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weather, it’s easier to trim back new growth. In cold weather, growth is dormant. Besides, you’re too busy in the spring with planting new flora. (Or burying dead bodies.)  
    Rule #2: Make sure your shears are sharp! Pull out the sharpening tools, such as a benchstone, waterstone, or whetstone. The rough side of these items is perfect for filing your blades. (Or for grinding a nose out of joint.)
    Rule #3: Thin out the oldest branches first. If it’s dead, chop it away! This can be done with hand shears. However if the branch is larger than a couple inches, use a handsaw (which is also useful for the wandering fingers of untoward gentlemen who might also be described as nasty pricks).

    A bee has landed in my ear.  
    No—
    I guess I’m dreaming.
    Then why won’t that damn bee shut the hell up?
    My arm reaches out to swat it away. Yes, I smack something. From his bad-tempered grunt, I realize that I hit the side of Jack’s head. Oops, wrong direction. I turn on my side and force one eye open. From the way in which it is trembling on my nightstand, I realize it’s my cell phone that is buzzing—
    At five-twenty in the morning.
    Who in hell has the nerve to call me at this ungodly hour?
    Oh, my God—Ryan. Maybe we’re too late, and the killer seeds are already out there.  
    My other eye pops open in order to verify that, no, it’s not Ryan calling to tell us that the world has blown up. (I know this because his Caller ID shows the name and telephone number of a local pie shop that acts as a front for Acme. It was Abu’s idea, really. He sells the pies, and I make them. But due to our mission schedule, we’re not exactly raking it in. Still, the pin money is always appreciated.)
    Then, if not Ryan, whom?
    I fumble with the cell phone until it clicks on. “Hello?” I sound as if I’m talking underwater.
    “Donna, dear? Did I wake you?”
    “What do you think?” I croak.  
    “Ah, such a pity.” The mock sympathy in the woman’s purr is all too familiar. It’s Catherine Martin—Evan’s mother. “Guess what happens on Friday?”
    “Um…no idea.”
    “Go ahead, take a wild guess,” she hisses.
    “What…is it Black Friday? Friday the thirteenth?”
    She sighs. “You could say that. It’s my birthday.”
    “Congratulations. Don’t expect a cake with a file in it.”
    She laughs raucously. “I expect my son —you remember— the one you stole from me, using your whore spawn daughter as bait. ”
    A ray of sun slips through the slanted blinds. It’s going to be another glorious California day. That being said, this is not the way I wish to spend a beautiful sunrise. “Goodbye, Catherine.” Her accusations are meant as barbs to make me wince with guilt, but sorry, I’m not playing her little game.
    “Wait, Donna! Don’t…don’t hang up!”
    I don’t, but only because it’s the first time I’ve heard such desperation in my old frenemy’s voice. “I…I’d like to see Evan. He’s avoided me since he moved in with you.”  
    “He’s seventeen, Catherine. I can’t force him to see you.”
    “You’ve got more influence over him than you’re willing to admit,” she insists. “If the shoe were on the other foot—”
    “Don’t go there, Catherine. We both know that if it were me in jail, you’d do what you could to make sure I fried.”
    She snickers. “Okay, I’ll admit it, if I’d been President, I wouldn’t have minded seeing you hang at the end of a rope. Sadly, the best they can do these days is lethal injection—not that I’m worried for myself, mind you.”
    “I know. Your ‘get out of jail’ card is already secured.” Evidence that our president-elect ordered a hit on her spouse was discovered prior to her inauguration. She resigned, which gave way for Lee, the vice-president-elect, to be sworn into the highest office of the land and allow the nation to recover from the shock and awe of learning of her heinous deed. Her future reward for doing so was a pardon