If I had to take a stress test right now, I’d fail.  I don’t care if it’s not the type of test you can fail.  I just would, and with flying colors.  Reds mostly.  My stomach is a knot; it has nothing to do with tonight’s reading (where, incidentally, I have no idea what to read).  It has nothing to do with moving to Texas.  It has nothing to do with The Suitor’s approaching birthday (and the gift I haven’t thought up yet).  Or the fact that I’m running out of wee-wee pads for Linus, so now he can continue to shit on my floor without my having to scold, "just missed, just had to miss the paper by this much, huh?"  Or the clothes I don’t have to wear anymore, since I’ve gained a brick.  Or the fact that the stores have stopped stocking up on my Dove roll-on, not solid, deodorant, so now I have to switch brands.  And you can’t just SWITCH!  ‘Cause it takes time to build up in your system or something.  When I switch brands, I bust a pit.  Especially when I’m stressing.  But there’s nothing to stress over, right?  Hi.  How about today alone, I handed in my first pass of the manuscript and am now drumming up PR and marketing ideas for the book.  How about speaking on the phone with a magazine stylist, answering questions about my measurements and actual poundage.  140.  I said it out loud.  "I’m normal," I said.  "Pear," I continued.  "Short-waisted with good cleavage and calves.  Hide the rest of me."  I don’t even care anymore.  I’m too stressed to care.  All I need is some wine.  I’m starting the drinking early today.  Don’t forget to join me later at 76th & Amsterdam.  JCC.  Lit Cafe.  8 PM.  Just show up.  (This plug is part of the PR pushing.)