Melissa Mosley/Columbia Pictures

I try to watch everything. I have always been a pop culture junkie. Looking for my next escapist fix. In junior high school, I created a giant binder devoted to my addiction. My friends would pass it around, “ooohing” and “ahhhing” over the latest news on our favorite celebrities, films, TV shows and such. I pieced together these tidbits from my Entertainment Weekly subscription and various teen rags I picked up at the local magazine rack.

I tell you this so you’ll understand when I confess an awful truth. I just saw Superbad. And I liked it.

The film arrived ever mysteriously via my Netflix hook-up. Netflix has told me all too frequently that I cannot add anymore DVDs to my queue unless I must remove some. But apparently while I was cleaning up my queue, I did not delete Superbad.

While my friends were visiting Los Angeles, the little red Netflix packages arrived bearing gifts: Superbad and American Gangster. After careful thought, we chose the violence and sexual content in American Gangster over the teenage fratboy humor of Superbad. Five of us (my husband bailed to sleep) watched the film together one late night.

I remember watching the violent and sexualized scenes in American Gangster and wondering if anyone else in the room was uncomfortable. Ever since going frum, I have found myself much more sensitive to things that normally wouldn’t have made me bat an eye. (Okay, total lie. I used to cover my own eyes over these types of scenes growing up.)

But I didn’t find myself covering my eyes watching Superbad. Once I managed to get over the hump of the crass teenage boy humor of the film (and there was a lot of it), I found myself actually not wanting to turn the film off. My friends and I had vetoed watching this film together because we were afraid of that its rated R “pervasive crude and sexual content, strong language, drinking, some drug use and a fantasy/comic violent image” wouldn’t sit too well with all of us. But in the end, Superbad surprised.

Underneath layers of, well, crap, there was a soft, doughy center. I found myself smiling at its sweetness. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, “Superbad? Sweet?” Well, yeah. Sure I made some faces about the asinine humor. In fact, I think I made the “teacher face” I had formerly reserved for the eleventh grade boys I used to teach. But in the end, Superbad was really a sweet, little story about a friendship between two boys.

Um, now, don’t go renting it on my account, though? I don’t think Rebbetzins are allowed to endorse Superbad.