Willie can Wail: Disney's all-time worst character

Ah, childhood! Was it ever as grotesque as this? Probably not, because until recently I never saw the animated version of what we used to call "Willie the Whale". We had a set of 78 rpm records telling the story, with a lot of long, boring, unnecessary narration to fill in the gaps. There was a picture of Willie dressed as Pagliacci on the cover, with a gigantic fake nose and a tutu.

It was decades later that I learned that Willie's melancholy story was actually an animated short tacked on to the end of a little-seen Disney movie called Make Mine Music. I don't know much about it, and frankly I don't feel like looking it up.

I am sorry to say this, but Willie was one of the most grotesque Disney figures of all time. You can't animate a whale, not like this anyway, with his mouth in the middle of his stomach. He looks like a foam-rubber toaster, and his inside is worse than his outside, with three gross-looking tonsils (or whatever) hanging down, indicating that he could sing tenor, baritone and bass all at the same time.

Disney did a much better whale with Pinocchio, but this one was spozed-ta be a friendly one, the reason for his loveable squashy shape. What ruined the effect was the bizarre opening in his stomach where hot air (and arias) blasted out. (And if his mouth was on his underside, how could he get a decent breath?)The story is about "a voice that sang at sea" that turns out to be Nelson Eddie pretending to be a large rectangular sea creature. Soon a demented scholar named Tetti-Tatti goes after him with a harpoon, claiming "the whale has-a swallowed a hoppera-singer!". (Though most hoppera-singers look like they've swallowed a whale.)

It's confusing to me at the end, as it's not really clear if his career singing "grand opera" (a creaky term if ever there was one) at "the Met" (which I assumed was the Metropolitan, a local department store) was all just a dream. At the conclusion there are some ferocious Melville moments, and the ending is more depressing than Old Yeller. But we get to see Willie at the end, presumably in heaven, now colored lavender with green wings and a halo. The Pearly Gates have a sign hung on them: SOLD OUT. We always suspected "our Willie" was a sellout: success spoils everybody.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1896300693/qid%3D1064537730/sr%3D11-1/ref%3Dsr_11_1/103-6792065-9634225

http://www.amazon.com/Mallory-Margaret-Gunning/dp/0888013116/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319992815&sr=1-1

The Whale who Wanted to Sing at the Met: Part 1

The Whale who Wanted to Sing at the Met: Part 2

After searching fruitlessly (saxophone poem)

AFTER SEARCHING FRUITLESSLY FOR A POEM BY BILLY COLLINS CALLED THE INVENTION OF THE SAXOPHONE, THE AUTHOR TAKES IT UPON HERSELF TO WRITE ONE OF HER OWN

i don’t know who invented this

reflexive question mark of an instrument

but i think it was a good thing

for it’s great to look at,

with fat keys like frog eyes
and a big bell like royal jelly
you could keep flowers in there if you wanted to,
extra socks
or even a clock

Snakes kink too

and this sound is snakey
purply mauve as the deepest bruise
and raunchy
as a man in love

smoked as some cat of the night

disappearing over a fence
it makes leaps
(but only because it has to)

There is no

morning saxophone

this is a sound that

pulls the shades down

a hangover

howl

fading to twilight

or the blackmost

belly button
of the night

Few can wrap their lips around

this gooseneck
without some harm coming to them
for this is an instrument
with a long history of
hollowing out
all but the most hardy

Bird flew into a pane

of glass and was
smashed

we don’t know why it does this to people

(maybe it was mad at him
for taking it all to such extremes)

but how could you blow this thing

halfway

i ask you

how could you rear back

in some great pained whiplash of the spine
without a sense of
terrible commitment

i never much cared for

saxophones myself

until i heard one blown correctly at last

jazz is a genre i will never understand
but perhaps that’s good
for like the priesthood, one must enter into it

without question

reservation
or doubt

Death of a church

It's not always sad when something dies: in fact, doesn't everyone, doesn't everything die in its own time?  But the death of a once-vital community is sometimes pretty sad to watch.


When I stumbled on this video while looking for something else, I felt a jolt from the past: this was Park Street United Church in Chatham, Ontario, the church I attended from birth to age 16. It's typical of the sort of edifice you saw back then, a huge brick building in traditional style, with stained glass windows, a gigantic pipe organ, varnishy-smelling pews, dusty red carpet, and cavernous echoing acoustics.

