It was guy time. My wife and younger son were out Christmas shopping, leaving me and my 13-year-old son home. The kid wanted me to play basketball. I told him that had to wait. First I had to have my fun with foam.
Expanding foam, technically known as polyurethane foam in pressurized cans, is not, repeat not a toy.
It is a serious tool in the homeowner's battle against drafts, holes and screw-ups. You shake it up, squirt it, and it plugs up gaps. It also is a hoot.
When it first snakes out of the can, expanding foam looks like shaving cream. But once it hits the air, several exciting things happen. It grows, almost as fast as the eggs of the murderous insects in the old horror film "Rodan." Growth rates vary from can to can, but the kind I used ballooned to over twice its original size.
Secondly, once it is set loose, expanding foam latches onto everything it rubs up against. It is grabbier than Sen. Bob Packwood. It seems especially attracted to bare skin.
Thirdly, after about an hour, the once-soft foam has turned rock hard. It may still look soft and pliable, but once it sets, the foam, like your ancient aunt's macaroons, has to be cut with a sharp knife.
This was the first time I had squirted expanding foam into dark spaces. I found it thrilling. I won't say the experience of emptying a $6-aerosol can filled every void in my life. But I will say it kept me happy for an afternoon.
The primary hole I plugged up was around a water pipe that ran from inside the house to a faucet on the exterior of the house. The hole around the pipe was so large that I could feel a stiff breeze whistle through it. The draft was cold enough to chill beer. Nonetheless, I figured I had better plug the hole up because it provided an appealing entry for marauding mice. I paused and gathered my thoughts for a moment before I began foaming. I had prepared myself for this undertaking by getting counseling from the guys in the neighborhood hardware store as well as by reading all the instructions on the can of foam.
The advice from all quarters was that I should cover my nakedness. I should wear gloves, eye protection and old clothes. You don't want to get this stuff on you, I was told. If you do, unsightly splotches will mark your body.
A guy in the hardware store also told me to keep my gloved fingers out of the foam. Don't try to wipe away the excess with your gloved fingers, he said. If you do, your fingers will stick together.
When working in the world of expanding foam you let your mistakes harden, then you slice them away with a knife, he explained.
Next I checked my squirting apparatus. For reasons I am sure I would understand if I had been paying attention back in high school physics class, the foam would only come out of the can when the can was upside down.
Rather than trying to understand this rule, I simply obeyed it. While I was at it, I checked the long plastic tubing and nozzle that fastened to the can and sent the foam on its merry way.
When I was sure my squirters were secure, I commenced foaming. It was a kick. I kept reminding myself that this was not a shaving cream fight, or a whipped cream foray, or even a Silly String experience. This was work. But my heart wouldn't buy it. There is something appealing to guys about squeezing the trigger on an aerosol can.
I went on a foaming frenzy, plugging up holes, real or imagined, all over the basement. The instructions on the can said I was supposed to stop squeezing when the hole was 40 percent full. The foam would expand, like those insect eggs in "Rodan," to fill the additional 60 percent.
That seemed simple enough. Trouble developed, however, in figuring out how big the hole was. It was dark in there. How do you fill 40 percent of a black hole? Mostly I guessed.
Eventually the can ran out of foam. That meant it was time to gingerly pull off my gloves and go play basketball with my son.
As I was cleaning up I noticed dark spots on my hands. Somehow the foam had slipped around my defenses and landed on my hands. I tried to get them off with paint thinner, and soap and water. Some of them came off, but a few spots lingered.
So later I played basketball with unsightly splotches on my hands. Nobody seemed to notice, except me. When I got my splotchy hands on the ball, I couldn't let it go.