacos al pastor? Asada? I guess not. But then again, your version is “probiotic-rich with the cultured veggies, and deeply mineralizing thanks to the sea vegetables.”

Well, shoot. Guess that means no more carnitas for me. But wait.

Have you ever been to a taco truck? You say your seaweed taco is “deeply satiating” but I fear perhaps you haven’t experienced “satiating” on the level I have. Have you ever had some tacos al pastor with corn tortillas and onion and cilantro and lime on top, sold right there out of the truck?

I just don’t see how pea sprouts can ever compete with motherfucking carnitas, Amanda. HAVE YOU EVER HAD A FUCKING TACO TRUCK TACO BECAUSE I FEAR YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT WE’RE DEALING WITH HERE WHEN WE TALK ABOUT TACOS.


I get carried away. I love tacos.

I’m okay now.

Alright, so, now that I know how smart enlightened rich white millennial females in Los Angeles eat, I can move forward with my life in a remarkably more productive and healthy and spiritually sound way.

Big thanks to you and Elle magazine for really having your finger on the pulse of what matters. Really right at the heart of relevance here. No other magazines are posting your daily regime. Why? Because they don’t know what matters.

One more thing though: Did you notice your last name is “Bacon?”

You might want to check that out.


Sorry. Again. I think my mind is a little whacky from the boxed brownies I ate yesterday during the Superbowl. I think I could actually feel myself getting less intelligent as each processed butter-laden sugar ball entered my bloodstream.

Maybe I’ll make some chia almond pudding with my kid instead, to be like you, and feel hope.

Activated cashews, delicate hands, and copper cups for all!



Here we go again, Internet, with your damn Zuckerberg thing. Are you even trying?

by Janelle Hanchett

Heyyyy internet, hi. We need to talk. Again. I thought you were getting better, but you’re not. It’s like you’re not even trying.

Mark fucking Zuckerberg is not going to give 4.5 million shares to 100 Facebook users tonight at midnight. He just isn’t. Why? Because that’s the fucking stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

Why is that not enough for you? Why is total implausibility not enough for you to scratch your head EVEN FOR A MINUTE before posting that crap with some sort of cute and hopeful emoticon?

Why don’t you see something like that and ask yourself, “Well now, that’s odd. Why would Mr. Zuckerberg do that?”

What do you think? Zuckerberg’s chillin’ at home with his wife and baby Max when suddenly, the thought comes to him: You know what we should do? We should give away 4.5 million Facebook shares to random people but only if they copy and paste a certain status update and I won’t have it come from me I’ll just have it originate in nowhere and I’ll set an arbitrary deadline of tonight at midnight because I NEVER REALLY LIKED MY MONEY ANYWAY.

Wow. Yes. That seems legit.

If that’s not enough to help you realize it’s bullshit, maybe ask yourself: Wouldn’t this be an official Facebook announcement rather than some random ass post using multiple exclamation marks and declaring it is REAL?

Hint: If something has to announce “I AM REAL,” it probably isn’t. Unless it’s an emergency fire announcement. If it’s an emergency announcement with the words “This is not a test,” get the fuck off Facebook and out of the building. Use the stairs.

I mean at least it would be announced on TV like the golden tickets in Willy Wonka. Obviously. Jesus.

And if complete implausibility and multiple exclamation points and unverified sources aren’t enough, how the hell does “THIS IS REAL IT WAS ON GOOD MORNING AMERICA” not throw you over the motherfucking edge? That’s like funny. That’s like trolling. Your ass is getting trolled at that point.


Internet. Where is your healthy skepticism?

Look. I know it’s hard. I was a kid in the 80s, when they used to send these things to houses announcing you had won $1,000,000 or some shit, and holy mother it looked real. I remember getting the mail in 2nd or 3rd grade and seeing it there from Publishers Clearinghouse (may they rot in the 5th circle of hell for all eternity), reading it over and over again as my heart started pounding more and more. I looked for the part that said “You just have to do this one thing to get the money,” but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t there! We had won for sure! It was for sure real!


