What's my age again? What's my age again.

Proof that I'm 12 (or younger):

Just the sight of prairie dogs makes me chuckle.
I refuse to eat brussel sprouts (nor spell it correctly, for that matter).
The three stooges are hilarious.
Dick Cheney frightens me.

Proof that I’m a lot older:

The radio in my car is tuned to Jazz, baby.

Proof that I’m 12:

Spontaneously chasing the little bunnies that I encounter while strolling the ‘hood is not out of the question.
Donuts, good. Asparagus, bad.
I, almost without fail, clap my hands gleefully in anticipation of dessert.

Proof that I’m older:

Dick Cheney frightens me.

Proof that I’m 12:

The word ‘boobs’, while pleasing to the ear, makes me blush.
I take great pleasure in winning contests; regardless of the opponent (that includes my 7 year old who hasn’t quite grasped the intricacies of Othello. Can you say undefeated? Yeah!).

Proof that I’m older:

2 words: ‘Naughty Time’ (whoa, I guess in this age that really isn’t the proof it used to be….)