TV RATINGS - 2/1/2007
>From PEX
Research by Jun Jun aska26ph2001@...
http://tv.groups.yahoo.com/group/ABS-CBNKapamilyaPEXers2
Posted by cybermyx
AGB OVERNIGHT RATINGS
Thursday - February 1, 2007
Sis 10.2
Homeboy 10.6
Yellow Handkerchief 17.3
Pilipinas Game KNB? 17.1
Eat Bulaga! 20.4
WoWoWee 22.2
Daisy Siete 15.0
Makita Ka Lang Muli 12.9
Princess Charming 12.9
Kapamilya Cinema 17.3
Full House 16.0
Inocente De Ti 12.5
Jewel In The Palace 17.6
Pangako Sa 'Yo 13.2
24 Oras 29.7
TV Patrol World 24.6
Asian Treasures 36.9
Kapamilya Deal or No Deal 23.7
Atlantika 32.8
Super Inggo 28.1
Bakekang 31.2
Sana Maulit Muli 31.2
Jumong 26.0
Maging Sino Ka Man 26.4
Starstruck 19.3
Princess Hours 19.0
Magpakailanman 20.0
Bandila 10.4
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Friday, February 02, 2007
Liloan, Cebu Lighthouse
Liloan, Cebu Lighthouse
Originally uploaded by arleighmac.
a windy and not so sunny friday afternnoon at bagacay, parola, liloan, cebu, its picturesque view will make you feel like you're in paradise.
"Mother’s daughter" ... from YOUNGBLOOD of INQUIRER.net
Mother's daughter
MOTHER'S Day is still several months away, but today I suddenly feel sentimental, thinking about my childhood and my mother. I don't think I have thanked my mother enough or told her I love her often enough.
I'm 28 year old but not too old to be my mother's little princess. I'm a trial lawyer but not knowledgeable enough about my own life to make decisions on my own.
Our relationship has never been the typical mother-daughter relationship. Communication between us from the day I started to think for myself has always been "choppy" or the "cannot be reached" sort of thing. There have been no easy and spontaneous demonstrations of love like hugs and kisses, or praises for little achievements in school. And I was hungry for them. I cannot remember trying to show to my mother my own feelings for her with hugs and kisses or by saying "I love you" for whatever she did for me. I couldn't; I froze at the very thought of doing so. "Baka mapahiya ako." [I was afraid of being rejected.] Besides, there was my baby brother who was and will always be the apple of her eye.
Most of the memories I have as a child revolve around my grandmother who took care of me during most of my formative years. Because my mother was busy with her work, she was a vague and ambiguous figure to me, although I knew I came out of her womb.
No love was lost (or won) between my mother and me. I have always been the rebellious, free spirited, independent type. I probably had to dig deep into my innermost strengths to endure a childhood without feeling loved by her. I became willful, competitive and ambitious. I thought that since my "Inang" (grandmother) loved me so much, nothing else mattered.
To project that I was unaffected by this distance between my mother and me, I focused on doing well in my studies while secretly wanting to know and hear how proud she was of me. I often found myself imagining loving scenes between my mother and me, such as a sentimental reunion when I visited her or a simple "Kumusta ka?" ["How are you?"] when I called home.
At 28, I am a very tired human being, tired of putting up walls around me to protect my very emotional heart and constantly reinforcing them so that no cracks would show and so that my mother would never notice them even if they were right in front of her.
Fighting with my mother, whether face to face or on the phone, has become routine. The reasons for our squabbles range from simple to complex things involving my life. Ironically, I feel closer to her whenever we fight because that's the only time she really expresses her feelings, no matter how negative, and then I get to glimpse her heart and soul.
What do we fight about? Mostly about my "lack of time" for her, like not being home during my free time or spending it with someone else. Lately, we have been fighting more about the person who found me and who has recently become the person I think I will marry.
During one of our ugliest fights, my mother demanded in her hair-raising voice that I choose between her and this person whom she said she would never accept (for whatever reason, she only knows). Many hurtful words were exchanged between us that night. To me, it seemed like a tsunami that had been held back for more than 20 years had broken the walls I had carefully built. And yet I let myself lose that round, realizing that I owed her my life and what I was.
I thought I couldn't have hurt her more seriously and so I moved out of my mother's house despite the strong objections of other members of our extended family. By that act, I was told, I was choosing a "stranger" over my own mother. What kind of person was I? How could I love somebody more than my own mother, my flesh and blood?
But I didn't choose anyone over her. We just both needed space.
Old wounds heal, but only after a very long time. There are wounds that have scarred me and left me unable to feel. But I feel no resentment toward my mother because even if I can never be the person she wants me to be, I know we are so much alike. She is proud as I am proud. She is strong as I am strong. She is weak as I am weak. Probably we are too much alike and we don't even realize that the likeness can no longer be disguised by the fights we have.
I am what I am today not because of the strength I imagined I had deep inside me, but because God has given me the same character traits my mother has. I am her daughter, albeit an improved version of her.
