That's ANNALs. With TWO "n"s.
Okay, so Jean and Joel and I are driving home from Rent last night. It was at the Ordway (which is right downtown St Paul, so we just take 3rd street all the way down. And it was so good. I cried lots.). So anyway, we're driving home; it's 10:45 PM. Now, 3rd Street between downtown and our house is NOT the best neighborhood. Nay, it's maybe one of the worst two neighborhoods in St Paul. But, you know, we just keep driving; it's not like it's the South Side of Chicago; don't-live-your-life-in-fear, all that rot.
So Jean's driving, and Joel's shotgun.
Joel: "How fast are we going?"
Me (piping up from the back seat, because that's the only way to talk from the back seat): "Joel thinks he can run this fast!"
Joel: "No!! I said, like, 20!"
(Aside: this is referencing a conversation Joel and I had a couple months ago, in which he claimed that, at his top speed in like high school, he could hit 20 mph. Or maybe 30.)
Me: "Well, either way, you can't run that fast."
Joel: "Can too!"
Jean: "Here, Joel, get out of the car and run. We'll drive next to you and tell you how fast you're going."
At which, Joel actually unbuckles his seat belt and pops his door open. Mind you, we are still driving. Jean quickly pulls the car over to the curb, and Joel hops out and takes off down the street ahead of us. I don't know how Jean is able to drive, because I am laughing so hard my face is starting to cramp up. But she starts the car moving, and soon is going about 10 mph.
I stick my head out the window to holler our speed at Joel, who is tearing up the street in his dress shirt, dress pants, tie, and dress-shoes-with-the-holes-in-the-soles-because-he-won't-take-himself-shoe-shopping.
Me (as we approach him from behind): "10! Honey! We're going ten miles per hour!"
Joel: "Ten!! No prob--"
At which point, of course, Jean and I had already FLOWN by him, zipping by at the blazing speed of, of course, ten miles per hour.
But was Joel discouraged by the fact that his top speed topped out around 4 mph?? NO! He immediately (and joyfully) started handicapping himself.
"Well!" he says triumphantly, hopping back into the car, "that was in dress shoes. With holes! AND I have that broken ankle. There's 6 or 7 mph right there! And I was only jogging -- my top speed is at LEAST double that."
Within about 15 seconds he managed to talk himself back up to "about" 20 mph again.
I love that guy.