Last week, a fan asked me how it was possible that I was a functioning human being considering I was homeschooled for most of my life. He said it a lot nicer than that, but let’s face it, he wanted to know why I wasn’t a socially awkward freak with a retainer hanging out of my mouth in a drool-soaked Cabbage Patch Kids shirt. Which is understandable. Also I do have a retainer.

IN THE BELOW VIDYA, I give a brief rundown of how I came to be a “homeschool kid,” plus I debunk a few myths about homeschooling stereotypes. Actually I don’t debunk anything. This isn’t an episode of Mythbusters. I gave lukewarm opinions to really obvious questions and literally did nothing groundbreaking. I rambled in front of a camera for 5 minutes and then dressed up my cat in a crown. That’s what you’re in for.

So, if you know any homeschoolers, feel free to share this with them so they can tell you how wrong I am about everything, probably, but just remember this was MY personal experience with homeschooling. I’m not claiming responsibility for all homeschoolers, I don’t want them. They tried to make me go to homeschool prom. I would have none of it.



Shout-out to my homeschool homies Sheryl, Greg, and stupid JD. We all survived our unique educational journey and they are still some of my best friends. Like I said in the video, WE TURNED OUT JUST FINE. We were NOT weird homeschool kids.

I mean, OCCASIONALLY we dressed up in medieval garb and played pretend renaissance faire in our backyard. Perfectly normal.






We’re cool.




Kevin has a new roommate, and it isn’t his imaginary T-Rex named Bart who eats me in my sleep for not providing a sufficient amount of canned food.

Nay, this roommate is much more terrifying: IT’S A PUPPY!!

Lately, I have been experiencing new homeowner-type problems. My kitchen flooded, I broke the sink, there are STUPID ANTS EVERYWHERE, the grade-A buttholes at the water company shut my water off for no reason, my home owner’s association didn’t accept my excuse that the weed display in my front yard is “art,” etc. However, the most disturbing of all problems is Gus. This is Gus. Gus is a cat. Gus must be stopped.

Kevin must have homeschooler syndrome because he refuses to play nice with the other kids, i.e. unfamiliar cats. Look, normally I’d call him a pussy(CAT) and shove him into social situations with a bulldozer if needbe, but I’m on his side with this one. Gus is an unfamiliar cat, sure, but he’s been coming into OUR BACKYARD uninvited and CHASING KEVIN around the yard which is HILARIOUS but sort of not okay. Who knows, that cat might have SARS. I can’t let Kevin associate with this kind of trespassing neighborhood riffraff.

There was only one solution: Cover the backyard walls with barbed wire and plant land mines. Plan a nightly stakeout on the roof with a paintball gun and wait.

OR ……get a dog.



Riley has been carefully selected as K9 Home Protection Unit 622. Observe her in the video below, where she demonstrates her ruthless attack strategies and lust for blood.






Also, she likes to watch Friends. Hates Ross.



But most of all, she’s just amazing. Probably the cutest living thing in the universe, and she’s already house broken. …Mostly. Sort of. She has her moments.



Audio is stupid and I hate it and WHY is it so important that we HEAR things? Sign language and interpretive dance are perfectly respectable ways to communicate, and frankly it would be nice if everyone shut up for a while. ESPECIALLY me. I should just shut up. Because then I wouldn’t be in need of microphones, better known as Satan’s Rods of Dickscrewery.

That relentless trick Procrastination has had me in her grasp for 6 months, which is how long I’ve been wanting to fix up my studio and upgrade my ‘quipment. That may seem like a long time, but for lazy people, 6 months is the equivalent of a half a day. YOU CAN’T RUSH ART.

But I’ve finally kicked my ass into gear. As you know, I painted a wall in my studio last week, intended as a backdrop for creating videos. Also, for cat photoshoots.



Stupid Kevin.

I also bought a fancy new camera and I PLANNED on recording a video for you awesome sexy people yesterday. Instead, I ended up doing so many tests to make my audio not sound like I was in a giant tin can full of hissing cockroaches that I DID NOT make a video.





