Angela stood in front of the refrigerated section, starting at the cheeses.
"Just find the refrigerated, Pillsbury rolls, okay?" her mom asked, handing her a coupon. "Get either the loaves or the bread sticks. I'm planning to have them and some soup for lunch one day."
Angela could barely nod her head. "Alright... Alright..." She glanced at her mom. "Where are they...?"
"They should be down there."
Angela nodded, and walked down toward the refrigerators where her mother had motioned. Scanning the shelves, she didn't see any of the iconic blue tubes that she knew held pre-made, refrigerated dough, made for lazy housewives and cooking-impaired dads who just wanted to get the food done for heavens sake.
"This cannot be happening," Angela muttered. She rubbed her head and tried to stop sweating. "Not this... Not after earlier..."
She flashed back about half an hour to when she, her mother, and her sister Monica had been leaving Michael's. She hadn't felt any better then, either.
"It's not like Monica's talking helped."
She remembered walking down the aisles at Michael's with her overly talkative little sister, trying to find the 'Jumbo bag of mixed buttons'. Not only had it been a complete and total failure, but she had to endure her sister's talking, which included things along the lines of, "Angela! Angela look! Leaves! Real leaves! Are those real leaves? Angela! ARE THOSE REAL LEAVES!" as they passed the fake flowers, or, "I don't want to hold your hand! Glue. Why is there glue? Is that glue? That's glue. Angela!" as they passed the foam aisle.
Angela blinked, the odd stare of a passer waking her from her dream.
"...Crud," she muttered, as her task came back to mind. "Dough... Crap... I don't see it..." She muttered under her breath. "Mommy.." She wiped at her eyes and tried to ignore the prickling sensation behind them. She felt very hot, and the world was starting to blur. The sounds of people talking and bickering seemed to reach all time high levels in her ears, and she felt tempted to sit down and start crying. She would have, too, if she had even felt a bit capable of movement.
"Mommy," she muttered again. "They're not here..."
Forcing her legs to move, she turned around and stumbled back down the aisle where her mom was.
"I can't find them.."
There you go, folks. I didn't do a very good job describing it, but yeah. That's what happens when an introvert is over stimulated, exhausted, stressed out, and hungry.
Blurring and crying and over-emotional responses to random crap.
Moral of this story?
Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, go to a craft store and then grocery store with a 4 year old. You will regret it, and come close to possibly having a mental breakdown in the middle of Jewel.