Dear Diary,

Tonight – guess who was at my door? You will never guess. Don’t guess Mother.

It was Mother.

She was coming to make sure I was okay. Apparently, her friends told her I was not.

Mother’s main way of dealing with pain is to shop, shop, and shop for others while you’re at it. Right after I wrote you and answered the door, she waltzed into the main bedroom, sat herself in my suite, and declared, “No daughter of mine sits and waits for her past. She seizes the future!” (Mother is quite dramatic sometimes. She studied to be an actress until she realized emotions gave her headaches.)

Before I could even protest, Mother had grabbed my Stella Mccartney zebra-striped trench and lipstick red gladiator Jimmy Choos and thrust them upon me, then before I knew it we were breezing through the lobby on our way to Bergdorf Goodman, or as Mother calls it – Bergies.

After five hours of straight shopping (Mother bought a wooden globe for Father), I have collapsed into a trance – I think somewhere along the way I got a facial. I don’t know. There are bags everywhere, and apparently according to the schedule I am holding in my hands (Mother loves schedules) – we are to have highlights done tomorrow at Fekkai in the Henri Bendel Salon.

While we were in our spending safari we passed Joan Rivers, but I decided to pretend not to see her. Much too awkward after the UN Gala. Plus I heard her daughter hooked up with her puker.

Along with the madness that my heart succumbed to today, I have to admit Mother’s antics of trying to put a price tag on everything is a bit much. No matter how much I tried to protest, she did not listen. Trust me, I am a shopaholic. But I know this for sure: You cannot get a discount, or a layaway on matters of the heart.

After Mother fell asleep, I popped in the BBC version of Pride&Prejudice – how I love the scene where Colin Firth is staring at Jennifer Ehle at the piano the first time he realizes he loves her! That is the way Alex first looked at me all those years ago. Mother keeps asking me if I have any crushes but I assure her I do not. There is no one to move on to. I am not on a romance trapeze, flinging from one tryst to another.

I hope Alex’s new girlfriend chokes on whatever he’s buying her. Not that you can choke on designer scarves, but you know what I mean. I hope it clashes with something dreadful.


The Baroness Ivy (somwhat inebriated off Moet. Shh…don’t tell Father we’re drinking a competitor’s brew.)


Dear Diary,

I realize you are a Blog, but I think all girls should have diaries, don’t you? So I shall call you Diary…

Oh, Diary. Where to begin? So much time has passed. I suppose I should start with how I feel. To be perfectly blunt, today I feel like a poor man’s Prosecco…I found out through a dear friend, the Countess Prudence, that my ex-fiance Alexander Teal Pemberly IV is dating someone else. She told me at the UN Gala 2 nights ago, right before Stavros Niarchos threw up all over Joan Rivers and she started screaming like a banshee.

Can\’t we get started…again?

Diary, my heart is broken. Eight years, Diary! Eight years of love – true devoted perfection unraveling before my eyes like the Givenchy scarf he privately messengered me when we first started courting. All I can do is look at that scarf now and cry. I have realized WE are the scarf. But no matter how beautiful the colors of our souls came together, how much attention was paid to the stitching of our auras, it matters not. All those years of dreamweaving our lives together. Unwoven.

I must admit, Diary. I feel as if I am the world’s biggest fool. I…I honestly thought one day I would walk out the door and there he would be on my doorstep. Whether it was on the doorstep of my London home or Zurich Chalet, or that quaint bungalow father recently purchased in Jaipur it did not matter to me. The point is I thought he would be there.

It has been two years, and try as I might to recover, I cannot. There are tears streaming down my eyes as I write this. Several times I have scribbled a letter to mon Alex with that blasted ugly Mont Blanc pen he gave me for our 2 year anniversary, that I kept to make him happy, and several times I have ripped that letter to shreds, sobbing. The comfort of friends helps me not. I have sat in the same Carolina Herrera dress for the last 2 days, here in my suite at the Plaza, hoping and praying to Aphrodite herself that when I auction it off at the St. Bart’s Children’s Home fundraiser it is thoroughly dry-cleaned of all my poor luck – so the next soul who gets it is not cursed as I have been. I can only hope my raccoon eyes clear up by my upcoming reunion. I don’t want everything in my life to look dreadful. At least I have my painting, Diary. That is my one true escape. Where I can place the melancholy watercolors of my Being for all the world to see in its most honest form. No pretenses. Just running colors of what once was. Sigh.. The door is ringing, diary. Probably another friend to comfort me, though right now I’d rather be alone, alone, alone.

The Baroness

It’s nice to meet you!


The Baroness Ivy Champagne