The FBFD, that is: Former Boyfriend Dreams.
FBFD are dreams in which former boyfriends of mine have significant co-starring roles, or sometimes just make cameo appearances.
Some of my FBFD are “historical-realistic; i.e., they take place within the time frame when I knew the particular FBF who appears in the dream. Other FBFD take place in present (or near future) scenarios, with or without my current family members as part of the cast.
My brain concocts FBFD under certain circumstances of which I am aware, and, I assume, for other reasons effervescing in my subconscious. FBFD as seem to occur during certain Life Passage ® moments; e.g., when I’ve started a new project or am stuck on an old one, or find myself flustered by the passage of time and reflecting on roads not taken and the like.
Sometimes I wonder if other people experience the equivalent of FBFD.  I used to think that they must, but then I rarely see FBFD mentioned in lists of most common themes in adult dreams, which usually include
* Showing up to school/work/a job interview naked
* Teeth falling out
* Missing a school exam and/or taking a test for which you are totally unprepared
* Being chased by someone or some thing
* Showing up late for an important event
All of the scenarios listed above have made frequent appearances in my dreams.  But I’ve yet to see FBFD on anyone else’s dream-theme list. Just wondering.
* * *
Department Of Since Someone Recently Asked
Sometimes, very rarely,  I am asked to “explain” my views as a Humanist/Freethinker/Bright/Atheist, or describe how my views evolved  from my religious upbringing.
I can, when prompted, offer an articulate exllanation. However, as per the timeworn trope, a picture speaks louder than words.
* * *
Department Of Not Exactly OCD
But a quirk of mine, nonetheless:
I don’t like it when people pronounce all four syllables of the word, comfortable.
Don’t they know, it’s not kuhm-fer-tuh-buhl, it’s kumf-ter-bull.
BFD, right? I am almost ashamed to admit that I’ve actually argued with people over this.
I know: the four-syllable com-for-ta-ble way is the correct way to pronounce the word, no matter how snooty or Masterpiece Theatre-ish it sounds to moiself. But there are a whole lotta us commoners who use the shortcut. Thus, for the sake of linguistic harmony and world peace, I think we all should switch to using comfy, the pronunciation of which is fairly standard.
* * *
Terrorist Night Club Shooting; Alligator Baby Snatching….
Department Of Fun Times In Orlando This Week
On second thought, no comment.
* * *
Department Of Changing The Subject
In my blog post of July 24, 2015 (an elephant’s memory ain’t got nothing on me), I mentioned one of the few advantage so of having a birthday close to Christmas: getting multiple gift checks – which is what we aging children get from our parents – at or near the same time.
That particular advantage can (possibly only) be appreciated from an adult’s POV. As a kid, having a birthday on or near a holiday can be…shall we say…inopportune.  I was reminded of this recently when I had to provide my birth date on An Official Form Of Some Sort ®, which caused the Form Reader to commiserate, “How awful it is to have a birthday so close to Christmas – yours is even worse than mine!”
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, my parents suggested that our family celebrate my birthday on my half-birthday, June 16, in order to offset the fact that my actual birthday, December 16, seemed to get short-shrifted in the Christmas brouhaha.
My parents always tried to insure that my birthday was as special and stand-alone important as anyone else’s, and not just one-more-thing-to-have-to-do during the holiday season. They never, not once, gave me a present with the preamble, This is for your birthday and Christmas. Also, while my relatives’ and friends’ birthday gifts to moiself were usually presented in Christmas themed boxes, my parents’ gifts were always wrapped in birthday paper, and our family’s Christmas tree was not put up until the day after my birthday. Little things, sure, but the intention – which I recognized and appreciated – was to make sure my birthday wasn’t lost in the holiday shuffle.
However, the first time my parents suggested that I might want to move my birthday celebration to June elicited the kind of self-righteous retort only an eight year old can muster: You should have thought of that when you decided to have me in December!” 
As for the gift thing: I learned at a young age to stifle my instinctive riposte to the standard excuse comment from those who thought the best way to deal with my “inconvenient” birthday  was to convince me that theirs was a combo gift:
Faux Enthusiastic Gift-Giver: This is for your birthday and Christmas!
Moi Smartass Self: Well then, it better have cost twice as much!
* * *
Department Of While I’m On The Subject Of Family Celebrations
Last month (May 22), would have been my parents’ 63rd wedding anniversary.
I’ve had the good fortune to know widowed spouses who truly cherish talking about their deceased partners – they treasure the memories and stories that keep their loved one “alive” for them in the present. I’d hoped that my mother would reach that place, eventually.
As I have previously noted in this blog, my father died seven years ago, a fact my elderly, physically and mentally frail mother often…which has evolved into almost always…forgets.
My mother’s present day circumstances are not pleasant, in many ways. She is geographically comfortable,  but physically, cognitively and emotionally feeble. Of particular annoyance, embarrassment and pain to her (and to moiself and my siblings) is the fact that the one thing she is consistently aware of is her forgetfulness: she knows that she cannot be sure of what she knows or does not know.  Thus, the life that she cherishes  is in the past…but I can’t even go there in telephone conversations, because of what it may trigger.
There have been rare moments, these past seven years, when she’s mentioned my father without the fear/guilt/ agony of bereavement. But I always have to let her take the initiative re mentioning him…and when she does, 99.94 % of the time, it’s not good. 
I wish that I could have talked to her about the date last month. I wish I could have shared stories: Remember when we (their children) surprised you on your 25th anniversary, and Chet posed with the loving cup trophy we bought for you….
But that was then and this is now. And, as Compassionate Communication With The Memory Impaired reminds me, memory impairment is a disability. Reminders are rarely kind. They tell the patient how disabled they are – over and over again. Reminders of the recent past imply, “I remember; I’m okay; you don’t; you’re not.” Refer only to the present or the future.
* * *
May your life reminders bring you comfort and not anxiety;
May friends former and present be kind (or at least entertaining) agents in your dreams;
May you be comfy in your pronunciations of choice;
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
 Well, do you?
 I like my flying dreams the best. I have epic flying dreams.
 People who know me and “approve” or agree with or are neutral (or couldn’t give a flying squirrel’s ass) re my worldview don’t ask. Family and others who disagree and/or don’t approve have learned not to ask.
 Most (not all) religious people don’t use that word.
 Or just plain suck.
 I was not quite cognizant of the fact that my parents did not “decide to have me” at any certain date.
 Mostly adult relatives who used this term. This should be a no-brainer, but folks, never tell a child their birthday is “inconvenient.”
 Able, so far, to stay in her home – which is her resolutely expressed desire, no matter the emotional and financial detriment to others – with 24/7 care, arranged for and supervised by her children.
 I’ve learned the hard way never to go on autopilot and do the how are you? greeting, as she does not like to answer the question. “Well, I’m still here,” is her most optimistic (t) answer.
 And often re-writes to make it more cherish-able
 She wonders where he is, why he left her (as in, deserted her – she doesn’t remember he died), and why he and we (her adult children) are hiding this information from her?