Actually, through my computer speakers, it sounds good. With studio headphones on, it still isn’t PERFECT, but if you guys tell me it sounds okay then I’ll put down the tequila and carry on with my videos. YOU BE THE JUDGE.

Direct all your thoughts, feelings, and deep insight here. Also, pictures of your cat, if you have those. ——> @LisaFoiles

That’s right. PAINT.

Look, not every blog post is going to be some profound exposition simmering with political limericks and philosophical commentary on modern society AND/OR me falling super hard on my butt. Sometimes I’m going to write about a stupid thing I did, and that stupid thing I did this week is PAINT A WALL.





Let’s begin:

My at-home filming studio is like Orlando Bloom’s acting ability. It gets the job done, but is still really sad. Unlike Orlando Bloom, however, my studio has been unpleasant to look at, what with my green screen being pinned to the wall with thumbtacks, my lights held together with pink rubber bands, and my microphone stand elevated by three empty LootCrate boxes. PROFESHUNALIZM.

I decided to mount my green screen proper-like and paint the other big empty wall with cool colors. That way I’ll have a background when I start making stupid YouTube videos that will waste my talent and really disappoint my mom. Win-win! Here was my sketch:



Pretty great, right? And to think I was able to hire an actual preschooler to draw it for me.

FIRST, I did what any intelligent individual would do. I contacted a seasoned professional for painting advice.


I was advised to start by covering the room in plastic like I was a vigilante serial killer.



Then, I gathered my cheap Walmart painting supplies. AND MY PAINT, DUHHHHH.



It was about 5 minutes later that I realized my air conditioning had stopped working and I was doing manual labor in a room that was, give or take, 3 degrees colder than the surface of the sun. This made me grumpy. Note the grumpiness:



That is a picture of all-natural unmake-up’d beauty right there. Just soak that in for a bit.





But nay, my journey was only halfway journey’d.

THE NEXT DAY, I picked up this homeless UFC fan from somewhere in the slums of North Vegas to help me tape the walls in preparation for the stripes.



Homeless Shawn and I decided to consume Wisdom Juice to give us a steady hand in our taping endeavor.



The following moments occurred but I can’t be expected to recall them in full detail. Thanks, Samuel Adams and your two-row malted barley and Bavarian Noble hops. I’M TRYING TO PAINT A WALL HERE, SAM.




Diligent. Precise. Buzzed and quietly wondering if my bug guy has been spraying for Bearspiders.

FINALLY, after many hot hours of inhaling paint fumes, my wall was painted. And dammit, I was proud of myself. And tired. Mostly the tired thing.




So, if you think about it… this blog was literally you watching paint dry. THANKS FOR THE VIEWS HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA




Lisa’s Whimsical Guide to Vegas (Because I Live Here)

Volume 1: Buffets and Brit Brit

Today on Lisa’s Whimsical Guide, I will grasp your calloused hand in mine and lead you through the skanky hooker card-littered streets, or I guess “street,” of Las Vegas, NV, the “What the hell happened to my cell phone?” capital of the world.

Why are your hands calloused? I assume because you are a sexy misunderstood musician who just stepped off the plane at McCarran Airport looking to start anew as a sidewalk performer who, I don’t know, plays wind instruments with your butt. I lean in close, sweep your long, dirty hair away from your ear and softly whisper, “Let’s go see Burtney.”


Axis Theater at Planet Hollywood

Okay, here’s the deal. Britney Spears is an easy target. She’s the go-to celebrity name when the Jeopardy answer is, “This formerly bald blonde pop star has been known to wield umbrellas like Highlander swords and successfully escaped from serial baby daddy and walking STD, Kevin Federline.” But you’d be wrong. That’s NOT Britney. It’s James Franco. Wait, no, actually it is Britney. But that’s not important. What’s important is that you read that quote in Alex Trebek’s voice.

