I’m afraid to go to sleep tonight. Terrified. What if the Yankees sign somebody else in the next few hours and I’m too far gone to find out about it? I hate hearing about this stuff after the fact, so could somebody call me immediately if a deal goes down?

Last I heard, we were throwing money or thinking about throwing money or rumored to be throwing money at AJ Burnett, Derek Lowe and Ben Sheets (with Andy Pettitte in the rearview mirror). Will any of it happen? How will I know? I feel so out of control.

Which is why I took action before I went to bed. Since my conversation with A-Sab about the Good Life in Scarsdale seemed to nudge Cee Cee toward accepting our millions, I decided to contact the other women involved and make my pitch to them too.

Ring, ring. “Hello? Is this Karen Burnett? Mrs. AJ Burnett? It’s She-Fan calling on behalf of the New York Yankees.”

“It’s very late here on the east coast,” said Karen, sounding miffed, as if I were a telemarketer. “You woke us up.”

“Sorry. I just wanted to tell you that if your husband is the least bit inclined to stay in the AL East and play for the Yankees, there’s this wonderful town where the two of you could live very happily with your children.”

“Don’t bother trying to sell me on Scarsdale. Amber Sabathia called this afternoon and gave me a big speech about it.”

“Really?” Kind of snippy. Clearly, I wasn’t going to dazzle her with the names of hair salons. But wait! Her husband was always on the DL! I could use that to my advantage! “I bet she didn’t tell you about all the excellent physicians in Scarsdale,” I said. “There’s a specialist for everything. Hammies. Rotator cuffs. Even severely strained obliques.”

“Wow. Thanks,” she said, thawing considerably. “I appreciate that, She-Fan.”

After I hung up, I wondered why I would even want the injury-prone Burnett for five years. Let the Braves have him.

I moved down my list.

Ring, ring. “Hello? Is this Betty Sheets? Ben’s mom? It’s She-Fan calling on behalf of the New York Yankees.”

“Hey there, honey bunch,” said a woman with a Louisiana drawl. “What can I do for you?”

I had read that Ben called his mother at least twice a day; that she handpicked his wife for him; that she lived for her son. She was definitely his go-to gal. “I would love it if Ben came to New York and played for the Yankees.”

“New York?” she said, aghast. “They do all that dancing and carrying on up there.”

“Not in Scarsdale,” I said. “It’s a quaint little town. No dancing or carrying on whatsoever. Well, except at the occasional bar mitzvah.”

“Barwhatsvah?”

“Never mind.” I told Betty that Scarsdale was full of southern hospitality and that Ben’s new neighbors would very likely bring over casseroles and pies and homemade quilts to welcome him.

“How sweet,” she enthused. “But what about doctors? My Ben gets hurt a lot, poor boy.”

I gave her my spiel and hung up. Why did I want Sheets again? Was the fact that we could sign him for two years instead of five a good enough reason?

Ring, ring. “Hello? Is this Trinka Lowe? Mrs. Derek Lowe? It’s She-Fan calling on behalf of the New York Yankees.”

“How dare you call me!” she huffed. “Didn’t you know Derek dumped me for some….some….”

Suddenly, I remembered that Lowe had left Trinka, a former Hooters waitress, for Carolyn Hughes, the FSN West anchor of “Dodger Dugout.”

“Forgive me,” I said. “In my excitement over the winter baseball meetings, I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“You don’t want my ex-husband on your team,” she said bitterly. “He’ll only cause pain and suffering, especially if the Yankees have a girl who does interviews from the clubhouse.”

Uh-oh. Perhaps Kim Jones, Suzyn Waldman and Kat O’Brien weren’t safe around this guy.

I thanked Trinka and wondered why I wanted the Yankees to sign Derek Lowe. Because he was more durable than the other two? Not good enough.

I was about to place a call to Laura Pettitte, thinking her husband was the only pitcher I could really trust, when I remembered the whole HGH thing from last year.

I heaved a sigh and went to sleep.