This is where women can come to vent about their (past, present, maybe even future?) husbands’…idiosyncrasies.

You know what I’m talking about.

Share your stories, anonymously or not, with other like-minded individuals. Sharp stories, edgy entreaties, and amusing anecdotes are welcome.

It’s easy to be part of  Sharpen Your Knives

  1. Subscribe to SYK.
  2. Submit your story to
  3. Remember to say whether your identity should be kept mum!

That’s it. Complete the above steps and you’re in.

The goal: hopefully by sharing our stories we’ll discover that we are in all in good company with our (minor! oh so minor!) daily frustrations and irritations…and if we dump them here, we can (hopefully) avoid dumping them on our spouses.


Tell your friends!

Keep your submissions around 200-400 words if possible (but shorter pieces are also fine!). As editor, I reserve the right to edit for typos, grammar, and length.


This week’s guest post by Kristen Leighton. Check out Kristen’s blog at  Kristen is a wife, mother, writer, blogger,  yoga teacher, and a bad girl who bakes.


Marriage is a great institution, but I’m not ready for an institution. –Mae West

Something went terribly wrong for me the day I began washing a man’s underpants—I became invisible.  I went from sexy to shabby in eight seconds flat.  Was I really a raggedy-ass version of my former self?  I sure hope not, none-the-less, that’s how it felt.

I’m no expert on the subject of marriage, but it seems, from my observations of the species “husband” that the marriage certificate is like a big old “gotcha”—a license to fart, belch, watch too much TV, and play too much golf.  The husband reverts back to life at home with mom—no concern as to how the meal gets to the dinner table or how the clean boxers end up back in his dresser.  My apologies to the husbands out there who do laundry and cook.  I married one who doesn’t and I’m pretty sure he’s not the only one.

The problem—as I see it now—was not that I said “I do” and my husband morphed into someone I didn’t recognize, but that I morphed into someone I didn’t recognize.  The solution after fourteen years—speak up or get divorced.  It was as simple and as complicated as that.

I started with the real obvious stuff, for example, we teach our son to say please and thank-you, perhaps you should lead by example and say:  Thanks for dinner it was great (even if you don’t mean it…..sometimes you have to fake it until you make it).

Then I moved on:  On date night, which doesn’t happen often enough in my opinion, I don’t want to talk about your job, our child, or sports which, basically, without a great deal of effort would leave us sitting in the restaurant staring at our dinner plates in silence like those little old elderly people you see eating and not talking, like they’re all talked out after forty or fifty years together.  Anything worth having is worth working for.

When you track dirt in from outside or make a mess shelling peanuts in the living room while watching some stupid-ass sporting event and it causes me more work in my day to clean it up—apologize.  A little I’m sorry goes a long way to making me feel better about having to wait on you and pick up after you.

And, last, but certainly not least:  When you want to make love, don’t honk my left breast and think it’s going to turn me on like a car engine.  I need to be kissed, talked to, and romanced.

Ladies, I’m here to tell you it’s an easy problem to fix.  Men are not like us (no shit) they tend to get over things and get on with life without holding a grudge.  Tell them how you feel.

Husbands, have you thanked, kissed, sweet-talked, and romanced your wife today?  Turn off your computer and get too it.  You won’t be sorry!

Have you been married for 10 or more years?  What do you do to keep the love alive?


A recently retired husband puttering around the house is a good thing, right?  It’s true that the aggravating errands for which I am responsible have been cut in half, but I envisioned that all the aggravating chores might be cut in half, given that I’ve been burdened with both the lion’s and lioness’ share of household upkeep for many years.

Silly me, I fantasized gliding across the wood floors in my house without the disgusting grit and crunch that comes four or five days post-vacuum, after we’ve walked around, our pets have shed, and the groceries and other junk have been dragged in from the alternately dusty or muddy outside.  The detritus build-up becomes intolerable by day seven post-vacuum.  Ideally the vacuum fairies would come daily, but reasonably I figured that we could move from a once-a-week vacuum up to a twice-a-week vacuum up, because there were two potential vacuumers at home now.

When my husband asked what chores he might do on a rainy day, I suggested ‘Well, you could vacuum.’

To which he replied ‘Oh, I don’t want to take that away from you!  I know you love vacuuming.’


He thinks I like (worse—love!) vacuuming?

How could I love dragging a canister around, emptying the crap, listening to the noise, catching the cord, unplugging the cord, moving the furniture out, moving it back, hauling the beast up the stairs?  Do I like (no—love!) knowing that the hour I’m burning is really wasted time—it’s not like once you do it then you don’t have to do it again.  The second you stop someone starts dropping pieces of crap all over the place.

Seriously?  I like vacuuming?  He doesn’t get it.

What I like (love, even) isn’t vacuuming. It’s when it’s done and it’s vacuum-ed.

