Confession Time...
I’m one of those girls who never panics when her car breaks down.
My BFF is tall, blond and a mix of Belgian/Italian/German fabulousness. Which apparently means she can disassemble and assemble an Alfa Romeo while still looking good.
But even when she's not around. I still don't panic.
Because. Hi, my name is Dominique and I love mechanics.
Mind you, I don't love dudes that dress up like one.
But when it comes to those real life S.O.S "hello my car stopped doing stuff, could you please come and help me?"-dudes? Oh my god. I could watch them all day. Stripper joint style.
I have no shame about this vice. Even my mom knows about it. Well, maybe she doesn't knowknow about it as much as witnessed it.
A couple of years ago she -said Mom of all Moms- picked me up from a really long flight.
I was jet-lagged as fuck and when we got to the car, turns out her keys were locked in. Yeah, locked in. That kind of car.
(don’t hate: my mom has the best taste in 4th-hand cars. Even as an obnoxious fourteen year old, I never ever got embarrassed. My mom only drives cool stuff.)
Anyway, she started freaking out. Basically blaming me for being born and becoming good enough at what I do, that it meant she had to come and get me at an airport, but not good enough that somebody got me a car service.
I started producing.
I called the connect (shout out to VTB-VAB-Touring).
Cue: 10 minutes later.
A twenty-something hot car mechanic drove up. I immediately dug his attention to detail. Because although we were on the seventh level of a car park and it was 10 pm. He still did the sirene thing.
He steps out of the vehicle and goes : what seems to be the problem?
Now, I know we all have doctors, CEO’s and policemen asking us the same question all the time, right? The difference is : car mechanics never sigh and go : Ok, ma'am, step back. I need to make a call. Or : you’ll have to come back to the station and take your shirt of ma’am.
So this guy gets excited. Just as I expected. And then he went totally McGyver on us.
Butbutbut, before he did, he complemented my mom on not entirely closing the car window.
Aaaww, cute, right?
Luckily, then he stopped talking.
I don’t like it when they talk.
He got his toolbox, pulled out some wire, straightened it out, fabricated a little hook at the end and stuck it through the window crack.
The car door opened.
My mom was happy.
I slipped him some of the single dollars I keep for occasions like this.
Oh yeah, so VOGUE Paris called Adam Kimmel the new Martin Margiela.
I'm not entirely sure what this means. What I do know is that if I weren't all up in LGF, I'd do a Kimmel dude anywhere any time.
And that's how I end my pre-valentine poem!
xoxo
