It’s been one year since I went to war with Chipotle, and now I have a chance at redemption.

This is the first Chipotle, ever, in the history of the world. I found it. And I ate there. And it was magic.

This is the first Chipotle, ever, in the history of the world. I found it. And I ate there. And it was magic.

If you don’t remember, or if you don’t care, it was basically the biggest victory of all mankind and I revel in the idea of winning fair and square this year.

Chipotle has given the public another chance to WIN two free burritos this Valentine’s Day by writing haikus and posting it on social media.

I need help winning this for the second time. This will not only be the greatest accomplishment in my twenty-five years of living, I’m pretty sure it will top the day I get married and/or have children.

And god only knows when that’s going to happen because on my first date with my boyfriend, all I talked about was my feud with Chipotle, onion rings, and sweet potato fries.  I think he partially thinks I’m certifiably insane. And no one wants to commit a lifetime to someone who is certifiably insane.

He’s not wrong though.

Whatever.  I don’t just want this to happen.  I need it to happen.

So, here’s what you can do for me.  And really, if you do this for me, let me know what I can do for you.  I’m really good at giving high fives, making cookies from mixes that only require adding water, and eating competitively against people who aren’t competitive eaters. 

Please head over to Twitter and retweet THIS tweet and the person with the most at the end of the day today will win!  I HOPE IT’S ME.

Or if Facebook is your social drug of choice, head over to Chipotle’s wall and ‘like’ THIS post by yours truly.

Thanks for supporting and fueling my inevitable descent into gluttony. 

Ps – I know. My life is sad.  But what else is there to do but ignore the world when there are two free burritos, chips and guac, and the fountain soda of your choice on the line?  NOTHING. NOTHING I SAY.

It’s Safe To Say Chipotle Blacklisted Me

There comes a time in every girl’s life where she has to stand up for what she believes in.  It may not be the most popular opinion.  It may not win her any awards.  But in desperate times you need some desperate measures.

In a nutshell, I’m at war with Chipotle.

My mother was not amused or supportive of my endeavors.

My mother was not amused or supportive of my endeavors.

Let me start off by saying this war is 50% my fault.  I’m not one to avoid taking responsibility for my actions.  I’m also not the type of person to take all the blame for something either.

Back in February, Chipotle ran a haiku contest where entrants were asked to create a, you guessed it, haiku demonstrating their love of all things Chipotle burritos.  So naturally, being creatively inclined in the writing department, I decided to take this chance and show the burrito conglomerate what my cerebral cortex really thinks about all the time: snacks.

The prize was two free burritos, chips and guac and a fountain soda of my choosing. JACKPOT.

Cut to the part that is my fault.  Much like my entire academic career, I didn’t read the directions. I was so excited, so hopped up on burrito fueled creativity, I completely blanked on when the contest actually started and ended.

The letter of good intentions.

The letter of good intentions.

I created the most perfectly crafted haiku that I personally thought would be foolish to ignore as the clear winner, even though I didn’t see, read or care about any other haikus in the contest.  I just knew mine was the best.

I went on a social media blitz.  I asked my entire family to vote for me. I was dedicated.  The only problem was I completely missed the deadline.  The contest I so desperately wanted to win had ended three days prior to my attack.  I was devastated, heartbroken, and downtrodden.

So I did the only rational thing any human being obsessed with winning a free burrito would do.  I wrote Chipotle a letter.

(see above)

To me, that is a very strongly worded letter. Lots of feelings are involved.  I was fully aware that I may be certifiably insane and could be put on Chipotle’s “No Fly” list – do they even have one? Probably.

But I was willing to put my mental state on display to show them how much I love them.  Because when I’m committed to something, I am all in, and I wasn’t about to let a big, bad burrito company get the best of me.

NOT TODAY. Not ever.

So, finally Chipotle Joe responds to me.  He asks for my mailing address to send me something.  I have no idea what it is. I’m just filled with glee.

In my head, I’m thinking they’re sending an inflatable burrito toy, a “Lifetime Member” pin for my sweaters, maybe even a thousand coupons and free burritos for life.

The possibilities were endless.

Then a week went by, two weeks, and still nothing in the mail.  So, maybe it got lost, so I sent Chipotle Joe another message.  You know, just to check on the status of things.  He responded, promptly.

(see below)


Chipotle Joe is on my shit list.

But now were almost two months in, and I still have yet to receive anything.