I called my mom on one of those dialing telephones with the thing that you spin with numbers on it and told her our troubles were over. Because she’s an angel from on high, she didn’t even laugh, but rather coolly informed me “Honey, that isn’t real. It’s this thing they do to get you to subscribe to something. Sorry, sweetie.”

I only felt 9-15% naïve and pathetic. The rest turned into a healthy rage and determination to NEVER GET HOODWINKED BY DICKS AGAIN.

Where were you in the 80s? Does your mother not love you? Why didn’t anybody teach you about all the evil manipulators trying to play you for a fool? They are everywhere, man. Everywhere.

Car salespeople, Donald Trump, most teenagers, your toddler.


You have got to realize that nobody is going to hand you money or ecstasy (even on Halloween) or both unless you happen to be walking by when an ecstasy dealer is getting arrested.

Are you doing that? No. I didn’t think so.

So stop it.

Likewise, nobody is going to randomly distribute business shares just for funsies. That’s not fun for them. Nobody likes that.

Work with me here. Please try.

And look, if the aforementioned logical deconstruction of interweb nonsense is too much of a time commitment, JUST GOOGLE THE GODDAMN THING IN QUESTION AND LEARN INSTANTLY THAT IT IS NOT REAL.

Snopes is your friend. Hold Snopes like a precious tiny kitten. Cradle it in the crook of your arm and stroke its motherfucking forehead.

Please try. Why won’t you even try?

You’re better than this. Your mother told me. She does love you, or she would if you’d stop believing everything you see on the fucking internet.

Except this. This is real. It was on Good Morning America:



Dear Internet: Nobody’s going to put Ecstasy in your kids’ candy

by Janelle Hanchett

Okay, Internet. We have to talk. Again.

You must knock it right the fuck off with your timely and earnest warnings to “moms and dads” to BE ON THE LOOKOUT for Ecstasy pills that “look like candy” and may be put into their kids’ trick-or-treat bags.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Have you never done Ecstasy?


Okay. Clearly we have different histories. No worries. I’m willing to share. Take a moment to follow me here.

Nobody is going to put Ecstasy in your kids’ fucking Halloween candy.

First, that’s a waste of Ecstasy. Ecstasy is expensive. Nobody gets it so they can dose children. WHERE’S THE FUN IN THAT? The whole point of Ecstasy is to relax in a cuddle puddle of 3-12 dear friends smoking cigarettes, drinking vodka redbull, and expressing deep adoration while stroking each other’s forearms.


No but seriously. Please. Pull it together.

They are also not going to accidentally give it to your kid. Why? Because people with drugs know what they look like. Very, very well. Ever get a Valium prescription? Yeah. That shit’s nice, right?

Would you ever confuse your Valium pills with Sweet Tarts and hand them to a tiny lion on your doorstep?

No. Of course you wouldn’t.


Furthermore, people with illicit substances know where they are located AT ALL TIMES and therefore will never, ever have this happen:

Jane: “Honey, where’s the ecstasy we were going to take tonight?”
Bill: “Oh, shoot. Well sweetie I just don’t know. I brought it in from the car with the Lysol cleaning wipes and put them somewhere but it’s totally slipped my mind!”
Jane: “Darn! Well we need some candy for trick-or-treaters.”
Bill: “Let me look in the pantry……here…”(Comes back with Ecstasy pills). “Hand these out!”

Look. I get it. You were busy building a foundation for life while I spent time gazing into the eyes of my new girlfriend and dancing with glow-sticks. We all have our paths.

But still. There’s no excuse for this sort of fear-mongering weirdness. We don’t just get to MAKE SHIT UP to worry about. We can’t just invent things to post on Facebook because it’s fun to have The Super Critical Safety Message.

You know what I’ve found?

People are generally good. People generally do not want to maim my children or dupe them into taking psychedelics.

People in general want to smile at their costumes and hand them a Kit Kat bar, without even a razor in it.

People are generally good.

Even the monsters with Ecstasy.


Our general approach. ya?

P.S. I don’t do drugs. I don’t even drink. I did however take a boatload of substances for 10 or so short years there in my 20s. Unless my kids are reading this in which case I did not. In fact this isn’t even Janelle have a nice day bye.