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.