I’m wondering what I did to deserve this kind of treatment.

Don’t you always reward the best players on the team with the MVP trophy?  Don’t you always give the promotion to the person who deserves it most?  Don’t you care at all about people who love burritos?

My conclusion is that Chipotle does not care.  And I may be asking a lot, but I’m asking all of you to boycott them.

Or just be on my side with this one.  I know I may sound a little off the sane wagon, and by a little, I mean I’m fully aware that I’ve probably been blacklisted by Chipotle.

But I just need to feel validated. I need to know that what I’ve done cannot be ignored and I deserve my Lifetime Member pin!

What do you think?  Am I really crazy?  Or is Chipotle wrong? (Think before you answer, or you may be receiving one of these letters, and no one wants that.)


Burritos After Dark.

Disclaimer: This is a true story about one time when I was hungry.  When I’m hungry, I do not think clearly. As a result, I may or may not have found myself romantically linked to the delivery man.

One night, in the cozy one-bedroom apartment where I had invited myself to sleep over, my friend Loren and I found ourselves miraculously hungry.  We had an entire day filled with activities – both good and bad – and a midnight snack was the sole solution to all of our problems. 

“Burritos.” I demanded.  Loren agreed, nodding her head in approval.

We ordered our late night Mexican feast online, and got a confirmation and a delivery estimate of one hour.  But time moved at what seemed like a glacial pace.  Seconds barely turned into minutes, and even though the hour was drawing near, my cell phone was not ringing to signify that my post-dinner fast was over.

Loren looked over at me in realization, and informed me of society’s bi-annual observance of modern day time travel,  “It’s Daylight Savings, Meg, we just fell back an hour.”

“It’s technically 1am.” She mentioned, pointing at the clock, even though it clearly showed the little hand at the 2.  “Does this mean my burrito is going to take another hour?” The question came out of my mouth in the same tone that children use when asking for their mothers’ permission to eat thirds from the Thanksgiving dessert buffet.

“We should just call and find out,” she suggested in a rational, adult tone, “he could be on his way right now.”  Slightly panicked, I picked up the phone and dialed.  It rang, and rang, and rang, until finally, the answering machine picked up, “Hello, you’ve reached Burrito Taqueria, please leave a message.”

I was not prepared for this.  So I did what any sane, hungry, person would do in that situation; I left a message.

“Uhhmm, yes, hi, my name is Meg. I ordered two burritos about an hour and a half ago,” I sounded stern, I think, “I was just wondering if you guys observed Daylight Savings? Because I’m very hungry, and don’t know if I can wait an–” I hung up mid thought.

It was at that moment when I realized what I was saying was being recorded and could be replayed at anyone’s convenience, and my name was on the order. Ending the call was my only choice, even if it was mid-sentence.

I took a sip of wine, got a rush of adult-grape confidence, picked up the phone, and hit redial.

“Hello, Burrito Taqueria, how can I help you?” The man on the other end asked, politely, in a hispanic accent. “Umm, yeah, hi, I just called about five minutes ago,” I responded,  “I just wanted to ask if you had listened to any of your messages recently?”

There was a pause, and in a slightly concerned tone, he responded, “No, why?” I was relieved, and immediately pleaded with him,  “Could you please maybe just go back and delete the message I left on the answering machine” before adding this red-flag statement,  “but also don’t listen to it.”

“Why?” He asked, seriously confused with my request, and probably concerned that I was insane, “Was it offensive?”

“Truthfully, no.  It is just really embarrassing, and I don’t think I want that kind of audio being played at your leisure, sir.” I answered, “But I’m also calling because I’d like to know where my burritos are. It’s been over an hour,”  I added, to make my phone call sound justified, “and I know it’s Daylight Savings, but–”

“What is your name?” he interrupted, as if to look up my order. “Meg.” I answered, helping to give him all my information. “I just wanted to make sure there wasn’t anything wrong with the order.” I was sinking lower and lower into the couch, thinking of the worst possible scenarios in my head.  All involving me, alone, sans burrito.

“Hi Meg, I’m Hugo.” He introduced himself via phone line.

“Where are you from?” I wondered, out loud, accidentally. “I am from Mey-hee-koh.” He answered in an accent.

And then I did whatever happens when someone with an accent speaks to me.  I attempt to replicate it for no apparent reason, and never stop myself until it’s too late.

