I would be mad, kind of, if our lunch table had not vocalized our dreams of imminent retirement this week.
You see, when my plan time rolls around, I expect to use it for planning and clerical duties that are part and parcel of my job. I don't host angsty teen gripe groups, put my feet on the desk and lose myself in YouTube, or make personal calls and texts. It is bad enough that the first twenty minutes of my plan time are wasted on copy day because people with a latter-day plan time must rush in between classes and monopolize the Kyocera with their last-minute emergency copies that they put off for tomorrow because they were too lazy to do yesterday.
I do not enjoy being accosted by a freshman lad mid-copy, requesting the materials that Procrastinator #1 had left on and in the machine. I especially am not pleased when that polite-enough freshman lad returns, and says he was told, "There should be WAY more copies than that." As if he was at fault, or I was shirking in my unofficial other duties as needed contract requirement as a copy-finder for an equal with twenty less years of experience. Because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a giver, she looked through all copies stacked in the lower rung of the copy extruder. And found some missing copies. As well as a stack of originals as high as an elephant's eye in the automatic feeder.
Yes, Mrs. HM did the good deed, even though she caught the culprit only yesterday manhandling a 35-page printout of the Next Generation Science Standards, hot off the internet from Tuesday afternoon. Which was, in fact, being made FOR the culprit and Arch Nemesis, out of the kindness of Mrs. HM's cold, cold heart.
I would be mad, kind of. But I know that in three short years, Procrastinator #1 will be without the services of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, Copy Clerk.