It’s time for me to build a bridge. Here goes. You plain-faced folks have no idea just how easy you have it! None! Every day you live life like you were born into the House of Clinique with a lifetime membership to the Even-Toned Skin Club. Meanwhile us freckled sorts have to put up with taunts from rotten school kids (“Hey freckleface, did an angel poop on your face?”), rude comments from the makeup counter (“Wow. Uh … Maybe we’ll just concentrate on your eyes. Interesting how you don’t have freckles on your neck.”) and hostile judgments from doctors.
Don’t believe me? Here’s a snippet from a real conversation I had recently:
Doctor: “You have a lot of sun damage”
Me: “I do?!? Oh God. Where?”
Doctor: “Uh … all over your face. And, well, everywhere.”
Me: “My … my freckles?”
Doctor: “Your sun damage.”
Me: “My freckles?”
Doctor: “Your sun damage.”
Me: “My fr-”
Doctor: “Sun damage. Here’s a pamphlet on skin cancer.”
As if the malicious teasing and threats of early death weren’t bad enough, now that we know Lindsay Lohan’s ne’er-do-well papa, Michael, was out there spreading the freckle-y love and possibly creating secret children, I also have to worry about being one of the Lohans. A Lohan! [Does this mean I get my own reality show? Where’s my coke? Should I still wear clothes? Oh my goodness, I’m a faux lesbian, aren’t I? Wait. “Nobody understands me. Lalala. Daaaaa-ddy!” Wow, I’m really good. I want a record contract. Now.]
OK, obviously I’m not a Lohan (Right, Mom? … Mom?). Unfortunately, though, there is a little girl out there with nose-bridge freckles and a hankering for a Hollywood contract who might just be the love child of the same person who brought the world Miss Lindsay Lohan and her 44-year-old sister Ali (I’m sorry … there’s no way Ali’s 14).
You see, Michael Lohan is currently awaiting the results of a paternity test that will reveal whether 13-year-old Ashley Kaufman, the daughter of an extramarital paramour, is at least half star-seeking lunatic. (My money's on the "Oh Yes, Indeed, She Is" horse.)
The sad thing is, poor little Ashley probably feels like she’s about to win the lottery, but let’s face it, this is no jackpot. It’s more like, “B-13. B-13. Will the owner of a blue Impala please see Officer Murphy. There’s a dead cat on your tire. G-44. G-44. Bingo anyone?”
I’m not sure what will happen after the results are in. There’s no way for this kid to win. Either Michael’s her dad, or she’s the girl who wished the ex-felon alcoholic, crazy message leaver (click HERE) was her dad. And really, all of this has very little to do with possible fathers and everything to do with two famous would-be sisters.
In some ways, it might’ve been better for the kid to have faked a disease and asked a charity to arrange a meeting with Lindsay, where they could share a post-hangover latte and ponder the unusual similarities of their looks and odd freckle patterns a la “Parent Trap.”
“It’s almost like we’re secret sisters! Let’s get our parents back together … wait, who’s your mom? That can’t be … right …”