I’ve met Britney several times (totally borrowed her hair dryer once, true story), due to her sister, Jamie Lynn, being my fellow cast member on All That for two years. I will say this: the Spears are AWESOME people. Their mom, Lynn, might be the coolest lady in America, except she introduced me to sweet tea with her home recipe straight out of Louisiana, and I’m pretty sure I contracted type 6 diabetes on the spot. Type 6 is when you transform into a big sugar cube and then when it rains you just melt into a storm drain and your loved ones never hear from you again. But the ocean’s just a little bit sweeter…



Britney’s Vegas show “Piece of Me” is everything you want from a Britney Spears show, minus a Madonna make-out session. Just kidding, no one wants that. While the Celine Dion show at Caesar’s Palace has a little bit of something for everyone, even those who are unsure about Canadians, the Britney show is for BRITNEY FANS ONLY. MEGA BRITNEY FANS. If you are lukewarm on Burtney, this show is not for you. Don’t go. No one wants you there.

At one point during the show, Britney wears a pair of two-story tall angel wings and floats toward the ceiling like a Victoria’s Secret model stuck on a forklift. In any other show, that would be the best part. But nay. The for-reals best part was her nod to video game nerds, when she performed “Toxic” in an obvious reenactment of the Poison Ivy battle in Batman: Arkham Asylum. Bet you had no idea Burt Burt was a 1337 gam3r girl. Probably why there’s a sign at her box office that says “no tix 4 filthy casuals.”




IN CON-CLOO-SHUN, if insane set pieces, elaborate costumes, a crowd made up of mostly 30-year-old drunken women, and the live presence of THE one and only Burtneh Spurs gets your Jetta revvin’, then by all means, head down to Planet Hollywood and dance until you no longer need to throw up that Yard Margarita.

Worth-It Scale: 9 out of 10 (For Britney Fans) 3 out of 10 (For Non-Britney Fans)




Iggy told me it’s not “realest,” it’s “rillest.”

Are you hungry? Are you so hungry that you would like to construct a half-scale Mt. Everest made of 70+ types of food on a wet plate while elbowing strangers in the neck in a reverse Hunger Games scenario? Then the buffet is for you!



I had never been to a buffet until last night. Like a real a-hole, I tend to eat my meals one genre at a time. Spaghetti on Monday, tacos on Tuesday for Taco Tuesday of course, Chinese on Wednesday, etc. BUT THAT’S NOT HOW WE DO IN VEGAS. NOT HOW WE DO. THIS IS HOW WE DO:

  • Step 1: Locate the BUFFET at your casino resort. Tip: If the air around you begins to smell like a whirlwind of magical flavors, as if someone’s baking Ham & Bleu Cheese Cupcakes with Sriracha-Horseradish Filling, you are getting close.
  • Step 2: Wait in a super insanely long line with 300 other ravenously hungry people who, in preparation of this moment, have been wandering around the Vegas desert for 40 years with Moses. Moses, however, has peaced out and gone to White Castle.
  • Step 3: Once you have paid for your forthcoming feast, you must perfect “The Glare.” The Glare is when you zero in on a happy family already in the dining area with the exact number of people that are in your family/party, and then Glare at them until they leave. Note: YOU CANNOT ENTER THE WONDEROUS BUFFET LINE UNTIL YOU HAVE A SEAT. Oh, is your family of four done eating and still hogging a perfectly good table by sitting around discussing how Ant-Man was great but could have used less exposition at the beginning? TAKE YOUR CRAP AND GET OUT.
  • Step 4: The moment has arrived: The velvet rope has been lifted and you are sprinting toward the grub. You will likely begin to power-walk back and forth from each food station trying to decide what to eat until all of your brain’s neurotransmitters stop firing and you crumble into the fetal position in a puddle of freshly spilled gravy. THAT’S NOT GOOD. Calm down. Take it all in. You can have some of everything. That’s the beauty. The beauty of the BUFFET.
  • Step 5: See how many countries you can fit on Plate 1. Look at my picture up there. Look how international my plate is. I basically toured the whole freakin’ globe in one sitting.
  • Step 6: Go back for Plate 2. Don’t worry about the leftovers on Plate 1 – the Plate Fairies will come by and remove it while you’re loading up Plate 2! They will probably donate it to hungry orphaned baby sea otters.
  • Step 7: Go back for dessert.




