Since my wife passed in June, I once again have been left to my own devices. It is going as well as can be expected — which is to say disastrous.

The day I finally decided to wash the growing stack of dishes, the kitchen faucet snapped off. One moment I was swinging the faucet over one of the side-by-side sinks , the next, I was holding the spout in my hand while a spray of water blasting from a hole in the stem shot across the kitchen and extinguished the stovetop burner.

The faucet would have been repaired already if I was still married. But I am a guy living alone who doesn’t really care to tackle home repair projects after a full day of work.

So I catch the spray with a hospital bedpan until the pan’s full enough, set the sloshing tub in the sink, and wash dishes.

This, of course, occurs only about once a week. After all, it’s just me and I have table settings for eight. And I’ve discovered nifty inventions called paper plates and plastic spoons. They’re not just for picnics.

There’s very little incentive for a freshly minted widower to fix things, cook things or clean things. We operate on a system we refer to as practicality: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. And if it is broke, who’s gonna gripe?

Yesterday while sorting through another box of Terry’s things, I found all my Coca-Cola bowls and plates. She had replaced my kitchen furnishings with dishware that “makes it look like grownups live here.”

I think I’m closing in on where she hid all the tin advertising signs I’d nailed on the dining room walls during my bachelor days. Terry said the one with the dog and the Victrola wind-up record player was cute, but it really bothered her to have Babe Ruth touting underwear while our guests ate roast, carrots and potatoes.

I suggested serving meat loaf instead. She suggested something else in no uncertain terms. I took down the tins.

I learned the art of interior decoration in the dorms back in college. First, we picked a theme. Empty pizza boxes was perfect.

The basic materials were delivered in 30 minutes or less — and then it was time to take a break. A half hour later, we tacked the empty boxes to the walls for an elegant, understated piece of art. By ordering from different pizza places, we ensured variety of geometric patterns.

Later in life — but before I met Terry — I invented a multipurpose interior decorating style. You may recall my Burt’s Eye Magazine Card Stuffings Wallpapering System.

Harvest a few bales of those annoying ads that flutter from the pages of your favorite magazines and glue them onto any wall that needs papering. Not only does it save you the cost of regulation wallpaper, it turns your living room into a giant Google. Need the recipe for Death by Chocolate Brownies? It’s right there on the left side of the picture window, next to the Christmas gift idea for Uncle George of the 1919 delivery truck reproductions (“Order now and save!”) Or freshen up the mood with the scratch-and-sniff perfume ads for “Pearls of Passion” or “Midnight Madness.”

Terry vetoed this idea as well.

But now my genius is left unchecked, unfettered of Terry’s wisdom. And I bet that the living room book shelf will hold lots of boxes of Pop-Tarts. The microwave is going to fit nicely next to my easy chair.

• He misses Terry, and so do we. She saved him from many an error of his ways. Send help to bcole@tribtoday.com or the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.