Well, maybe not. As a kid I don't remember that echo. That's because the sanctuary would be full most Sundays. I have heard that at one point this church had something like 1000 members and adherents. It also attracted a firebrand, one of the most controversial ministers in Canadian history, a man who was eventually defrocked and even jailed for his pains.



I've written about him before: Rev. Russell Horsburgh, self-nicknamed "The Rev". He burned into the skin of my consciousness like a brand, so much so that I felt compelled to weave him into the narrative of my second novel, Mallory. This was the early '60s, and the Rev hit the ground running, implementing so many controversial social programs that many people wondered just what the hell they had signed on for.

I won't go into the whole story here, though I will provide a link to two excellent articles written about him, telling me things that my six-to-ten-year-old self never knew. But I did know some things: that people were buzzing and whispering, that the air was crackling with suspicion and accusations of teenagers drinking and even having sex in the church basement. Those who supported Horsburgh - and believe me, I know from subsequent experience that ANY mininster, no matter how corrupt, will split a congregation and siphon off a band of supporters - claimed it was a witch hunt. There were stories on national TV, newspaper articles, even a book (or two). 




I will quote (below) a postscript I wrote to the original articles, including some personal memories of Horsburgh, whom I remember as an abrasive, belligerent man. As he was increasingly opposed, he became paranoid and sometimes frightening. It was possible to see him as a martyr, but I personally don't doubt those rumors about the young people's group because I saw things going on that dumbfounded me. I  just didn't understand how all this could be happening in the church I was baptized in.


Postscript. Though the Gilberts have a right to their opinion based on what they were able to piece together about Horsburgh, the fact remains that they were not there when it happened. Public opinion eventually swung back in Horsburgh's favor, but my own view is that it swung too far.

I was ten years old when Horsburgh was removed from Park Street United Church. I remember a belligerent, browbeating figure literally pounding the pulpit as he harangued his astonished congregation about their unforgiveable rigidity and ignorance.

I remember three very drunken teenage boys hanging around outside the church late one evening, guffawing and slurring, "Hey, where's the Rev?"

I remember my father's best friend saying, "he's a psychopath," though at the time I didn't know what that meant.

I remember my mother, the least-gossipy person I knew, whispering to someone, "You know, they found empty liquor bottles in the church basement. And worse."

I remember a church bulletin that had an entire page bizarrely x-ed out. When my older brother held it up to the light, he saw that it contained a fulminating rant aimed directly at the ignorant fools of Park Street United, ending with a famous quote: “You ungrateful people should be ashamed of yourselves. . . . I am sorry I ever freed you from the tyrants and the papists. You ungrateful beasts, you are not worthy of the treasure of the gospel. If you don’t improve, I will stop preaching rather than cast pearls before swine.”

It was signed:

Martin Luther
Russell Horsburgh

The meltdown of a church is agonizing. I've been through it in recent years. I don't think things are ever the same after that, though everyone claims to have experienced rebirth and resurrection. When I watched the video I posted today, I began to see why Park Street United eventually closed its doors. Shot by a professional company, the video is an exercise in awkwardness. It's like the funeral of a very old, very unpleasant man who didn't have too many friends. There are half-empty pews everywhere, and a good many more that are completely vacant. It's as if those members who survived felt obligated to come. The sanctuary echoes eerily, and the service itself is dreary and interminable, without one single spark of passion, enthusiasm or joy.

In this video I see the United Church's demise played out in all its tattered glory. A few years ago the church hired a PR person and set up a web site called Wondercafe (no mention of church anywhere!), which strains so hard to be hip that it's embarrassing. This includes bobblehead Christs and the E-Z Answer Squirrel, which randomly gives yes or no answers to deep spiritual questions.

The fact that the United Church is burying its old identity under this squirm-inducing nonsense reveals a shocking truth: they're even afraid to say who they are! Afraid to align themselves with wheezy pipe organs and elderly congregants who attend because that's what they've always done.

Where is the passion? The only passion I have experienced in a church came from a man who in retrospect seems to have been half-crazy. He was brought down for his pains, and maybe he had to be. But when the church goes on and on and on about revitalization and finally paying off its debts, I see a sinking ship, and people trying to bail it out with a thimble.

Unfortunately (for me), the only churches I see with any real spirit are fundamentalist. The music is rollicking, the messages proclaimed like great good news. And I can't be any part of it. They don't need me because they're burgeoning already: a great many people seem to want to be told what to believe.