So, as you can see, the buffet is really the best gamble in Vegas: You give them around $30 to $50 dollars, and you’re betting that you can eat MORE than that worth of food. It’s actually a pretty entertaining method of consuming sustenance and an excellent way to totally confuse your digestive system. Usually I accomplish that with a steady diet of pizza Lunchables and microwave quesadillas, but it’s certainly not as fun as truly earning it by taking out an old lady before she beats you to the fresh mac & cheese. “NOT TODAY, AGNES.”

Worth-It Scale: 6 out of 10


Cheeky people, who embody the winky-face-tongue-out emoji and think they are HILARIOUS all the time, like to offer you one piece of advice before you perform in front of an audience: Don’t fall.

That’s it. That’s your only concern. Everything else is a simple fix: If you forget choreography, wing it. If you forget your lines, improv. If the laces on your ice skates break, skate over to the judges table in tears and they’ll probably let you start over. (Also, America will openly shun you forever.) (Like, she is basically a domestic terrorist.)

But don’t fall. Just don’t fall.

I, however, being a rebel and a free spirit and possibly a TAD BIT still drunk from the night before, no one knows for sure, did not heed this warning. No. I toppled like a hipster domino in an OK Go video.

But let’s rewind.

Now, these cheeky people. You know the guy from Groundhog Day who keeps warning Bill Murray to “watch out for that first step—it’s a DOOZY!” Yeah, that guy. Ned or something. That guy is like the poster child for cheeky people. He should have his own emoji.




Cheeky people are the same people who tease you about personal things for no reason and then expect you to laugh along and not slowly die inside. They tease you about your weight or hygiene or the messiness of your house/car. “Wow, look at all these wrappers! You sure hit the Arby’s drive-thru a lot, don’t you? I thought you were looking fatter! Ha ha! Ahhh, I’m just kiddin’.”

These are the people who own a stupid, awful, dumbass dog that jumps up on you, leaving muddy paw prints all over your khakis every time you come to visit, and simply respond with, “Oh sorry, Maxie just gets so excited.”

These are the people who join your neighborhood’s HOA board of directors and leave passive aggressive little bitchy notes on your door when you don’t remove your trash cans from the curb precisely .38 seconds after the garbage man drives away.

These are the people who eagerly ask you the origin of your last name, even if it’s, like, SMITH or something.

These are the people who still pay for groceries with checks. CHECKS.

These are the people who brag endlessly about their ugly piece of disgusting fecal matter on wheels HYBRID CAAAAARRRRRRRRRs. I mean, I have a hybrid. But if I ever talk about it in conversation you better hit me across the face with a 2×4 and then visit the Prehistoric Forest.

These are the people who say things like, “I just love that John Mayer, he’s so talented.”

These are the people whose entire DVR is Jeopardy.

These are the people who have called it “Foxfire” a shocking number of times.

These are the people who are FLABBERGASTED that you are so pale.

These are the people who respond to a simple unassuming query with an aggressive “I don’t know, CAN YOUUUU??”

These are the people who comment in paragraph-form on Facebook statuses that they have NOTHING TO DO WITH. AND DOES NOT CONCERN THEM.

These are the people who think every sickness including cancer and AIDS and butt herpes can be solved by gargling warm salt water. THAT NEVER WORKS. STOP TELLING ME TO DO THAT. IT’S DISGUSTING.

Wait, maybe that last one is just my grandma.

Anyway, you know the people I’m talking about. The people you’d slap on a regular basis if slapping wasn’t listed under “assault” on I mean, he got the domain; he probably knows what he’s talking about.




Back to the stage stuff. I used to perform on stage all the time. Singing performances, dance competitions, theater productions, recitals — if there was a stage, I was on it. And I was GOSH DAMN FABULOUSaccordingtomymom.

Though, my fabulousness has somewhat faded since I was 12; I really think that was when I hit my stride. It’s been pretty much downhill ever since. I remember turning 14… hittin’ the video poker… lightin’ up a cig… reminiscing about the glory days with some Nam veterans in a Laughlin casino… It would just never be the same. That’s probably why child stars grow up to kill people.

But I digress.

