My grandather, Marvin, has half a dozen friends that go by “Buddy.” Not a one, I’d venture to guess, has the name “Buddy” on his birth certificate.  But there they all are: Buddys, every one.  A whole generation with just one nickname.


Ashkenazic tradition dictates that Jewish babies be named after a recently deceased relative. It is in this way that I got my name, Marni.

I’m named after my paternal great-grandfather, Mike. A man my father knew as Poppy Mike. A man my father loved.

“I wish you could have known him,” my father says to me. “You would have loved him.” And, as an afterthought, “he would have really loved you.”

Mike, I realize, sounds nothing like Marni. But Mike’s Hebrew name, Yitzhak, means laughter. And my name, Marni, means rejoice. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, decided that joy and laughter were pretty much one in the same and called it a day.

There’s something profound in that equation. Laughter = joy. A life without laughter is a life without joy.

And so I was named Marni. Rejoice! A name prone to mispronunciations and misspellings. Marny and Marnie and Marnee and Marie and once, Marini. I had a boss who called me Marini. She had it printed on my nametag. I continued to answer to “Marini” for weeks, never bothering to correct her.

Sometimes, when children call for their mommy, I think they’re asking for me.


I wasn’t supposed to be named after Mike. Which is to say that my name wasn’t supposed to be Marni. Rather, I was to be named Celeste. And then Poppy Mike died and Celeste became my middle name.

I feel fairly certain that, had I been named Celeste, my life would have been radically different.

Celeste means heavenly and is the name of a willowy blonde. Celeste has delicate ringlets and slender wrists and wears a lot of lace and chiffon. Celeste doesn’t sweat or fart. Celeste is dreamy and gentle and otherworldly. Celeste, I think, would have been pretty. I imagine her, 23 now, in some alternate universe. My beautiful doppelganger. She got the looks and I got the biting wit.

According to the United States Social Security Administration, Celeste was the 437th most popular name the year I was born. It should be noted here that Marni has never been in the top 1000 most popular names.

Celeste Grossman. Can you picture it?


Grossman. Gross Man. Gross, man!

You think you’re so fucking clever.


My mother and father are products of their generation.

In 1955, Deborah was the 2nd most popular name and Debra the 4th most popular. Debbie was 63. My mother entered a world overrun by other Debbies. She even had to contend with the snack maven, Little Debbie. She wasn’t unique. She was one of many.

My father’s name, Jerome, has long since fallen out of favor. 1953 was a different story. #107. Its derivative, Jerry, was #29. These days he’s Jerome Grossman, Esq. And he’s not the only one. Google it. There’s one in every state and at least four in Manhattan and another handful in LA.

But my father is Jerome K. Grossman. The K stands for Kent. The cigarette company. I swear. Scout’s honor.


There’s another Marni Grossman out there. A film and television photographer from Toronto. She has her own website and imdb page. Nearly all our google results are about her. Which shouldn’t make me bitter but does. The other Marni Grossman worked on “Scary Movie 3.”

I know her, actually.

Well, sort of.

When I was seventeen I struck up an internet friendship with her. “Dear Ms. Grossman, this is a strange e-mail to write and an even stranger one to receive. We have the same name.” Something like that.

The other Marni Grossman- Marni Gayle Grossman- is lovely. She’s prodigiously talented. She has two kids. A daughter and a son and a thriving career. She likes hiking and outdoorsy things. She likes the Canadian mountains and grizzly bears. She has something of a hippie-Walden-back-to-nature ethos.

The only thing Marni Gayle and I share is a name.

Over the years, we lost touch. I went to college and she went on shooting Anna Faris and Susan Sarandon.

I’m still the only Marni Celeste Grossman I know. I like it that way.


My grandmother, Myra, had a gold necklace with a large M charm. The M was a large capital letter in block print. She wore it all the time. I remember it vividly. And, when I was small, she’d sit next to me while I took my bath and recite all the family members whose names began with M. “ ‘M,’” she’d say, “is for Myra. And Marvin. And Molly and Mike and Max and Marni!” She’d point to me and I’d squirm with pride and pleasure. M is for Marni, M is for Marni. Marni, Marni, Marni…

Grandma promised me that necklace. But it’s gone now. Misplaced in the passing of years. Somewhere in the haystack of old birthday cards and dated clothing and broken dustbusters. Just underneath that pile of discarded paperbacks and stumps of lipstick. “Oh honey,” Grandma sighed. “I lost that years ago.” Grandma’s M necklace went the way of the Buddies. Into a database kept by the Social Security Administration.  A thin gold needle in the haystack of history.

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Marni holds a B.A. from Vassar in Women's Studies. The degree turned out to be of little practical value, but nonetheless holds a lot of sentimental weight. She's written for BUST, Playgirl, Heeb and Her interests include subverting the patriarchy, reading, and "Law and Order": the Jerry Orbach years. She'd like to know why the inhabitants of the tiny Maine hamlet Cabot Cove so frequently come to violent ends. She'd also like someone to hire her.

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