Meantime, we're left with E-Z answers and a strained attempt to appear "relevant". But watch this video, and you'll see it all laid bare, the demise of an institution that is slowly but surely heading towards oblivion.

http://www.cktimes.ca/archives/column/11/9271.html

http://www.cktimes.ca/archives/column/11/9302.html

http://www.wondercafe.ca/webisodes/ez-answer-squirrel

Margaret's Links:

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1896300693/qid%3D1064537730/sr%3D11-1/ref%3Dsr_11_1/103-6792065-9634225

http://www.amazon.com/Mallory-Margaret-Gunning/dp/0888013116/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319992815&sr=1-1

Pumpkin Patch Kids

Erica the Sunny Sunflower!

Lauren with. . . wooden tomatoes?

Hey, I can't lift this thing!!

                                                

                                     We want this many. . . to start.

 

                                     No, we're not putting them back!

                  How about THIS many?



                                

   PUMPKINS FOR EVERYONE!

http://www.laitypumpkinpatch.com/

Necking

A most painful-looking erotic display. Or do they hate each other? George and Martha Giraffe?

You'd better go in disguise

Back when I had That Other Blog, in that other lifetime, I tried and tried to find this version of Teddy Bears' Picnic, an excerpt from the superb 1986 British miniseries The Singing Detective. (I've ordered a DVD copy and will probably be commenting on it later.)

But the thing is. . . I wasn't looking for this one at all, not this time. I was looking for the one I stumbled on when looking for this one before.  It was a chorus of what sounded like English people, old hippies with long grey hair and floral crowns and jerkins and that sort of thing (whatever a jerkin is). They sang it delightfully, buoyantly, but I didn't keep the link, or if I did, I'll be damned if I know where it is.

There's a movie version of The Singing Detective, but don't bother with it. The '86 series is pure surrealism. Its hero is a tortured writer of crime novels,  his skin rotting away from psoriatic arthritis (the same soul-rot afflicting my afflicted sister). It has almost been forgotten, but not by me. This little taste will give you. . . a little taste. Now 'scuse me while I hunt for that other one.

Thanks for the Memory

This clip is nothing less than a piece of film history: Bob Hope and Shirley Ross singing "Thanks for the Memory" (NOT "memories!") in a movie called The Big Broadcast of 1938.

I first saw this movie while sleeping in the den (a special privilege granted only on a non-school night) in about 1964. The pullout bed was excruciating, but that was all part of the experience: I'd watch a Cleveland creature-feature show called Hoolihan and Big Chuck (and, incredibly, the same Big Chuck still hosts that show after all these years), re-re-re-reruns of shows like Topper and Love That Bob, and, sometimes, a gem like this one.

There was something of a W. C. Fields revival going on at that time. Before I'd even seen one of his movies, my Dad would boom on and on in his gusty, Bushmills-inspired way about Fields, and even quote from some of his monologues: the "Ethiopian in the fuel supply," "where will you be at noon tonight?" and "I cut a path through a solid wall of human flesh" (from another Fields gem, Mississipi, with a startlingly young, almost effeminate Bing Crosby).

I can't say as we really believed what my Dad was saying until this Fields festival began. We saw Mississipi, The Bank Dick, You Can't Cheat an Honest Man, and My Little Chickadee (where Fields and Mae West basically cancelled each other out).

But then came The Big Broadcast, probably at about 2 a.m. At some point my older brother stumbled in from a dance, likely tanked, and we began to record the sound track of the movie on an old Webcor reel-to-reel tape recorder with a fan-shaped microphone that weighed 47 pounds.

The movie was about a race between two ocean liners, the Colossal and the Gigantic. Fields is supposed to be in charge but ends up on the wrong boat (after his golf cart becomes airborne and lands on the deck), wreaking havoc throughout. To see him perform both his golf routine and his pool routine in one movie makes it worth the price of admission.

But the movie is also pretty excruciating. Bob Hope is the emcee (with the running gag that he can't get a laugh from the audience)for a dreary assortment of yesterday's performers: Shep Fields and his Rippling Rhythm Orchestra (a kind of clumsy forerunner of Lawrence Welk), the very gay-looking Latin lover Tito Guizarre, and (shudder) the infamous Nazi sympathizer Kirsten Flagstad, who sings Brunhilde's Battle Cry from (Lohengrin? Whatever.)