Two weeks ago I found myself back on stage. I don’t even remember agreeing to dance in this particular show; it just sort of happened. Sort of like when people say, “OMMGGGG YOU TOTALLY HAVE TO BE IN MY WEDDING” and before your mouth even forms the word “sure,” you find yourself passed out in a banquet hall in a tacky bridesmaid dress having given the waitress all of your cash in a transactional understanding that she’d keep bringing you wine, except that bitch DISAPPEARED, leaving you broke and out of wine, but it’s probably for the best because that cheap stuff leaves you with a guaranteed two-day hangover. And that’s best-case scenario.

Whirlwind or not, I was excited to be apart of the dance showcase. We all worked super hard in a studio with a serious lack of air conditioning and when show night arrived, we all felt prepared. I was ready. It was time.

Then, someone – A CHEEKY PERSON – peeked backstage and said it. Those dreaded words:

“Good luck tonight! DON’T FALL. HA HA. Ahhh, just kiddin’. Have fun.” *disappears in douche smoke*

I don’t know who it was or what branch of Cheeky People they were registered to, but if I’d seen their face, I assure you the expression would have been winky-face-tongue-out.

My dances started off well. Ballet solo: Done. Ensemble ballet: Done. The show was going perfectly.

Then came my tap solo.

“Nah, the floor won’t be that slippery,” I had said the previous day to a fellow tap number. Sure, Lisa. Sure. It’s basically sandpaper. It’ll be like dancing on tar. It’s like a big tar pit. Dinosaurs are dead out there. There’s no possible way that someone wearing smooth metal on the bottom of their feet could slip on polished wood. It’s a scientific impossibility. Good call, Lisa.



Yes. I slipped on stage for the first time EVER. I engaged in a violent struggle with that cruel bitch, Gravity, and she took me down hard. Actually, I was really upset when I saw the video. Let me tell you, it felt a LOT WORSE than how it looked in the recording. When I watched it back, I was like, “Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft. That wasn’t that bad.”

So, my dignity remains intact. My butt is bruised, but my ego isn’t, and that’s far more important. I got the biggest applause of the night for falling — and while I realize it was Pity Applause, it was applause nonetheless.

…Okay you can stop replaying the video now.


Hey stop.


Don’t be misled by the title; my dad is not the stupid weed I’m referring to. No, he was a human. Not an undesirable menacing zombie plant that JUST WOULDN’T DIE.

My dad passed away two years ago today. It’s not mushy or sad or anything; he was the most awesome person alive and he still fills me with happiness and giggles every time I think about him. That is, unless I think about him too hard. Then it’s like a Biblical deluge from my face and I have puffy eyes for a week. He was just that great.

On an unrelated but will end up being related note, I hate weeds.

Actually, wait, let’s go back. I hate gardening.

Wait, let’s go back even further. I pretty much just hate the outdoors.

I think the outdoors are beautiful and majestic and all that crap, and I like being outside, I just don’t like being outside. First off, there are bears. Second, I sunburn in five minutes. FIVE. MINUTES. Yes, I have timed it. Yes, I’m that pathetic. Third, have you seen bees? Do you know what bees are? Why would I go to a place where small kamikaze pilots have gathered in droves to specifically plot against me?

Bee Leader: Okay, guys. Lisa has been doing a lot of sitting on her ass indoors lately. Like, a lot. Like, an unhealthy amount. We believe TODAY is the day that Lisa will be going outside for a few moments to breathe natural air instead of the dingy recirculated air she’s been stewing in for the last month, which is starting to smell like feet and Corn Nuts. Bruce, you have a question?
Bruce Bee: *puts hand down* Yes, is our plan to actually go in for the kill today? Or do fly-bys next to her head in a circling group of twelve so she just thinks we’re going to kill her?
Bee Leader: We’ll go for the faux-kill today, but we have to make sure we sound really, really, really angry. As angry as if we just flew out of a hive that was hit by a Felix Hernandez 90mph fastball. Super freakin’ angry. THE SCREEN DOOR IS OPENING, LET’S GO MEN.

My cousin Danny tried to tell me that the only way to proper-shoo a bee away is to:
A. Remain Calm
B. Use Slow, Controlled Swatting Motions

Cool. Let’s try my method:
F. Wake up in Tijuana

So, needless to say, I’ll remain inside with my Netflix and my Lemon Lime Gatorade and my Nest thermostat that keeps texting me, which is SUPER weird.

