Dear Tina,

I have known a guy friend of mine for the past couple of years; I was romantically involved with him awhile ago and now every time something good happens to me romantically, he seems to jump in and try to whisk me away for one more quick escapade. Then he disappears for another month or so. Then, the cycle happens again: we meet up at a party or walk past each other between classes, and he calls me wanting to get together again. What am I to do?

Sincerely,

Needing an Answer

Dear Needing an Answer,

Haven’t we all learned from “Sex and the City”? Mr. Big always came around when things were going smoothly for Carrie; can’t you see the resemblance? I agree, every girl has that guy who seems to create the fork in her road, right smack dab in the middle of her trek. I’m not saying that it is necessarily an unwanted imposition every time; however in most cases, it can be.

For you, he seems to do it in a timely fashion. I can see it all now: every month when things are going just as planned, you have met a new guy and your relationship is just peachy! Until, you’re walking back from your 10 a.m. class, and there he is paging you via text message. He’s adorably studious, which just seems to always catch your eye, and there is something about his slight arrogance that makes you crazy. But then it hits you like a ton of bricks; reality has passed through once more, and she has a polite reminder waiting in her inbox titled, “Get out now!”

Why is it that this seems to happen to us? I mean, I am sure it happens to guys as well, a Mrs. Big per se; however, I am obviously unaware of this mishap. Why is it that Mr. Big can’t just seem to let go of what was and move on to the possible with some other leading lady? Maybe that isn’t the case. Maybe you like the chase. Maybe you place yourself at the intersection in order to run into him. I mean, don’t get me wrong, these coincidental once-a-month rendezvous mean that he is into you; however, they don’t last more than a week or so because he is non-committal. He is scared of what might happen. He is afraid that these random hookups have the potential of turning into something good. Something called a relationship. Or does he really not want that? Could you be his quick fix to every relationship problem that he has ever had? A little harsh, yea, sorry about that. Or does he love being with you so much that every second of his time with you is spent on the defense, for fear of the what if? What if this doesn’t work out? Thus, in a flash, he leaves before he messes up. Later on in the weeks to follow, he musters up another ounce of courage to be with you until his psyche fails him once again.

I say if you have something wonderful already and in comparison he just doesn’t measure up, then tell him to take a hike. You don’t need someone who is going to run in and out of your life every five seconds. If you want a guarantee, a Prince charming, then kick him to the curb. However, if you really enjoy the chase, the element of surprise, and you can muster up one last ounce of love for Mr. Big, then tell him how you feel.

Tell him that this extravagant screen play that he has written for your lives must finally end with a happily ever after. Nevertheless, if he does not conquer and he feels that you are “better off apart” aka him chasing you for the rest of your life, then you are in fact actually better off accepting one of those evil eye magnets that one of your good friends purchased for you, simply for the purpose of warding off his evil and ruining your future relationships.

Christine Raia

Last summer I redefined the word “misfit” during my internship at Time Out New York. Its British counterpart was my survival guide during my semester in London, and I scoured its pages weekly for concert and theatre listings, envying the cutting wit of its writers. My credentials seemed average, but Anne, the editorial coordinator, penciled me in for an interview after I arrived back in the States.

I arrived sweaty but on time in an ill-fitting navy blue suit I had plucked straight off the shelves at Banana Republic the night before. One glance around the tastefully industrial Time Out office told me a suit might not have been necessary. Had everyone just come from a concert at CBGB? The cohesive look screamed effortlessly trendy, as though the employees desired to look like they’d rolled out of bed, gotten dressed in the dark and just happened to resemble the not-too-matchy wardrobes of the “Sex and the City” foursome. They exemplified that “look” we suburbanites yearn to copy but which only New Yorkers are able to pull off. I was in over my head. My J.Crew attire would never fit in with this eternal fashion show.

I found out all too soon that unpaid labor knows no dress code. There were endless numbers of interviews to transcribe, invoices to file and facts to check, all so I’d have the privilege of typing “Time Out New York” onto my resume. The staff had judged (correctly) that my conservative dress echoed my political views and seemed to dismiss any possibility of friendship or camaraderie. Yet, the more I felt distanced from the fast-paced, edgy environment, the more I longed to please those around me. Transcriptions? Completed at record pace. I was queen of the hole punch, master of all things filed. I’d pore over articles with a fine-tooth comb, picking out miniscule errors with hopes editors would notice my attention to detail.

I was caught in the rut many interns encounter: unsure of our place within the office pecking order and insecure about our own skill level, we busy ourselves by completing tasks, however menial, in order to appease our coworkers. Rather than carve out our own identities, we panic – graduation is only months away – and reason that this hard work will lead to job offers.

