I saw the original Pitch Perfect on a spring afternoon, taking advantage of a day off work and a child in daycare to indulge in some solo popcorn-eating and foot-tapping in the darkness of a movie theater–one of this introvert’s favorite refuges. Now that this introvert is a mother of two, I watch movies in thirty-minute increments via On Demand from the “refuge” of my bed–a decidedly less interruption-free zone than that inviting theater. Perhaps this is why I so enjoy the movie trailers that I watch on my phone these days during nursing sessions or in stolen/guilt-ridden moments on the playground. Recently I viewed the trailer for the sequel to Pitch Perfect, aptly named Pitch Perfect 2. While making sure my son didn’t jump from a two-story play structure, I laughed at some of the jokes, marveled at Rebel Wilson’s bangs, and admired footage from the big number: a rendition of Beyonce’s “Girls Rule the World”. Then the baby squealed from the stroller, the preschooler whined from the slide, and I thought sardonically, “Oh, girls rule the world, do they? Well, no wonder we’re so tired.”

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I have always beheld celebrity culture with a varying mixture of admiration and disdain, and both of those reactions are kicked into high gear during January and February, or what the industry regards as the culmination of awards season.

Just as the divinely-drenched (or -devoid, depending on preference) holiday weeks come to an end, Hollywood begins a series of convocations at hotels, theaters, and convention centers (and one attempt at beach-swept nonchalance) aimed at recognizing and rewarding the creative entities behind film and television. In other words, they congratulate themselves for all they’ve accomplished over the past year, and we common folk perch in front of our TVs, audience members yet again, to take in the spectacle of fashion and speeches and gaffes (oh my!) so we can turn around and critique their clothes, judge their sincerity, or–if you’re my husband–ask, “Who is that and what has she been in?”

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I once was a fan of New Year’s resolutions–made a list (also a huge fan of lists!) every year. Every year, that is, until grace invaded my life and wiped the sheen off all my self-improvement projects. Now I’m more accepting of my constant work-in-progress state of being and the hand-in-hand partnership between my submission and God’s plan.

But if I had considered such a list twelve months ago, it would have been brief and it would have gone like this: Make 2014 less sucky than 2013.

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Not often do I get the opportunity to quote my dad on matters other than Alabama football and Fox News, but lately I’ve been turning over in my head two of his favorite axioms: Life isn’t fair and Everybody just CALM DOWN!

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The first time I gave birth nearly three years ago, it knocked me off my feet in every way possible: physically, mentally, emotionally. A few weeks in, my husband and I were sitting on the couch, staring at each other with sleep-deprived eyes, and I burst into tears. His glazed eyes widened–my emotional avalanche was apropos of nothing. And yet…everything.

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I engaged in a Facebook fight recently. This hasn’t happened in a while. I try to avoid commenting on the status updates and posts that particularly (and regularly) annoy me–not so much out of a sense of honor as an awareness that my blood pressure can’t take it. But when I read a comment posted underneath a friend’s status update–a comment that appeared to defend prosperity preachers and minimize the evil of ISIS in one fell swoop–I couldn’t help myself. I loaded up my verbal ammunition and fired.

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A couple of weeks ago I escaped the summer heat and ducked into a local small theater to catch a screening of Richard Linklater’s latest, Boyhood. My motivation was multi-fold: my two-year-old is in daycare; I am currently ninety-seven weeks pregnant and my favorite activity is sitting still; and, with a newborn arriving imminently, I have surrendered to the reality that I will not see a movie in a theater for another decade. In addition, I had noted the 99% Rotten Tomatoes approval rating for the film, added my partiality for Linklater’s entire oeuvre (especially Dazed and Confused and the Before Sunset trilogy), carried the one, then thrown in perhaps the biggest draw of all: a growing urge for knowledge about boys.

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I don’t remember the first time I heard Joan Rivers crack a joke, but I’m pretty sure I remember my reaction: shock. And asking whether women were allowed to talk like that–whether people were allowed to talk like that. And, over time, a deepening appreciation for the no-holds-barred humor that perfused everything she ever did.

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A few months ago, I wrote here about our society’s inclination toward hero-worship, especially when it comes to celebrities. A fine line exists between admiration and deification these days, and nowhere is that line more apparent than in the countless acknowledgments this past week of Robin Williams’ death. For my part, I can admit that it hit me like a ton of bricks when I read the news on Twitter: RIP, Robin WIlliams, in black and white and fewer than 140 characters. I think I even shook my head, standing there alone, and called out to my husband as I hoped for a hoax.

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courtesy billboard.com

Jenny Lewis’s latest album, The Voyager, dropped this week, but the video for the single “Just One of the Guys” was already making internet waves due to the inclusion–in drag, no less–of actresses Kristen Stewart, Anne Hathaway, and Brie Larson. I walked away from my four minutes at the screen feeling that Lewis had tapped into something pivotal and subversive about how we see gender.

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