“Lisa, you need to change your air filters.”
“Lisa, are you away from home? I’ve noticed you’re away from home but you didn’t set me to ‘Away’.”
“Lisa, we never talk anymore. Initiating fire.”

And then my house burns down and the only thing left in the wreckage is the Nest who goes to my funeral in a tiny round tuxedo (out of respect, of course), but leaves early like a real jerk. Story of my life.

However, my fear of the outdoors wasn’t always so severe and irrational. My dad and I used to go outside all the time in our fruit orchard in California. We’d tend to the lemon trees, pick oranges, use the giant grapefruits as soccer balls, and throw kumquats at each other because that’s the only thing kumquats should ever be used for: Violence. They are stupid and pointless otherwise. Sour bastards.

One day we noticed this weird four-foot-tall weed growing in the middle of the orchard. It was too hefty to remove by hand, so dad sprayed it with weed killer.

A few days later, we returned. Not only did the weed NOT DIE, but it had grown. Like sucking the sweet blood of its enemies, that evil succubus weed grew stronger from the weed poison and grew another foot. So we sprayed it again.

Fast forward a few days, and the stupid weed looked like it was probably dying. Maybe it did die. I don’t know. It looked sad and brown. I think it was dead.

But then, in very non-California style, it rained for a week. When we returned to the dwelling place of the weed demon, IT HAD COME BACK TO LIFE AND GROWN ANOTHER TWO FEET. This was the Nikki Sixx of plants.

We decided to just let it grow. LET IT GROOOOOOW *ahem* Here is a picture of it:




That’s my dad and the stupid dumb weed from hell. I think it was technically considered a tree at that point. Perhaps a magic beanstalk that would lead us to the thing and the guy and the place and you know what I’m saying. So. Yeah. That’s the weed.

I should probably end this blog with a deeply profound comparison about how my father’s spirit is like that wild plant, and nothing can really kill it, and it will live on forever…

But I won’t because it was just a stupid weed and we eventually took it down with a hacksaw. The end.



All I can say is buckle your metaphorical seatbelts, People of Earth, because you might just get launched into the blackness of space by the propelling force of your mind exploding as I take you on weekly journeys, probably on Tuesdays, maybe Wednesdays, no Tuesdays, that will tilt your moral compass and make you question everything you ever believed in, even all the science.

Do you like tidbits? You’ll get those. Did you know that David Spade is actually the brother of Andy Spade, who is married to Kate Spade, who is the Kate Spade from the multi-million dollar handbag company meaning David is basically the broke one of the Spade family? Boom. That’s the first one. Heard that on Howard Stern the other day. And now I liaisoned it to you. And that’s a word I just made up. Boom.

As you can see, this place you’ve wandered into has all the familiar symptoms of being a normal website, and that’s because it is one, and it’s mine. My website. I’ve redesigned it about eight assmillion times throughout my life, but by George, I think this one’s going to stick. You are George in this scenario.

It’s got stupid pictures and dumb videos, and I’ll add more dumb videos, and lots of info about me and, of course, it’s got a blog. So. Guess that’s a thing I have to do now.

LISA FOILES WEBSITE CODE OF ETHICZ: I’ll try to keep it PG-ish around here, for the kids. Also, there won’t be any commenting because anything you have to say to me can be said in the public forum of Twitter, where I can sic my band of loyal and bloodthirsty fans on you if you’re being a real jerk. Though, my fans have been known to enjoy themselves a nice pint on the regular, or six, and they are easily distracted by shiny things and squirrels and video games and—holy crap I just found a malted milk ball from Easter in between my couch cushions. Hellllll yes.

So, sit back, relax, shut up, get back up, grab a drink, sit back down, and enjoy my website and my dumb blogs. If you’ve been a fan for a while, I freakin’ love you and thanks for continuing to hang out with me. If you don’t know me, I’m now that girl you read about online who ate 4-month-old couch chocolate and maybe that’s not even what that was.


P.S. Yes, Kevin will be making regular appearances, so stop asking. He’s getting super pompous about the whole thing and it’s really starting to cheese me off.