Satisfying my superiors was why I trekked across Manhattan to deliver Mets tickets to an important client or returned designer merchandise to their respective public relations offices, sacrificing my feet to sores. If no one else would do a job, I’d take it on without question. One task I received mid-summer, however, would bring my people-pleasing behavior into a new light.

The following week’s issue would run a hefty feature about New York City in the early morning, and, reasoned the features editors, what could be a better symbol for the wee hours than a rooster in all his glory? There could be no substitute, therefore, for a photograph of one. But Photoshop would not do. This chanticleer needed to be a city dweller – anything less would never be accepted by the magazine’s discriminating audience.

Jules, a features editor, thrust a tattered piece of paper in my direction, her 75 bracelets clanking on her spindly arms. The office had been polled, and several employees reported they thought they might have heard of roosters inhabiting various locales around the city. Instead of addresses, Jules had listed vague directions that instructed me to roam up to 10 city blocks, keeping my ear out for the cock’s crow.

Sudden panic washed over me. I still hadn’t mastered my sense of direction in Manhattan, and taking the subway seemed like an impossible feat. But interns must show no uncertainty! I took the paper with confidence then slinked off to hail a cab to Alphabet City. I wandered into bodegas, questioned locals and prayed a group of teenagers could give me a clue about their neighbor the rooster. Miraculously, they knew of the bird and even led me to the empty lot where he roamed. And when we got there, they mused about the day before when police officers came to take it away.

The NYPD must have been hot on the tail of every cock fighter in the city, as clue after clue turned up dead ends from China Town to Spanish Harlem. My stomach knotted in despair. There was no way I could return to the office without first finding a rooster. I’d conquered every assignment, no matter how tricky, gradually gaining allies in staffers who liked me for my persistence and tolerance. Admitting defeat would not only mean planning a new cover photograph, but also demonstrate I’d never fit into the Time Out faction. And, as interns, we’re convinced that fitting in is essential to being branded as hiring material.

Sensing my despair, my boyfriend called bearing good news: his coworker recently moved from an apartment by the Williamsburg Bridge, where he’d be awakened every morning by the cacophony of squawking poultry. A trip to the base of the bridge revealed the cause – an unmarked warehouse filled floor to ceiling with cages crammed with fowl. Asians lined up, selected their birds and loaded them, live, into backpacks. I pushed aside visions of bird flu, resigned to breathing through my mouth and confessed my odd request to the owner.

“No problem at all,” he replied with a heavy Spanish accent. “You can even take one out of the cage and put it wherever you like.” Images of roosters on yellow cabs or near fire hydrants flashed through my head – these pictures promised to be exactly what features was looking for.

Taking the store’s business card, I dialed Jules. I’d accomplished my task, passed the test. I was sure to be hailed as the greatest intern Time Out had ever hired. It was great that I’d managed to find the rooster, she said, but they’d gone ahead and taken a picture of one at the Brooklyn Zoo. I was thanked anyway.

While I’d continue to satisfy the features editors through the remainder of my internship, my preoccupation with obtaining their approval waned after that day. I’d never be able to morph into a city-savvy clone of other Time Out staffers, I realized. As I observed other internship candidates enter the office for interviews, nervously adjusting their ties and rifling through their resumes, I began to look forward to creating my own identity within my first place of work. While these interns would inevitably prolong the worker-bee intern syndrome, I hoped they, too, would realize that fitting in resulted from working hard, taking on challenging tasks and engaging in the occasional wild rooster chase.

Features- Internship

Christine Raia

Last summer I redefined the word “misfit” during my internship at Time Out New York. Its British counterpart was my survival guide during my semester in London, and I scoured its pages weekly for concert and theatre listings, envying the cutting wit of its writers. My credentials seemed average, but Anne, the editorial coordinator, penciled me in for an interview after I arrived back in the States.

I arrived sweaty but on time in an ill-fitting navy blue suit I had plucked straight off the shelves at Banana Republic the night before. One glance around the tastefully industrial Time Out office told me a suit might not have been necessary. Had everyone just come from a concert at CBGB? The cohesive look screamed effortlessly trendy, as though the employees desired to look like they’d rolled out of bed, gotten dressed in the dark and just happened to resemble the not-too-matchy wardrobes of the “Sex and the City” foursome. They exemplified that “look” we suburbanites yearn to copy but which only New Yorkers are able to pull off. I was in over my head. My J.Crew attire would never fit in with this eternal fashion show.

