Wendi Stewart - Wendi with an 'eye'

There’s something deliciously comforting about a snowstorm—the feeling you get when you are tucked inside your house safe and warm while the road and weather reports say roads closed, businesses closed, schools closed, all events cancelled.

The feeling when the cupboards are reasonably stocked with staples like potato chips and cookies (I mean, salad fixings and lots of vegetables) and when the generator is sitting ready just in case.

When I was a kid, my family played board games, though not often. Mostly we played outside—building forts in trees and in the hay, and we spent a great deal of time catching frogs.

There were a few marathons of “Monopoly,” where I never seemed to be much of a land baron, getting stuck with the likes of Baltic Avenue, earning a pittance in rent, and someone always lost interest, wandering off before the game was won.

I should probably get my two cents’ worth in about Lance Armstrong.

Not that he is of any consequence in my life or in your life, but just watching (or rather trying not to watch) the huge carnival and fiasco about his confession, his coming clean about being a cheater and a liar, got me thinking about some other things.

So though I’d rather not give Lance Armstrong any of my time, and don’t want to come off as a holier-than-though individual, I do think the situation warrants comment and helps me work out what goes so horribly wrong in society.

The United Nations was formed in 1945 at the end of the Second World War with the participation of 51 countries.

In 2011, there were 193 members with the addition of The Republic of South Sudan.

Peace is the UN’s main objective but fostering friendly co-operation between countries, considering the plight of those burdened with poverty and possible solutions thereof, as well as to be a centre to create actions that achieve their goals are all part of the UN’s mandate.

If I were to die tomorrow, I’d like to think my children, once they got over being sad, would regale each other with tales of when their mother went berserk.

What a great word. Berserk. It hasn’t happened often but when it did, well, it is the stuff of legends.

There was the Future Shop incident with a computer I had bought from them 18 months previous and I was still without a functioning modem. Suffice to say, my patience and tolerance for poor customer service had been extinguished.

Christmas has come and gone. I’m always amazed by how far off it seems, and then it is as if someone turned a dial and everything fast-forwarded.

I ate my weight in Turtles and poppycock, even though I vowed I wouldn’t. I even may have promised myself I would do better this year.

Alas, my willpower misunderstood—doing better seemed to mean breaking the world record of chocolate pecan gooey-things consumed in a 24-hour period.

A book sits on the corner of my desk poking at me, calling me names, just generally annoying me.

It’s title is “The Willpower Instinct,” written by Kelly McGonigal, Ph.D. Kelly, if I may call her that, not because I know her personally but it seems more friendly than Dr. McGonigal, and Dr. McGonigal sounds a bit pretentious.

“Said the night wind to the little lamb.”

A beautiful Christmas carol that always gets me wondering—wondering about Christmas memories and trying to categorize them down from most favourite, which is impossible because they’re all wonderful.

If I had to choose, it would be the quiet and magic of Christmas Eve.

I liked lying under the Christmas tree with all the lights out, save the ones on the tree. I would put Perry Como on the record player, the old, well-worn 78 that played “The Night Before Christmas.”

I was thinking about artwork the other night when I caught some program on television discussing the investment value of owning a renowned artist’s work.

I’m willing to bet most of us will never own a da Vinci or a Monet or a Renoir (and I had to look those up to get the spelling right).

I could go on to say that da Vinci was an Italian Renaissance artist from the 15th century while the other two were more contemporary in that Monet was a French Impressionist who died in 1926 and likewise was Renoir, who died in 1919.

This is my 100th column. I suppose in the grand scheme of things, a column being number eight-nine or 512 really hasn’t a whole lot of significance, not exactly “shut the front door” worthy.

But it certainly means something to me.

First, it makes me feel a deep sense of gratitude to Jim Cumming for giving me the opportunity to record on paper those thoughts and memories that tumble around in my head.