I know and recognize the sacrifices and hardships that she went through to put me through school. I know how hard it was for her to put up with me and my insensitive nature. I cannot tell her enough how grateful I am, even if she thinks everything I do confirms her belief that I am an ungrateful child. I cannot ask for her forgiveness enough, but I am truly sorry for whatever hurt, pain and suffering I have caused her. I cannot tell her I love her enough, because our differences always seem bigger than both of us. But I am most grateful and, in all humility, I ask for her forgiveness and I declare that I love her so much.
Her worst fear is that I might live an unhappy life, as she perceives her own to be an unhappy one. I pray constantly that she will find happiness and peace of mind, while she prays constantly that I will find the right partner. But I will find the right partner and live a happy life, because she has taught me many things that I didn't recognize to be useful then but do now. I will, because God has kept her and me together for more than 20 years.
Despite our differences, I am my mother's daughter. And every day is Mother's Day because not a day passes when I don't think of her.
Tina Geronimo Nievera, 28, is a trial lawyer.
Copyright 2007 Inquirer. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Fading memories ... from INQUIRER.net
arleigh <arleighmac@yahoo.com> wrote:
Date: Fri, 26 Jan 2007 17:43:24 -0800 (PST)
From: arleigh <arleighmac@yahoo.com>
Subject: Fading memories ... from INQUIRER.net
To: arleighmac.blog@yahoo.com
YOUNGBLOOD
Fading memories
IN A few months, I'll be turning 26, exactly the same age when my "kuya" [elder brother] died of lung cancer. I was only 11 years old then, and at that innocent age, 26 seemed, well, old. Not exactly old enough to die, but old enough to have done whatever you wanted to do in your life. After all, you've already lived a quarter of a century. But now that I'm approaching that age, I realize that 26 is way too early to have to deal with your mortality.Sadly, 13 years after his death, I discover that my memories of Kuya Ezer are beginning to fade. I am both ashamed and bothered by it, but that's the way it is. Apparently, seeing a person every day for 11 years is not enough to ensure that you would remember how he looks like when he's gone. If it weren't for the many pictures we have of him (he was thankfully into photography), I probably would not remember his face now.But I do remember some things about him. For one, I recall that he had an acne problem when he was younger. He would pound penicillin tablets to mix with his astringent and use a special kind of soap for his face (I think it was called Neko or something). I don't know if I remember the penicillin or the soap because I actually saw them among his beauty products, or from stories told by Diko Rey, my other brother, who is a year younger than him. But strangely enough, I distinctly remember the acne itself, those flaming red spots all over his face.I remember that he had a curious way of cupping my chin when he was feeling affectionate. My favorite picture of us together was taken when he was already bed-ridden and in his pajamas. It shows me wearing my favorite red shirt and lying beside him, and he is smiling a little and cupping my chin.Kuya Ezer was a voracious reader. He would underline or highlight words that he didn't understand so that he could look it up in a dictionary later on. He was obsessively concerned about correct grammar and spelling and pronunciation. Once he prepared and taught a summer program on English proficiency for my sister and me.Every day he taught us a new word, its meaning and its proper use. I think he scoured the dictionary and selected interesting words to learn. We began with A. We learned the meanings of "alight," and "averse," and "adverse," and "altogether," and other interesting A words. I think we reached C, but we had to stop because he got sick then. The Big C is such a spoilsport. If it weren't for that hateful, traitorous disease, I'd now be adept at using words beginning with Z.I remember that he was a skillful writer as well. He was always writing news articles and opinion columns for the newsletters he produced for our church. After he got sick, he wrote open letters to churches asking for prayers, and personal letters to his doctors.On his last night alive, I went home with a copy of the University of the Philippines Integrated School's high school newspaper, in which a poem I had written was published -- the only grade-school contribution in the entire paper. I went to his air-conditioned room and looked at him, but he was breathing out of an oxygen mask, and he seemed to be asleep, so I didn't tell him I got "published." But my parents were there, and I told them, and now as I remember the moment, I hope he heard what I said.Maybe if I knew that that would be the last time I'd see him alive, I would have done things a little differently. Maybe I wouldn't have been so proud of myself because getting a poem published isn't nearly as important as losing a brother. Or maybe I would have awakened him to tell him about the poem, because he was a writer as well, and he would have been proud of me for sure. Or maybe I would never even have mentioned the poem altogether and I would have just gone to him and thanked him for encouraging me to read and for teaching me grammar, and setting an example of what faith really meant. Or maybe I would have said goodbye and kissed him and told him I loved him, and that he didn't have to worry about my parents and my brother, and my sister and me, because we would be OK, and that we would see him again someday in heaven.It was a blessing that all this happened when I was only 11, because at that age you don't really understand much of what's going on. Even so, the death of a brother still scars you and scares you about going through another death in the family. Because death means you'll never see a person again, and you'll never be able to talk to him again. But now I realize that memories gradually fade over time, but feelings never do.It seems unfair to me to write about Kuya Ezer, and some of my memories of him, when I have another brother who died two years before I was born. Sangko Rene was only six years old when he died of hemorrhagic fever four days before Christmas. He was sick for less than a week, so his death came as a real shock. I was named after him.I'm sure Sanko Rene was thrilled when he saw our Kuya entering the gates of heaven. I've always pictured him running toward the familiar face and tugging at Kuya's hand to show him around. Then he takes Kuya to go see Jesus and all questions are answered and everything is explained and nothing else matters because they are face to face with their Savior, their Master and their Healer.Renette Glory R. Domingo, 25, is a Bachelor of Science in Economics graduate of the University of the Philippines in Diliman, Quezon City, and now works at HSBC in Makati.
