slightly wonky

Rubber band tornado
May 9, 2014, 1:13 pm
Filed under: Fleeting thoughts... | Tags:

So, I continue to be up to my eyeballs in colored rubber bands from my son’s rainbow loom.


Those bands are EVERYWHERE.  I think that they’re breeding.  We have an infestation.  Send help.

Not only are they tedious to pick up…they are even more tedious to sort by color.  If anyone out there is looking for a kind of mindless “zen” activity, please come over and sort rubber bands:


I’m thinking that my son might be a bit OCD with this stuff.  He makes things CONSTANTLY.  Here is a fraction of his rubber band creations:


It’s bordering on crazy.  He has made a bajillion bracelets:






Wait!  But there’s more!  You can make people!


…and turtles, tacos, bananas, carrots, hamburgers and prehistoric clubs!

bands food

…and other random stuff!

bands random

SIGH.  I know.  How can I judge?  Don’t I have a bevvy of random “crap”, I mean, “creations” too?  I see that I’ve passed down to my son the insatiable desire to MAKE STUFF.  His level of “making” is bordering on cray cray, though…don’t you think?  Is he going to be 40 years old, living in my basement, up to his armpits in bizarre rubber band thingys while he furiously makes more????  Why can’t he get that inspired to mop or dust????  (I suppose that I should ask myself that question, really.)

He’s not the only one obsessed:


Recently, at JoAnn Fabrics, I lost track of my son, only to find him clutching fifteen bags of red rubber bands.  Apparently, he was planning on making this hat.

No. Freaking. Way.

Rainbow loom is not just for kids, though:


Nice touch.


Steve Jobs is rolling over in his grave because of this one…

I told my son that he should take up knitting!!!  That isn’t quite as messy.  Maybe he’ll be the next Kaffe Fassett or Brandon Mably?  Hmmm…maybe not, as he went to school today with his shirt inside out because that’s what his friends are doing.  So much for his aesthetic sense…sigh.  I’m going back to trying to clean up all of these bands, a.k.a. “what did I do in a past life to deserve this?”


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