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Dear Diary,

Maximilian, much like the sleazy toad he is, probably has many warts. He is a sleazy, sleazy, sleezeball and he knows what he has done.

No wonder you hardly graduated Berkley. GOD KNOWS what you were doing in the dorm rooms with the new freshmen girls you porn monkey.

Baroness Ivy is most displeased. Today I heard through a friend of a friend that a certain someone has something of mine that is NOT HIS to watch or distribute.

He very much in my heart resembles these following things:

You will never understand certain things, Maximilian. Whether it is love-making or being a decent human being. You cheated on your girlfriends, you cheated on tests, and now you want to cheat ME?! I am an innocent party! If you dare get me involved with Sexy Time productions, I am most happy to let you know that you will be doing REAL TIME – in a court of law.

WATCH OUT.

UN-xoxo,

The Baroness.

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Dear Diary,

The last few days have dug up not only stirrings of my soul in both music and art, but also from the past. I cannot help but look at the invitation to the Berkley College reunion and not feel a bittersweet orchestral version combining dulcet notes of nostalgia with rising flutes of hope, only to be brought down to wailing saxaphones of lust. The lust of course, is due to one soul. One beautiful soul.

Dare I say it on the inter-web Diary?

I shall.

Fine.

One… Thompson… Wilcox… Valdez.

Happy, Diary?

Admittedly in some ways, I hope he reads this. As Grandmother used to say, “From your cupid lips to Aphrodite’s Ears, my darling Ivy.”

She was the only romantic more hopeless than I.

Upset as I am about Alex’s departure, and the grounds he based ending our relationship on “I don’t think you are over you-know-whom” he said, I cannot help but wonder if he is somewhat right.

Grandmother used to say a girl only gets two loves of her life in one lifetime. I wonder…if Alex was one of them…could Thompson be…?

No Diary.

Could he?

No.

Yes?

No.

No no no no no.

NO.

Right?

To be honest, Alex was more of a fit than a true love. I suppose. Who knows?! I am so confused. They tell you to follow your heart, but when it leads you to someone who is not of the same stature…a girl can get confused. I am so confused.

Thompson and I…we were just children then. He was my first. Both in love and – well, other things. I was his first, too. Though the way he threw down one might dispute it. If that batting average were put to lovemaking well, let’s just say Thompson would be up there with the greats. Hall of Fame. Cooperstown. You understand, don’t you Diary?

He had a way of pushing me against a wall and…

Mother didn’t like him. Father did like him but questioned if he could provide for me. But what I loved about him was he was a real salt-of-the-earth type. No pretenses about him. No titles or black American Express Card to obnoxiously wave around. When he looked at me I saw what Picasso saw in the only subjects he would paint: authenticity.

Thomas had, and I am sure still has, a way of gazing at a girl that makes her knees go weak. I’ll never forget the first time I saw him. His engaging grin and eyes full of passion. Hmm…Thomas Wilcox Valdez…how I trembled the first time he touched my hand without a glove on it. He, in fact, is the one who charmingly cajoled me to stop wearing gloves.

Oh Diary!

I sound like an old fool…pining in such a dramatic way. It was young love. And who knows, perhaps he has forgotten about me by now, or is involved with a Laker’s cheerleader or something. Perhaps he has moved on, on, on…

And not thought of the 19 year-old me, supporting him at all his tryouts, wearing his lucky baseball cap on my head and telling him “Go get ’em tiger.” How much trouble we would get into sneaking around together, playing pranks, and laughing.

Tut! I am done with such nonsense for now. Mother’s schedule awaits. I have been at her beck and call for the last few days, going to benefits at MOMA, meeting some lovely girls at the Daughters of the American Revolution. She is right. I have duties. And I should be meeting more men of my caliber I suppose.

And I should be happy being a single, independent woman who is on the brink of major success! Did I tell you the other day Karl Lagerfeld ran into me at the fall Fashion Week brainstorm and told me he was condsidering me being his muse? I thought he was joking but this morning he texted me to see if I wanted to get together later this week at the Algonquin – my favorite! How did he know?

See Diary? Yes. I am going to no longer be a silly woman in lovesick love.

xoxo,

The INDEPENDENT Ivy.

PS Thank GOODNESS Mother leaves on her private jet this weekend. Sunday latest. (A swan had made a nest in one of the engines and was scared to death, poor thing. Mother and family are fine now, and have made a nice home on our west pond.)

Who is this? (Admittedly The Baroness is behind on Western music but – he is cute.)

I am on my way as a painter!

At least I feel better for a moment!!

xoxo,

(dancing on top of her bed)

shawty IVY CHAMPAGNE!!!

Watch out for desire, or it will catch you. And pull you in with stinging heartstrings.

BOUGHT THIS WEEKEND FOR OVER $26,000.00!! All donations will go to the St. Bart’s Children’s Home! My first big sale!!!!! So excited~!

xoxo,

IVY CHAMPAGNE

Pastels, 2010, Artist: Ivy Champagne

...crashing at my lackluster existence.

My original title was:

“Waves of rejection,

Flow rather than ebb-

Crash amongst the shoreline of reality,

When I was living amongst the underwater fantasy of seaweed dancing hypnotically to the cadence of a slow song we shall never dance to again.

Tangle into my soul, seaweed! For I am no better than human tofu.”

But I felt it was a little too long.

xoxo,
IVY

“The reason women don’t play football is because eleven of them would never wear the same outfit in public.” – Phyllis Diller

Dear Diary,

I am feeling .001% better. This morning I woke up with a .007% better face (loved last night’s peppermint cucumber scrub) and a .003% better attitude. I suppose that is .011% better. Before Mother awoke I threw on my favorite Alice + Olivia silk romper and ran downstairs because I had the most wretched hankering for Godiva. The store wasn’t open at 7 am like they are abroad, so I entered a Duane Reade to buy a Godiva Raspberry Bar at the counter. On my way out a street vendor offered me a Hermes bag. Since I already have my (favorite!!!) signature pink monogrammed Birkin in Swarovski crystals, I told the kind gentleman no thank you, but that I did know the Hermes family and they are quite nice, and when I was a child I used to summer with them occasionally in Cwm Elan because of their love of the works of Percy Bysshe Shelly . I then asked him what his favorite Shelley work was (Mont Blanc is my favorite, despite the name that reminds me of you-know-who) and I swear Diary, he was just staring at me. Finally he replied something to the effect of “girl if all this is true then my daddy’s the president of Zimbabwe.” DIARY! What a small world! I will have to mention this to President Mugabe at the next UN event. Now I go upstairs – silently, with a coffee in hand, hoping Mother won’t catch me in my romper. Mother does not think girls should wear rompers unless they are between the ages of 0-4. As I enjoy the last swirling savory remains of raspberry and chocolate, I can hope to summon the bravery of Godiva herself, not caring what the world thinks of her – and putting the noble in woman. I can only imagine what Mother has planned for us today (besides carmel highlights at Henri Bendel)…

Strength meets beauty.

xoxo-

The Baroness, Feeling a Little Better, Ivy