I'm exhausted. Today is Monday, so of course that means yesterday was Sunday, which naturally means the weekly Sunday brunch at my house. I can't even remember how or when we started this darn thing, but it is Ka-ray-zee with a capital "K." You never know what's going to happen, who's going to say what, or who will show up with whom.

Everybody brings something, so I don't have to do all of the cooking. It's a big relief, especially since I can't cook. I guess if I did cook one Sunday, that would end the whole tradition once and for all. But even though everyone brings a dish, it's still a lot of people and a lot of cleanup. We have the regulars -- Paula Abdul, Diane Sawyer, Gloria Steinem, Donatella Versace, Ed Begley Jr., and Eminem -- but occasionally someone will bring a guest.

Yesterday Diane Sawyer showed up with Siegfried or Roy (I'm not sure which one). He was wearing something sparkly and kept calling me "darling." He was sweet. One more guest would have been okay except that Paula brought her dry cleaner, who also called me "darling." I don't think a dry cleaner should call me "darling." He should just call me what everyone else calls me: Miss Ellen. He brought Häagen-Dazs (which was completely melted, and you know you can't refreeze that stuff or it gets gross).

Next, Ed walked in with Tara Lipinski, the skater, who was wearing a skating outfit, which I thought was weird. I made a joke, "Oh, I'm sorry, I don't have a rink."

She said, rather flatly, "I'm not skating." Then, after a long silence that made everyone uncomfortable, the dry cleaner asked if he could use my "little girls' room."

So Eminem said, "What are you, a little girl? Are you a little bitch?"

"Em." (I call him "Em." I even call him "Auntie Em," like from the Wizard of Oz, and he laughs -- sometimes.) "Em," I said, "don't start." He went back to pouring his gazpacho into a soup tureen.

Ed apologized for being late and not calling to alert us that he was bringing an extra guest. He didn't think it would be a big deal, not realizing that a few other people would do the same thing, which, in turn, turned it into a big deal. I just don't have the seating to accommodate nine people. I have a table for six and if one extra shows up, we squeeze in. But now three people would have to eat at the coffee table in the next room, which was awkward, like eating at the kids' table at Christmas or Thanksgiving. Who would it be?

Gloria said she would sit in the other room but not with Eminem. (They don't get along.) Ed offered to join Gloria, but no one else offered. I was just about to volunteer when Diane said she would eat at the coffee table, but only if I promised to play darts with her when brunch was over. I knew she'd say that. Diane Sawyer is really good at darts. Like weirdly good. We played once while we were on summer vacation in Scotland and she beat every man at the Hound and Strumpet pub in Glasgow. It was great in retrospect, but at the time, it felt kind of dangerous. Anyway, I was left to sit and eat with Donatella Versace, Siegfried or Roy, Paula Abdul, Paula Abdul's dry cleaner, Tara Lipinski, and Eminem.

For the first twenty minutes we ate in silence, with the exception of the dry cleaner remarking, "This gazpacho is heavenly." He pronounced "gazpacho" with a soft "g," ("jazpacho"), not a hard "g," the way it should be pronounced. I don't care where you're from (and I'm pretty sure he was from Canada), there's no reason you can't get it right.

Every time he said it (I think nine times in twenty minutes), I thought Eminem was going to explode. It was almost as if the dry cleaner was mocking Em's gazpacho -- and it's his special recipe! He brings it every week. After the third or fourth time the dry cleaner said "jazpacho," I said, "It's good gazpacho" saying it correctly with the hard "g," hoping he'd realize his stupid mistake, but he just kept on as if I was saying it wrong. Even Donatella Versace says it right and she says everything wrong.

Well, when conversation finally began to flow, it was not pleasant. It started harmlessly enough with Siegfried or Roy asking why Paula hangs out with her dry cleaner. Were they friends beforehand and now he just happens to dry-clean her clothes? Did they start chatting when she went to pick up her "outfits," as he called them? And if so, why wouldn't her assistant pick up her "outfits"? Paula just stared at Siegfried or Roy with this kind of knowing smile, like she was "onto him" -- you know, the way Paula does. Well, this unnerved everyone and I think the dry cleaner got a little defensive on Paula's behalf. He started questioning Siegfried or Roy on his own "outfits" and from there it led to why Tara Lipinski was wearing her "outfit." Tara didn't understand what he was talking about. It's all she ever wears.

The whole thing escalated into someone (I suspect it was the silent but deadly Paula) throwing a pork chop, which missed everyone at our table but flew clear into the other room, hitting Gloria Steinem in the eye. She screamed out, "Okay, Eminem, you misogynist," assuming it was him. I honestly can't say who it really was because I was getting another helping of creamed corn when it all happened. Anyway, all hell broke loose and it ended with everyone leaving at once.

In all the confusion Ed Begley Jr. backed his electric car into Donatella Versace's Bentley. (Those electric cars sure can build up speed!) It did some damage, but not as much as Eminem driving over my lawn in his LeMans and plowing down my newly planted rose garden. The dry cleaner was at Siegfried or Roy's car exchanging cleaning tips and I was left with a mess to clean up. Well, my housekeeper was -- but still!

Tara Lipinski called this morning to see if she had left her purse. I told her she hadn't come with a purse, and she argued she had indeed come with a purse. I said, "No, you didn't. We all commented on your skating attire like you were getting ready to perform or something, remember?"

She said, "Oh, is that what you meant by you don't have a rink? I'm sorry I answered so rudely. I didn't get the joke. Everyone always wants me to skate for them, so I just assumed you were expecting me to skate."

I said, "No, it was a joke."

She said, "Oh..." and laughed hysterically until she started choking and whispered she had to go and hung up.

A few minutes later I found a purse in my kitchen and felt so bad that I had been so adamant about her not having brought one. I opened it, hoping to find a phone number for her but when I found the driver's license it was Gloria Steinem's -- only her real name is Debbie! Oh, the secrets we keep....

Next Sunday should be interesting.

Copyright © 2003 by Crazy Monkey, Inc.