I found out all too soon that unpaid labor knows no dress code. There were endless numbers of interviews to transcribe, invoices to file and facts to check, all so I’d have the privilege of typing “Time Out New York” onto my resume. The staff had judged (correctly) that my conservative dress echoed my political views and seemed to dismiss any possibility of friendship or camaraderie. Yet, the more I felt distanced from the fast-paced, edgy environment, the more I longed to please those around me. Transcriptions? Completed at record pace. I was queen of the hole punch, master of all things filed. I’d pore over articles with a fine-tooth comb, picking out miniscule errors with hopes editors would notice my attention to detail.

I was caught in the rut many interns encounter: unsure of our place within the office pecking order and insecure about our own skill level, we busy ourselves by completing tasks, however menial, in order to appease our coworkers. Rather than carve out our own identities, we panic – graduation is only months away – and reason that this hard work will lead to job offers.

Satisfying my superiors was why I trekked across Manhattan to deliver Mets tickets to an important client or returned designer merchandise to their respective public relations offices, sacrificing my feet to sores. If no one else would do a job, I’d take it on without question. One task I received mid-summer, however, would bring my people-pleasing behavior into a new light.

The following week’s issue would run a hefty feature about New York City in the early morning, and, reasoned the features editors, what could be a better symbol for the wee hours than a rooster in all his glory? There could be no substitute, therefore, for a photograph of one. But Photoshop would not do. This chanticleer needed to be a city dweller – anything less would never be accepted by the magazine’s discriminating audience.

Jules, a features editor, thrust a tattered piece of paper in my direction, her 75 bracelets clanking on her spindly arms. The office had been polled, and several employees reported they thought they might have heard of roosters inhabiting various locales around the city. Instead of addresses, Jules had listed vague directions that instructed me to roam up to 10 city blocks, keeping my ear out for the cock’s crow.

Sudden panic washed over me. I still hadn’t mastered my sense of direction in Manhattan, and taking the subway seemed like an impossible feat. But interns must show no uncertainty! I took the paper with confidence then slinked off to hail a cab to Alphabet City. I wandered into bodegas, questioned locals and prayed a group of teenagers could give me a clue about their neighbor the rooster. Miraculously, they knew of the bird and even led me to the empty lot where he roamed. And when we got there, they mused about the day before when police officers came to take it away.

The NYPD must have been hot on the tail of every cock fighter in the city, as clue after clue turned up dead ends from China Town to Spanish Harlem. My stomach knotted in despair. There was no way I could return to the office without first finding a rooster. I’d conquered every assignment, no matter how tricky, gradually gaining allies in staffers who liked me for my persistence and tolerance. Admitting defeat would not only mean planning a new cover photograph, but also demonstrate I’d never fit into the Time Out faction. And, as interns, we’re convinced that fitting in is essential to being branded as hiring material.

Sensing my despair, my boyfriend called bearing good news: his coworker recently moved from an apartment by the Williamsburg Bridge, where he’d be awakened every morning by the cacophony of squawking poultry. A trip to the base of the bridge revealed the cause – an unmarked warehouse filled floor to ceiling with cages crammed with fowl. Asians lined up, selected their birds and loaded them, live, into backpacks. I pushed aside visions of bird flu, resigned to breathing through my mouth and confessed my odd request to the owner.

“No problem at all,” he replied with a heavy Spanish accent. “You can even take one out of the cage and put it wherever you like.” Images of roosters on yellow cabs or near fire hydrants flashed through my head – these pictures promised to be exactly what features was looking for.

Taking the store’s business card, I dialed Jules. I’d accomplished my task, passed the test. I was sure to be hailed as the greatest intern Time Out had ever hired. It was great that I’d managed to find the rooster, she said, but they’d gone ahead and taken a picture of one at the Brooklyn Zoo. I was thanked anyway.

While I’d continue to satisfy the features editors through the remainder of my internship, my preoccupation with obtaining their approval waned after that day. I’d never be able to morph into a city-savvy clone of other Time Out staffers, I realized. As I observed other internship candidates enter the office for interviews, nervously adjusting their ties and rifling through their resumes, I began to look forward to creating my own identity within my first place of work. While these interns would inevitably prolong the worker-bee intern syndrome, I hoped they, too, would realize that fitting in resulted from working hard, taking on challenging tasks and engaging in the occasional wild rooster chase.

Features- Internship

Christine Raia

Last summer I redefined the word “misfit” during my internship at Time Out New York. Its British counterpart was my survival guide during my semester in London, and I scoured its pages weekly for concert and theatre listings, envying the cutting wit of its writers. My credentials seemed average, but Anne, the editorial coordinator, penciled me in for an interview after I arrived back in the States.

