A Webby for Debbie?

Leaning into my long-ago retired childhood nickname to let you know some good news. But, like, make it rhyme.

I’ve spent the past two weeks packing up my apartment into boxes for a big move—more on that in my next missive—but in the meantime, I have some wild and wholly unexpected news. I am as surprised as you are to announce that this publication—which I write on my couch, in my bed, and in my favorite IKEA chair—was just nominated for a Webby Award!

I first learned of this honor in the bowels of Kleinfeld’s, where I was accompanying my daughter for her final wedding dress fitting before she graduates med school. How fitting, I thought, to be at that fitting, considering that my daughter’s having saved my life back in 2017 with her calm and quick thinking—when I was bleeding out with vaginal cuff dehiscence and insisting we take Uber Pool to the emergency room because I couldn’t afford an ambulance—was the initial spark for both the book Ladyparts and later this publication. Which, thanks to her as well, I’m still alive to write. (Meanwhile, if any of you live near UIC in Chicago and are in need of a calm and quick-thinking PCP, she’ll be doing her family medicine residency there. Ask for Dr. Sasha Kogan.)

Apparently, the Academy decides who wins in each category, but there’s a parallel contest, in the spirit of the open internet, called the “Webby People’s Voice Award.” You can vote for me here if you feel moved to do so. I’m up against The Onion. I love The Onion, and I have no delusions that my little publication that could, run solely by me, could ever defeat a giant, popular juggernaut produced by many, but we might as well try.

In any case, I’m not yet sure what any of this means. Will I be invited to the ceremony? Can I bring a date? Do I need to buy a new dress or can I just wear the one I’ll be wearing to my daughter’s wedding two days prior and hope I don’t spill anything on it? Will I get to meet fellow nominees Kendrick Lamar, Lady Gaga, Charlie XCX, Gracie Abrams, or Travis Kelce? Will the latter show up with, gulp, Taylor herself? And, if so, will I be bold enough to run up to her to tell her how much her music meant to me during a really hard time not too long ago, or would that be too weird and stalkerish?

Also, for my more technically savvy friends, how do I “embed” things here? The Webby folks sent me an email with a link to a bunch of assets I can embed into this publication to promote the news, but, having gone to college with a typewriter, I don’t know how to do this. Other than to take screenshots of the badges and banners, as I did above, arrange them as best I can using google docs, screenshot that, and then post that as a photo. The only embedding I’ve ever done was in a cave in Afghanistan back in 1989. I don’t have a tech team. It’s just me here on my own, trying to eke out a living, to inform you of stories and studies related to women and our bodies, and to entertain you with personal essays and interviews with doctors and authors because I love writing this, and nearly every day I hear from many of you who appreciate it, too, and this seems like as good a way as any to spend what remains of my years.

Anyway, here’s the part where I ask you to help support this ad-free, newly Webby-nominated work. In college, our cafeteria workers—who were fighting for a livable wage in one of the wealthiest universities on earth—wore buttons on their aprons that said, “You can’t eat prestige.” I’m proud of this Webby nomination, but I can’t eat it. I also can’t afford to keep writing this without a livable wage, never mind hiring anyone else to help me “embed” things one day. I’m getting there, and many of you are helping me get there (thank you!), but I’m definitely not there yet. Only 10% of you actually pay for these words. If you enjoy this publication and want to see it continue long after the Webby Awards ceremony, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. My belly and I both thank you.

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