Then comes this song, fairly near the end. Obviously, the two of them have had a tempestuous marriage that finally blew apart. But watch Shirley Ross as she registers each tart, tender line (Hope basically just sits there, his eyes like the dots on dice). There are many extra verses here that you will never find if you look up the lyrics anywhere. The song is evocative and never corny. It took me forever to figure out the subtle code of these lines:

"Letters with sweet little secrets
That couldn't be put in a daywire
Too bad it all had to go haywire
That's life, I guess
I love. . . your dress."

The song ends with the haunting lines:

"Strictly entre-nous, darling, how are you
And how are all those little dreams that never did come true. . . "

"Little dreams." "Sweet little secrets." In spite of trying, they never did have a child. He went on to get married three or four more times. He's a cad, and she knows it. He has a sort of surface charm, a slickness. But he's a great straight man for Ross' brilliance, and he does not try to out-react or out-shine her. Perhaps he made the right decision after all.

The song stuck to him for the rest of his life (well over 100 years), always misquoted as "Thanks for the Memories". But here is where it started, and, as far as I am concerned, ended too.

I DON'T love boobies: or, why I refuse to buy pink TicTacs

Postmedia News Oct 14, 2011 – 9:21 AM ET | Last Updated: Oct 14, 2011 10:55 AM ET

By John Colebourn
KELOWNA, B.C. — Students at a Kelowna middle school have been told to leave some “edgy” breast-cancer bracelets at home.
Springvalley Middle School has banned students from wearing the breast cancer awareness wristbands because they say the bracelets are offensive.
The bracelets, which have the slogan ‘I [love] boobies!’ printed on them, are part of a youth-oriented breast cancer awareness campaign by Keep A Breast Canada.
The wristbands were banned last month, when it was determined the language is not suitable for teenagers, said School District 23 superintendent Hugh Gloster.
Gloster said they were first made aware of the controversy by a number of parents who complained. From there they felt the bracelets violate the school’s code of conduct.
“Our code of conduct says if you are wearing something offensive to people then you’ll have to cover it up or remove it,” said Gloster.
Gloster said the Keep A Breast campaign is very different from other cancer drives.
“There’s an edgy nature to the marketing,” he said. “In some cases it has caused distraction and some people feel it is offensive.”
Keep A Breast executive director Michelle Murray has said the bracelets are for a younger demographic to heighten awareness about breast cancer.
Gloster said the school will still be active in other health-related campaigns.
“We certainly recognize the need for awareness for breast cancer,” he said.
Vancouver Province

(And I quote.)

This little story, which I first heard on the evening news (and, incredibly, the news anchor did not say what the slogan was!) sums up much of what I've been feeling in the past few years about a certain cancer awareness campaign.


It's enough already. It's enough with the tits up, or tits down, or tits hanging out. Enough boobs, boobies, tee-hee-hee, aren't we daring, aren't we modern! And most especially, it's enough with the flood of marketing, the tasteless line of every kind of goods imaginable from sweaters to mugs to pens to notebooks to knitting wool (it's all PINK, folks - why on earth would you want to knit in any other colour?). Edible goods have been creeping in, too, but I was especially offended when I went to buy some shampoo at the drug store and the clerk aggressively pitched a prominent display of grapefruit-flavoured pink TicTacs.

Why am I offended? Because if you really buy what this campaign is pitching, you will sooner or later come to believe certain things:

(a) Breast cancer is the #l killer of women in North America (if not the world).

(b) Selling lots and lots of pink things will cure it.

(c) The money from these pink things all goes to breast cancer research.

(d) Other forms of female cancer just aren't as important.  So we don't need a campaign for them. They'll sort of take care of themselves.

All these assumptions are completely false, but why would we know that? Steadily bombarded by the pink machine, we are slowly and unwittingly becoming mesmerized into believing what they are telling us. Or what they want us to believe.

I don't know how this pink avalanche got started, but it has reached the point of nausea for me. School children wearing "I love boobies" bracelets? Just the fact that women's breasts are now glibly being called boobies makes me shake my head.

I have breasts. They have been useful to me: in fact, I used them for the function for which they were designed, and it was a wonderful experience. Now they're more of a hindrance, harder to fit with a bra, in need of mammograms and intense poking and feeling by doctors. But they're there.

