I'm turning into my mother

There have been ever so subtle signs as I've grown older that I am in fact becoming my mother. The first incident happened about a year ago. I found myself (sadly) grocery shopping on a Friday night, and (even more sadly) in the produce section, squeezing a cantaloupe to see if it was ripe. I had never before squeezed fruit, and even now, when the realization of what I was doing dawned on me, I found myself frozen in between a row of watermelons and pita breads. I was squeezing as if I was an old pro, as if I knew what I was looking for.
The second time was when I was Christmas gift shopping at Barnes & Nobles. I had forgotten to print off some 20% off internet coupons that I had received, and even though it would only have saved me two or three bucks, I put the books back on their shelves, vowing to come back, coupons in hand. That's right. I will gladly pay $400 for a Diane Von Furstenburg Jersey dress for myself, but only $20 for Christmas gifts for my loved ones.
My mother is both loving and cold at the same time. She's kind of like a taco with mild sauce and sour cream. She has the best intentions, but they are quickly followed up with statements like, "Honey, it's so good to see you. Let's bond." This is followed by a few minutes of awkward silence and her staring at me. Another of my favorites is the last time we went to the grocery store. My grandmother had just passed away, and we needed to buy enough groceries to feed 30 clinger-on family members for the weekend. As soon as we walk in the door, she grabs a cart and pushes it towards me. This is my sign that I will obviously be the cart pusher. She then says, "Honey, pick out whatever you want." Walking through the meats area, I tossed two Rotisserie Chickens into the cart. She abruptly took them out, making a sour face. "Sapphire, who likes chicken? No one eats chicken. Who will eat this. It will just go bad." Umm... "Actually, mother, most of America eats chicken. How about soup? Kroger's has some fun soups. Let's get the won ton one." I get another face like the woman just stepped in dog poo. "Who likes soup? It will just go bad." I abruptly stop pushing the cart. "Mother, I thought that you said that I could get whatever I wanted?" My mother paused for a moment. Then without saying a word, she walked back, picked up the Rotisserie Chickens and the soup, and put them in the cart. Sapphire 1, Mom 0.