“Ahh, May-hee-koh.” I mimicked, then realized I was being a jackass as well as losing complete sight of why I had called in the first place.

Continuing my thought, I asked, “Hi. Wait, Hugo, do you not have customers right now? ” This was done in an effort to make him focus on locating my missing Mexican roll-ups. “Oh! Yes, I do!” He replied, discovering people waiting at the register.

“Let me put you on hold.”  Without waiting for my response, elevator music filled my ears.  About three minutes later, I hear a click on the other end of the line, “Hello? Meg?”

“Yes, I’m here.” I laughed while responding. I was just put on hold and I wasn’t even asked if it was okay.

“I feel bad,” he apologized, “I want to give you a free dessert.  Would you like a flan or a rice pudding?”

“Neither.” I said politely, still laughing at how I just voluntarily stayed on the line listening to elevator music, and was now back to casually conversing about dessert options with a man I had never met.

“Well, what do you want instead?” He asked in a rebuttal.  At that moment, I dug into my treasure trove of late-night cravings, and began to list them all off in a rapid fire sequence.

“Do you have sweet potato fries?” I asked. “No.”

“Onion rings?” I suggested. “No. We don’t have those”

“Mozzarella sticks?” I wondered. “No, sorry.”

“Chocolate cake?” I just threw it out there.  “No. Only flan or rice pudding for dessert.”

I was running out of options. “Ice cream?” I asked, hopeful.  “No,” he replied, “but I can run to the gas station next door and get you some.”

“What about some Taquitos?” I concluded. “No, sorry. No taquitos.” He answered.  I didn’t know if he was joking or not. “You’re a Mexican restaurant,” I pointed out to him, “and you don’t have even one taquito lying around?”

“I’m sorry, but I will personally deliver your food to you,” he offered as a consolation, “I will leave here in five minutes, will you be awake?” Asking, as if to redeem himself in the conversation.

“Yes,” I shrugged, looking at Loren for confirmation, “we will be watching Netflix.” That statement was totally pertinent to his time management and delivery, by the way.  I look at my phone, noticing that the timestamp on the call was just about sixteen minutes.

After hanging up, Loren and I promptly begin to debrief the awkwardly long conversation that just occurred. “What do you think he looks like?” I wondered out loud, while picturing a tall, dark, handsome type in my mind. “If we have children, I will totally name them Taquito and Rice Pudding.” I started planning out this ridiculous imaginary life with Hugo, who I had never met, and would probably never see again.

We’re fifteen minutes into an episode of New Girl, when my phone lights up with a call from an unknown number.  “Hello?” I have the phone on speaker.  “Yes,” I hear him say, “I am downstairs.” I have never sprung up from a bed that fast in my life.  We run downstairs, tip in hand, ready to receive our long awaited food.

And then I see him.

He was not tall, dark, and handsome.  We would not be having two children named after appetizers and desserts respectively, nor would we be spending the rest of our lives together.  But he was holding my food, and that filled me with glee.

“Hi, I’m Meg.” I introduce myself, as I open the door and reach out to grab the bag filled with what I can only assume is my late-night treat, “How old are you?” I ask.  Because, at this point, why not?

He hesitates, “How old do you think I am?”  And now, standing in the doorway, face to face with the same man who told me he’d go next door to a gas station and bring me ice cream,  and I have no idea how to respond.

I figure my best shot is to give an age range and hope for the best, “I’m going to say, between thirty and thirty-five.” I was pretty confident.

Perplexed, he asks,  “Wait… What does that mean?” Just as confused with his confusion, I explain, “Well, it means you’re either, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, or thirty-five.” I simultaneously count using my fingers, making sure I’ve included all ages within this rage.

“Oh, well I am twenty-eight.” He says after giving me my food, “and I gave you some King Sized Junior Mints, my coworker did not want them.” This is in addition to the flan, just because.

“Oh, well, thank you for those.”  I make a gesture to sign the receipt in an effort to end this encounter and not have it become more awkward that it already was.

food on the brain.

food on the brain.

I close the door, food in hand, and walked up four floors to the cozy apartment where I had invited myself to sleep over.  Loren and I ate burritos at 3am, watched the second half of that New Girl episode, and talked about how I just very, very recently made tentative plans involving the man who just delivered our food and two children named Taquito and Rice Pudding.

Because when you have a long day filled with activities – both good and bad – the sole solution to all your problems is a midnight snack.

Just make sure it’s not Daylight Savings.