I flop onto the couch, flip on the TV. Too early for RuPaul, so I click on a remake of Lost in Space, this one starring yours truly as The Robot, always waving my waggling arms, shouting “Warning! Warning!” Not to Will Robinson, but to my husband, whose cool-as-gazpacho demeanor refuses all entreaties to ruffle or fuss. I do enough for the both of us. “Freaking for Two” as they say when one half of the couple is always expecting the end of the world or at least imminent disaster. I say it’s time to beam us outta here, at least out of the good ol’ U.S. of A. where surviving in the 21st century is a white-knuckle ride. What will get us first? Probably not the aliens. I’m thinking forest fire, tornado, flood, hurricane— oh, wrong on all counts. It’ll be guns. Guns & politics. Where on Earth— or off— can we go to be safe? What country, or galaxy, wants us, and who among our leaders will guide us? I’ve watched enough episodes of the original Lost in Space to know that Dr. Smith can’t be trusted, that Major Don West and sister Judy are 100% hooking up behind the space pod, and that little Will grows up to take his real name, Bill Gates. I wonder if my remake will be syndicated? Rent on Planet Xanax is not cheap.