I don't think I'm a stick-in-the-mud, but I don't want anyone, not even my life partner, calling them "boobies" because it is a juvenile, vulgar term that only takes away from the dignity of the cause: or does it? Everything these people do, no matter how tasteless, is eagerly swept up and embraced by beaming women running around in pink track suits.

It's a known fact that testicular cancer is one of the leading causes of death in men over a certain age. So why is there no "I love balls" campaign, with pictures of. . . oh never mind.  Rectal cancer? It might be misconstrued if we claimed to "love" assholes (for surely that term is no more vulgar than "boobies"). And how can you love ovaries? I love what they DO, mind you - they're miraculous little organs. But a cancerous ovary is a ticking time bomb, not a bouncy little thing you put on a bracelet.

But unfortunately, pink is not the only colour. This morning when I took my coffee into the living room, I noticed a 3" stack of greeting cards on the coffee table.

I asked my husband, "Where the hell did these come from?"

"Oh. Charities."

"Which ones?"

"I don't know, I get them all confused now."

The "stuff", the junk they force on us (tacky "holiday" cards with teddy bears on them, pens we really don't need, and - most recently - one of those environmental tote bags, an awful one made out of thin paper), is meant to strong-arm us into donating to the disease or cause of the week.

Through guilt. No other reason. We don't ask for this stuff, we don't want it. But it's impossible to get rid of it, to get ourselves off the mailing list. So it just keeps coming, and it's hard to throw it away. It stares back at us, accusing. What sort of skinflint won't give to a charity that is sweet and caring enough to send you a gift?

Maybe they think this works, and maybe it does. As with the pink juggernaut, these charities must hire some pretty obnoxious ad-men (and women) to design aggressive campaigns to make everyone feel lousy about themselves if they don't do what they tell us we "should".  In my case, it makes me so angry I won't even consider donating to their lousy cause (and statistically, only a fraction of our hard-earned dollars ever makes it to the research foundations or pink bra-makers or whatever-it-is we think we're supporting through our financial contributions).

There's something even worse, and that's what is happening at checkout counters in stores everywhere: "Would you like to donate $2 to the Send a Quadriplegic Little Girl with Terminal Cancer to the Circus Foundation?" Things like that. There are so many of them now that they all sort of blur together. Who knows how many of them are bogus. Some people give to all of them, all the time, because they just feel so bad if they don't.

By the way, it used to be ONE dollar. Somewhere along the line there was a 100% increase, and not only did nobody say anything, everybody just ponied up.

This kind of adds up. If you went on a shopping trip and went to five stores, well, I don't have to do the math, do I? If you went shopping one day a week for a year, it adds up to. . . but we don't add it up, that's the problem. That's how they get us. Nobody will mind tacking on a couple of bucks to save a sick pony or whatever it is.

One more thing. These bona fide charities are the thin edge of the wedge, allowing scammers to move in like an infection and penetrate the crack in our hearts. The other day when I was walking down Granville Street in Vancouver, I saw a scruffy-looking young couple with hand-made signs around their necks that said, "Save the Children". They were good talkers, and there were lots of takers (or should I say givers).  But then, they had already been softened up. As P. T. Barnum put it, there's one born every minute.

I realize charities are up against it, but so are we. There has to be a better way than squeezing us like this. The breast cancer campaign is an example of some very highly-paid PR person creating a monster with grasping tentacles reaching everywhere. It has completely mowed down public awareness of other forms of cancer that are infinitely more deadly. A big bucket of pink paint has been splashed on everything, and nobody says anything because it's like stomping on a bunch of baby chicks. You simply can't.

I'll make a deal with these people. The day they launch their new "I Love Colons" campaign (with everything in brown, of course), I'll wear their wretched booby bracelet with a wink and a smile.

(Post-script. I know someone will accuse me of being a skinflint who doesn't care. I'm not saying "don't give", just "be selective", not to mention careful. I'm not against breast cancer research, but those people will NEVER get a donation from me because I find them so offensive in their tactics. Over several decades I have donated regularly to UNICEF, particularly during natural disasters. They focus on the plight of children worldwide, have done it for a very long time, and I have never heard about a scandal connected with them. More recently, I give to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation: my little granddaughter Lauren has Type 1, so I often donate in lieu of a gift at Christmas and birthdays. I know my husband gives to a couple more, his own personal choices: kidney and a women's shelter, Covenant House, I think. That's quite a lot of giving. But NO PINK, please.)