I arrived sweaty but on time in an ill-fitting navy blue suit I had plucked straight off the shelves at Banana Republic the night before. One glance around the tastefully industrial Time Out office told me a suit might not have been necessary. Had everyone just come from a concert at CBGB? The cohesive look screamed effortlessly trendy, as though the employees desired to look like they’d rolled out of bed, gotten dressed in the dark and just happened to resemble the not-too-matchy wardrobes of the “Sex and the City” foursome. They exemplified that “look” we suburbanites yearn to copy but which only New Yorkers are able to pull off. I was in over my head. My J.Crew attire would never fit in with this eternal fashion show.

I found out all too soon that unpaid labor knows no dress code. There were endless numbers of interviews to transcribe, invoices to file and facts to check, all so I’d have the privilege of typing “Time Out New York” onto my resume. The staff had judged (correctly) that my conservative dress echoed my political views and seemed to dismiss any possibility of friendship or camaraderie. Yet, the more I felt distanced from the fast-paced, edgy environment, the more I longed to please those around me. Transcriptions? Completed at record pace. I was queen of the hole punch, master of all things filed. I’d pore over articles with a fine-tooth comb, picking out miniscule errors with hopes editors would notice my attention to detail.

I was caught in the rut many interns encounter: unsure of our place within the office pecking order and insecure about our own skill level, we busy ourselves by completing tasks, however menial, in order to appease our coworkers. Rather than carve out our own identities, we panic – graduation is only months away – and reason that this hard work will lead to job offers.

Satisfying my superiors was why I trekked across Manhattan to deliver Mets tickets to an important client or returned designer merchandise to their respective public relations offices, sacrificing my feet to sores. If no one else would do a job, I’d take it on without question. One task I received mid-summer, however, would bring my people-pleasing behavior into a new light.

The following week’s issue would run a hefty feature about New York City in the early morning, and, reasoned the features editors, what could be a better symbol for the wee hours than a rooster in all his glory? There could be no substitute, therefore, for a photograph of one. But Photoshop would not do. This chanticleer needed to be a city dweller – anything less would never be accepted by the magazine’s discriminating audience.

Jules, a features editor, thrust a tattered piece of paper in my direction, her 75 bracelets clanking on her spindly arms. The office had been polled, and several employees reported they thought they might have heard of roosters inhabiting various locales around the city. Instead of addresses, Jules had listed vague directions that instructed me to roam up to 10 city blocks, keeping my ear out for the cock’s crow.

Sudden panic washed over me. I still hadn’t mastered my sense of direction in Manhattan, and taking the subway seemed like an impossible feat. But interns must show no uncertainty! I took the paper with confidence then slinked off to hail a cab to Alphabet City. I wandered into bodegas, questioned locals and prayed a group of teenagers could give me a clue about their neighbor the rooster. Miraculously, they knew of the bird and even led me to the empty lot where he roamed. And when we got there, they mused about the day before when police officers came to take it away.

The NYPD must have been hot on the tail of every cock fighter in the city, as clue after clue turned up dead ends from China Town to Spanish Harlem. My stomach knotted in despair. There was no way I could return to the office without first finding a rooster. I’d conquered every assignment, no matter how tricky, gradually gaining allies in staffers who liked me for my persistence and tolerance. Admitting defeat would not only mean planning a new cover photograph, but also demonstrate I’d never fit into the Time Out faction. And, as interns, we’re convinced that fitting in is essential to being branded as hiring material.

Sensing my despair, my boyfriend called bearing good news: his coworker recently moved from an apartment by the Williamsburg Bridge, where he’d be awakened every morning by the cacophony of squawking poultry. A trip to the base of the bridge revealed the cause – an unmarked warehouse filled floor to ceiling with cages crammed with fowl. Asians lined up, selected their birds and loaded them, live, into backpacks. I pushed aside visions of bird flu, resigned to breathing through my mouth and confessed my odd request to the owner.

“No problem at all,” he replied with a heavy Spanish accent. “You can even take one out of the cage and put it wherever you like.” Images of roosters on yellow cabs or near fire hydrants flashed through my head – these pictures promised to be exactly what features was looking for.

Taking the store’s business card, I dialed Jules. I’d accomplished my task, passed the test. I was sure to be hailed as the greatest intern Time Out had ever hired. It was great that I’d managed to find the rooster, she said, but they’d gone ahead and taken a picture of one at the Brooklyn Zoo. I was thanked anyway.

While I’d continue to satisfy the features editors through the remainder of my internship, my preoccupation with obtaining their approval waned after that day. I’d never be able to morph into a city-savvy clone of other Time Out staffers, I realized. As I observed other internship candidates enter the office for interviews, nervously adjusting their ties and rifling through their resumes, I began to look forward to creating my own identity within my first place of work. While these interns would inevitably prolong the worker-bee intern syndrome, I hoped they, too, would realize that fitting in resulted from working hard, taking on challenging tasks and engaging in the occasional wild rooster chase.