Following is the transcription of a phone call between a TV director who is pitching my life as a sitcom and her studio head.

TRANSCRIPTION OF TV DIRECTOR PHONE CALL:

Hey, it’s me. How are you, Sheila? I’m good. Listen, yesterday LeAnne contacted me and asked me to investigate the possibility of a sitcom based on the life of an offbeat senior citizen. She’s 73  years old, but acts like she in her 20’s and lives in a very small house that she has transformed into an art museum (slash) studio (slash) library (slash) circus. It’s hard to explain, but hear me out because I need to market this in order to get funding and you know where to find the money.

The main character of this sitcom would be a Sharon J. Anderson who lives in a community outside of the nation’s capitol – a community that is also an historic landmark. It was founded by Eleanor Roosevelt in the late 1930’s, blah, blah, blah after the depression, blah, blah, blah, and I know, I know – it doesn’t hurt to have the ER tie-in. 

How did I find out about her? One of LeAnne’s friends sent her small booklet that this Sharon J. Anderson produced herself, about a project she created to survive the initial stages of the COVID shutdown. Yeah, I know, lots of people survived the shutdown by undertaking fascinating projects like making miniature meals out of Play-Dough — remember that woman who hated to cook, but her kid liked Play-Dough, so she created miniature eggs and bacon, hamburger and fries, blah, blah, blah.

(Whispering) Listen — full disclosure — this Sharon J. Anderson suffers from double depression – yeah, I know – what’s so funny about that? But hey, like I always say, “Make mine a double!’

Anyhoo, to get through the shutdown, this Sharon J. Anderson created what she called, “pandemic personas” using stuff she had in her house. For example, she’d put on an authentic Stetson, wrap a black bandana around the lower half of her face, hold an itty-bitty gun, step out onto her front porch and shoot a selfie that she posted on Facebook along with a caption, in this case, “Off to the bank!” You have to see these things – she did a total of 20. They’re wacky and creative out the wazoo — and AGAIN, she only used stuff and props already in her house. 

So LeAnne calls and says, “Get Sharon J. Anderson on the phone, or Zoom or whatever, and see if you can get a sense of her and her house. Have her give you a tour with her iPhone.” So I called and she gave me the tour. I expected her to live in a cabin in the woods or a barn or a tree. But she lives in a small 840-square foot townhome which on the surface is nothing really special. But not only did she have all those offbeat pandemic props, hats, masks, and so forth, she also had a couple hundred pieces of original art, most of which were focused on the female form. I know, I know – what can be funny about the female form, but have you seen a Rubens painting lately? 

I know that I am probably not making any sense – I’m just blathering because this Sharon J. Anderson defies categories. Is she an artist? Yes. No. Maybe. She has dabbled in painting and now photography even though she’s technically blind in one eye. She once played the piano quite well – there’s a piano in the living room. She also has a set of those sophisticated Legos for architects and a half dozen “Paint by Sticker” books.

Oh, then there are the 1,200 volumes of poetry. Yes, you heard me correctly: 1,200, if not more. Probably about 1,000 CDs and DVDs. But then there’s all sorts of corny stuff like Condoleezza Rice, Kamala Harris, Shakespeare and Jesus action figures. She says that Shakespeare and Jesus are now dating. HySTERical.

She seemed baffled as to why any TV director would want to produce a sitcom based on her life. “I know I’m eccentric,” she said, “but not that eccentric. It’s not like my friend, Anne, who let a baby goat run all over her house.”

But just trust me, she’s eccentric. I wanted to get a sense of how she saw a script or sitcom treatment, but she didn’t have time because it was Wednesday, the day she cleans her entire house. Clockwork. Once a week. But she HATES to shower! See what I mean? You can’t pin her down. 

Listen, that’s my other line and I have a busy afternoon. Can I call you back tomorrow morning? Say, around 10? Good. I have some initial thoughts about the overall theme of this sitcom. I’m just spitballing here, but I’m thinking art. Yes, art. Gotta go . . . who knows I might also take a nap! Sharon made a very convincing case about how naps nurture creativity. HySTERical. Talk tomorrow.

TOMORROW: PART TWO — a transcription of another phone call between a TV director who is pitching my life as a sitcom and her studio head.