Gena Oppenheim ventures back to Hollywood under the promise of something new, something refined at MyHouse. Turns out, same old same old. We've been duped! Again.

HOLLYWOOD. Oh Mr. Billionaire! I've finally found you. Is that really you - sitting so carefree up there on your high horse? Or is that just a bar stool?

Little did I know that my Mr. Money Maker was nothing of the sorts, just a faux billionaire perfectly perched on his pleather throne. How did I find myself awash in this overblown hangout for the most criminally lame of Hollywood pop ups?

Take three steps backwards and cut out my second overpriced, over-iced martini and you would find me wrestling with a pair of Dr. Ray boobs, trying desperately to make my way past the machismo bouncer into MyHouse (the latest of Dodd Mitchell's creations). But seriously, when was the last time your front porch had red velvet ropes and an iron clad guest list?

This MyHouse revelation had me fully duped. Putting on my $500 Chanel lip gloss that evening, I had envisioned a comfy, upscale escape, but found myself obliterated by naked wasted, Botox-ed out Jacuzzi hoppers and wannabe Rico Sauvé's. Since when did the line, "You wanna come back to my place," start referring to this?

After I downed countless numbers of whatever was in my Pottery Barn sale glass, I thought to myself, F*&% it! If I worked this hard to get into a house party on crack, I may as well turn on the flirt with my new I-dress-like-I'm-god-but-haven't-a-dime-to-my-name buddy by the bar.

So, moral of the story short - I may have made it into the VIP bedroom with my wannabe playmate (fully equipped with an oversized leather headboard and faux fur blankets to match), but next time I hit the sheets it's going too actually be at my own house.

THE DETAILS: MyHouse
7080 Hollywood Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90028
323.465.3336

Story by Gena Oppenheim.

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