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1896300693/qid%3D1064537730/sr%3D11-1/ref%3Dsr_11_1/103-6792065-9634225

http://www.amazon.com/Mallory-Margaret-Gunning/dp/0888013116/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319992815&sr=1-1

Heave-ho, heave-ho, it's not to work I go

 

When I first read this article (below) - actually, I don't even think it was this article, but something like it - I was appalled. The lack of humanity, the utter lack of honesty and straightforwardness made me dizzy. I haven't worked in an office for some time. It seems as if you have to grow very long antennae to try to figure out what is actually going on, or soon you'll be spinning around on your ass on black ice. Outside.

When did this happen, or has it always been that way? It sure vindicates my post of yesterday when I said that even one mistake can cost you your job. Not only that: they won't even TELL you it has cost you your job. More than one person has told me they never found out they were fired until they saw their position posted on an internet employment site.

I weep for humanity. I weep for people who have families to support who are canned for no good reason except that the boss seems to be tired of them. People who are subtly pushed away and kept out of the loop, and thus CAN'T perform up to their potential because they do not know what the hell is going on.

It seems we have a whole new set of rules here, so you'd better not listen to all those chirpy Tony Robbins-type motivational speakers who tell you to make tons of mistakes in order to "learn". Don't make mistakes, people! Don't make any. You won't "learn". You'll be canned, and it won't look very good on your resume.

Signs You're About to Get Fired

Rusty Rueff, On Friday March 4, 2011, 12:35 pm EST

Too many times after someone gets fired, they say, "I should have seen it coming." But most of us don't see the signs because we don't want to see them. They're there, sometimes right in front of us.

Here are some cautionary signs your last day may be coming sooner than you think:

There's been a "change" in your boss' behavior towards you. This isn't always a fatal sign, but you should be sensitive to it. If you sense your boss isn't being as friendly or open as usual, something bad might be brewing. If she no longer acts in a way that makes you feel secure and comfortable in your job and relationship with her, like dropping by the cubicle unannounced to sit and shoot the breeze or seeking your advice, it could be a sign of trouble.

One-on-ones are consistently canceled. Beyond your boss' attitude or changing behavior, if he starts canceling every one-on-one meeting you've scheduled, or you have trouble getting his time and attention, then he could be feeling guilt about what's coming next. He could be avoiding you.

The boss has a new attention to detail. In the past, you were always left alone to perform, without much attention or coaching, but all of a sudden your boss is all over you. Maybe she's asking too many questions, setting deadlines, and following up on small tasks that once never mattered. It could be that she's building her performance case and getting her ducks in order.

No more talks about planning and the future. If by this time last year you were planning ahead for the annual conference or future budgets, yet now you aren't getting information or invites to meetings, then it's probably because you aren't considered as someone who will be here for the future.

The "insider" stops talking to you. Every team has someone we know is the boss' insider. This is the person who your boss talks to more than anyone else, who she asks for advice and counsel. If you were the insider and all of a sudden the flow of information slows, that says it all. Or if someone you know is the boss' insider stops talking to you or begins avoiding you, then it could be that he knows more than you do and is reacting to an uncomfortable bit of knowledge.

HR doesn't have time for you. This is assuming that HR used to have time for you. HR employees are like anyone else in that they'll avoid uncomfortable situations for fear of saying the wrong thing or setting the wrong expectations. Take note if they're "unavailable" or not hanging around with you like they used to do.

Your complaints get answered with, "You're right." In the past, you may have had conversations about how your job wasn't challenging enough, and your boss would try to convince you otherwise. But if recently she starts agreeing and sending signals almost encouraging you to go find another job, don't miss that sign.

Before you panic and think you're going to lose your job tomorrow morning, recognize that this is much like a horoscope--we can see enough of it in any given day that it looks like it's true and written just for us. See these changes as what they are, warning signs, and nothing more. If any of these are happening to you right now, set up time to speak with your boss to ask what you can do to improve. Do this before it's too late, and you'll avoid getting blindsided.

Rusty Rueff, director and career expert for jobs and career website Glassdoor.com has been a CEO, led HR in global companies and is co-author of Talent Force: A New Manifesto for the Human Side of Business.

Margaret's Links:

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1896300693/qid%3D1064537730/sr%3D11-1/ref%3Dsr_11_1/103-6792065-9634225

http://www.amazon.com/Mallory-Margaret-Gunning/dp/0888013116/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319992815&sr=1-1