I dropped the F-Bomb at least 50 times in fifteen seconds. At full volume. Right in the middle of Beverly Hills and right in the middle of the Beverly Hills sign.
Actually, I was slightly behind the Beverly Hills sign, parked, with all the doors of my minivan wide open and whacking my ride to the rhythm of my global, F-Bomb assault with, of all things, a baby towel – a baby towel covered in puke.

I was less than a quarter mile from an important TV audition when my 15 month old unloaded the entire contents of her stomach onto herself and the car seat that she was strapped into. This was not a cute, little baby spit-up, by the way. This vomit was on the order of The Exorcist. The only thing that didn’t come out were her internal organs.

