Copyright 2007 Inquirer. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
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Friday, January 26, 2007
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| PRAY THIS EVEN IF YOU DON'T FEEL LIKE IT!! IT WILL ONLY TAKE A MINUTE. |
trial first entry
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Arleigh T. Macapagal
Regional Staff Engineer
P and EL Realty Corporation
www.arleighmac.tk
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Arleigh T. Macapagal
Regional Staff Engineer
P and EL Realty Corporation
www.arleighmac.tk
Breakfast clubs from YOUNGBLOOD of INQUIRER.net
Breakfast clubs
Published on page A11 of the January 25, 2007 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
WHEN we were growing up in San Juan, it was my parents' practice to hurry us children through breakfast (me most especially, since I eat so slowly that a sloth could go through a hotel buffet before I even finish the appetizers), hustle us, still bleary-eyed, into our car, and drive us to school before our brains became clear enough to remember that we didn't like going to school. After that, they would drive over to McDonald's Greenhills, the nearest one at the time, to meet their friends for breakfast.
Upon entering the restaurant, my parents, who were usually joined at the hip, would separate. My mom would join her amigas while my dad headed straight for his buddies. Conversations ranged from whose daughter was dating whose son to the latest fashion and on to whether the stock market was going up or down. For my parents and everyone in their circle of friends, it was a great way to start the workday.
The people who gathered in the restaurant were parents who had just seen their children off to school, elderly couples who lived in the San Juan area, or health buffs capping their morning walks or tai chi with a cup of coffee and some friendly conversation. The regulars enjoyed special treatment (as special as you can get in a fast-food restaurant, at least) by the morning staff. They were allowed to bring food inside the restaurant (having a McBreakfast every day will get to you eventually) even if it was a huge box of non-Mcpastries and all they ordered was coffee. Some people left mugs, which they preferred to use instead of styrofoam cups. And the regulars got free coffee refills long before it became de rigueur.
But as special as the treatment they were getting from the restaurant crew was, it was nothing compared to the feeling of belonging. When regulars came in for breakfast during weekdays, they were greeted by what sounded like the whole restaurant—not all at once, of course, which would have been creepy. And the whole place was always noisier than a classroom filled with misbehaving students.
Everyone knew everybody else, if only by face. It was almost like a secret club, minus the code names and unique handshakes. I remember asking my mother on more than one occasion who the lady she was saying hello was, only to be told, "I have no idea. We just see each other at McDonald's."
In the few times that I accompanied my parents to their breakfast club, I noticed one thing: Everybody seemed happy. It was as if problems were checked in at the door with the umbrellas and frowning would cost them their coffee refills.
Some people might think of this whole exercise as shallow and superficial, but I like to think of it as a release, if only for a little while, from the worries and cares of the world. No matter what was going on in their lives, the regulars knew that there was a place they could go to where they didn't have to talk about it, and if anyone did indulge in self-pity, peer pressure would stop him.
This community of McBreakfasters has always fascinated me, especially since I have never seen another quite like it. Sure, other communities have sprung up over a cup of coffee and a two-piece pancake meal, but none is as warm, vibrant and alive as the one my parents belonged to. Even now, when I enter the same McDonald's outlet on a weekday morning, everything seems subdued. Some people stopped coming once their youngest child went off to college. Others, like my father, have passed on. And though it's impossible not to see somebody one knows on any weekday morning there, the ratio of familiar to unfamiliar faces is becoming smaller and smaller.
I don't think they knew it, but my parents' McDonald's tradition taught me a few things. First, that breakfast is an important meal because it jump-starts your metabolism aside from giving you important nutrients to start your day.
But wait, I learned that from my homeroom teacher. Let's try again. What I learned from my parents' weekday breakfasts was that it is important to have a place, a ritual and a group of friends to help you either ground yourself in this tumultuous world or to help you forget your problems, if only for the duration of a meal. A little escapism is fine, as long as it rejuvenates your desire to take on anything that crosses your path. I also learned that you get treated better by people you treat like family, and that you can have almost anything (like a free refill), if you ask nicely enough.
I didn't realize it until now, but I have had the opportunity to put the first lesson to good use. Some high school friends and I have been getting together for breakfast every other weekend for the past few years now. We talk about anything under the sun, help each other out with problems, share with each other our craziest dreams and weirdest business ideas. Though we may be but a small group, albeit a noisy one, amid a sea of diners and we don't go to one restaurant often enough to be considered regulars (no special favors from the staff yet), we have found a tiny community, a rail to cling on to in the ship of life when the waves of the world threaten to wash us overboard. Someday, I hope to pass on like my father, hopefully to a place where every day is a breakfast shared with good friends.
Yvette Tan, 29, has just given up her job in the media to join the world of commerce. She writes for various publications and is addicted to lip gloss.
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