MY LIFE is a reality show, but Hollywood doesn't see it that way. Seems I don't fit neatly into the reality-show formula that says there are two kinds of reality stars: the person you want to be, and the person you thank God you're not.

My problem? I'm an everyman. And while that would've worked in the days of scripted shows like "Seinfeld," where you could literally make a show about nothing, today's reality shows revolve around themes.

There are "Dance Moms," who are willing to sell their children in exchange for the role of crazy stage mother. There are "Preachers of L.A.," who seem to have as much money as the God they claim to serve. There are "Bridezillas," who "Say Yes to the Dress." There are "Real Housewives of Atlanta," who aren't quite "Keeping Up With the Kardashians."

Then there's us, the viewers, struggling mightily to keep up with our sanity.

That's why I was cautiously optimistic when I heard from a production company that was seeking a black family for a new reality series.

They'd seen "The Candy Ring," a hilarious video based on one of my Daily News columns. They'd seen some of the stories I'd written about my madcap misadventures as a husband and father. They seemed to be really interested in putting us on TV.

Of course, we'd been down that road before, having seen "The Candy Ring" optioned and pitched to a cable network. There were contracts and meetings. There were calls and emails. And at the end of the day a cable-network executive told us that we were simply too normal. Instead of the funny family fare we offered, they opted to go with a chick who'd played a stripper in a blaxploitation flick.

I thought this latest experience might be different. I thought they'd see value in the fact that I could stand to lose 10 pounds. I thought they'd find it charming that I sometimes have more month at the end of my money. I assumed they'd love the fact that my wife is a homemaker, despite the fact that we're not rich.

In hindsight, maybe I should've lied and told them that we live in a McMansion on the Main Line instead of a townhome near the 'hood. Maybe I should've hidden my Toyota in the driveway and sent them pictures of a rented Bentley. Maybe I should've told them my 13-year-old daughter, Eve, was a teen vixen instead of an honor-roll student who's been class president for three years running.

Maybe if LaVeta was a dominatrix, or Little Solomon was a juvenile delinquent, or I was still frequenting dubious North Philly corners as I did 20 years ago, they would've loved us.

But, alas, I come home every night, take care of the family and we have our laughs in between. There are no knock-down, drag-out brawls. There are no diamond pinky rings. There are no exes coming to our home to bust out our car windows.

If the cops come to see the Joneses, it's usually to deliver a report about the community meeting that LaVeta attended a few days before. She is, after all, a much younger version of the nosy old lady everyone needs on their block.

Is there drama? Of course there is, because Eve is always scheming to score her next trip to Hollister. My son Solomon is engaging in treachery and intrigue to beat everyone to the leftovers. My wife LaVeta's online shopping excursions come to light only when UPS arrives.

And me? I'm the guy trying to hold it all together with Scotch tape and bubble gum.

So, no, we're not belly dancing on Broad Street or doing mixed martial arts at City Hall, but our reality is definitely a show.

Maybe next time we get a call from Hollywood, they'll see that, and you'll all get to see it for yourselves.

Solomon Jones, whose column appears Tuesdays, is the author of 10 books. Listen to him mornings from 7 to 10 on WURD (900-AM). More at