Huge difference.

This week’s guest blogger is Sheila. Thank you so much for your post!!!!

This week’s guest blogger is Jody O’Farrell. Jody is a Respiratory Therapist, an ordained Interfaith Minister and a Notary Public. She lives in Maine with Sir Samuel Dickens, her kitty and her significant other. She is an avid biker and hiker who loves travelling, photography, and the outdoors.  Reach Jody at

My SO ( significant other…could be insignificant if he keeps it up 😉 ) recently went to stay at his brother’s to assist in some family needs. This is good. Up to this point we had not been apart other than regular working hours for months and at that have shared frequent texts throughout the day…new love, you see.  The move into the brother’s was somewhat sudden so I didn’t have much time to process this new arrangement; in fact I learned by a text message that it would be necessary. This is not so good. My beau and I did make phone connection later that evening, albeit briefly and was promised that he would call me back in a short while. Hmm; define short. 18 hours later after 3 text messages and 1 pleading phone message to said promise maker to “please call me”  I get the promised call. Okay so the guy is busy and I’m a cling-on but come on, a promise is a promise, right?

We discuss it, we talk.. excuses made…apologies given….oops gotta go, another promise-this one with an attached time. 10:00 pm-

I promise babe”.  Let’s see, at this writing it has now been 16 hours and no call.

He did text…..does that count?

      I promise I will consider not wringing his neck when I see him.

My husband is always challenged by the fact that my birthday and Mother’s Day fall in the same month. In one way it’s good: he gets them both over with and doesn’t have to think about it for another year. In another way, it’s bad: he has to come up with not one but two gifts in the space of two weeks! The pressure!

He came up with a unique solution one year. He knew that I loved Dr. Scholl’s sandals and had been thinking of getting a new pair. He even knew my shoe size. I had been coveting a red pair but hadn’t bought them; they were pretty expensive.

He decided to surprise me with them for Mother’s Day. When he gave me the present and I opened the box, I was very surprised, and very happy! I really, really wanted these. I was confused though, when I only found one sandal in the box. After a moment, I said, “I love them! Thank you! But where’s the other sandal?”

Wait for it….

He was giving me one for Mother’s Day, and the other one for my birthday.

He made me wait, too.

This week’s guest post is by Susan Joakim. 🙂 
John turned 50 this past June.  It was really an uneventful birthday for him.  He shared that 49 was the birthday that made him feel like he was growing older, so turning 50 was a piece of cake.

So I’m at Hannaford getting some vitamins when I notice that there is a vitamin for “Men 50+”.  I buy it for John.  When I get home John tells me he’d rather have the stuff for younger guys.  I said, “Well, maybe this will make you feel like the younger guys.”  Then I compare his new 50+ vitamins with my women’s one a day.  Interesting – but according to the label they have all the same vitamins and minerals at the same amount.  What does that mean?  Maybe 50+ men feel better when they are more like 50+ women?  I don’t know for sure, but some weird twist of fate is sure to come out of these vitamins.

One of the first things John did when he turned 50 was join AARP.  Oh glory.  A few weeks later the AARP magazine shows up with none other than Sharon Stone on the cover.  Great, just what my 50+ husband needs, a magazine that shows all the things his own wife isn’t.  Ug.  But wait, on the cover are these headings, see the pictures below, and I’m wondering what in the world is this all about – what kind of message is AARP saying – Please, our flirting days are way over – where are all the headings about colon cancer and constipation that I expected???

But I do have to give AARP credit, they did recommend one of my favorite movies as a ‘must see’; The First Grader.  And for recommended reading they by-passed all the ‘look 10 years younger’ or ‘money suggestion so you can retire’ type of books and suggest that 50+ adults read books such as NEWBERY books written for young adults – Okay another one of my favorite things….so the magazine isn’t all that bad, just rip off the cover and select which articles are worth reading.

As for turning 50, well John still acts like he’s in junior high, as his daughters constantly remind him, and he’s as handsome as ever, so I guess he’s setting a pretty good example for me three birthdays from now.

Thanks, Susan!!!

Readers: Please consider submitting a story for next week’s post!

Buying presents for my husband was always a challenge. I worked hard to try to get him something he liked and he almost never did like it.  He was (and still is) always distressing honest about whether the gift was a hit or a miss, as I’d come to think of it.

I am the opposite. I always say “I love it!” to whatever he gets me, because I love the effort he made. Except once.

One year for Christmas, he gave me Mariah Carey’s Christmas CD. We hadn’t been married very long. I tried to be polite and thanked him,  but my curiosity finally got to me.

“Why did you get me that CD?” I asked him. “Because you like her so I thought you’d like her Christmas CD,” he replied. “What made you think I like her?” I asked.  Because you listen to her music; you have her other CD’s…” he trailed off, obviously remembering something.

That was his other girlfriend.