The perfect place for jelly to lay

(First person to identify what the title of this post has to do with the post itself gets a gold star.)

I-275 is an interstate highway that runs a loop all around Cincinnati and the surrounding area, which is where I live. For those of you who don’t know or care (I’m guessing that’s most of you) Peter Frampton now lives in Cincinnati. Specifically, he lives in Indian Hill, a fancy-pants suburb of Cincinnati that’s right off I-275.

I tell you this so I can tell you a story: Earlier this year, The Mister traded in his truck for a new car. Two nights before he was supposed to go trade it in and sign all the papers and what have you, neither of us could sleep, so The Mister decided he’d burn up what was left in his truck’s tank by driving the entire 275 loop in one whack with no stops. We had both been on every mile of it at some point, but neither of us had ever made the entire circle. So, at about midnight on a random Wednesday in January, we set out on our mission.

As we got close to the Indian Hill exit, we could see a HUGE house just off the highway. “I bet that’s Peter Frampton’s house… he lives out here, you know,” I said.

The Mister didn’t say anything, just leaned on his horn for a solid 10 or 15 seconds. Several lights in the house went on.

“I think you just woke up Peter Frampton!” I said, then we spent the next five miles or so giggling like idiots.

I never did find out if that really was his house, but it doesn’t matter. Now, whenever Peter Frampton comes up, I think of That Time We Woke Up Peter Frampton and can’t help but smile.