I have this friend, Dan. I don't see him too often, because he's busy being an investment banker and steadily hitting on any woman within 12 years of his age. Everyone needs a life mission, after all.
Dan lives close to me, and I hang out at his apartment often. We both live in walkups, on the top floors (you should see our legs!) but that's about all our homes have in common. Inside Dan's refrigerator, there's always a chilled bottle of white wine, just waiting to be corked; on top of his fridge is an intimidating lineup of bad-tasting, drunk-making 12-year-old scotch.
My refrigerator houses two bottles of lime juice (really, can you ever have enough?), a hard boiled egg, and soy-mayonnaise, bought during a brief-lived health kick. I can't really explain the contents: let's just say that I'm prepared to make gimlets if you want to bring over the vodka.
Like my old elementary school pen pal from the foreign mid-west, Dan occasionally likes to ask me what I do during a typical day. I find his curiosity intensely flattering, but also baffling. If only he knew that a typical day consists only of dreams of puppies & vincent d'onofrio, adventures on the train, dental disasters, working, and complaining. But bankers don't really get to use the internet, and so he'll remain in ignorance, unlike you.