My brother and I were, on most days and by most accounts, cool. Damn cool. Him more so than me (or so he told me…said the other kids had voted or something). But we both quickly lost the respect of others when the subject of breakfast came up because that was when we were sometimes forced to admit the rather embarrassing fact that, at our house, there were only two brands of cereal—Grape Nuts and Raisin Bran—also known as Sucks 1 and Sucks 2 (with the names being used almost interchangeably). It was awful.

Sometimes, though, our mother would take pity on us, look up from her morning crossword puzzle and say, "I can always make you some cream of wheat." I think she understood that, when we quickly slapped our hands over our mouths to keep from puking on the kitchen floor, we weren't particularly interested in that option either.

And thus we absolutely celebrated those times when someone slipped up and brought home some decent cereal. Or when Dad was drunk or otherwise in the mood to be generous, we could sometimes coax him into going to the grocery store, and once there, we could get just about anything we wanted. Including cereal.

One morning, while we were watching cartoons, we heard him fumbling around in the kitchen. We ran to see what was going on because, even at such a young age, we already knew that our father, at any given moment, was likely to make a rather entertaining spectacle of himself. And we certainly didn’t want to miss that.

“I don’t want any of this shit around here…who can eat this crap? Who the hell buys this stuff anyway?” he roared, his hands clinging to the kitchen cabinets like an oversized monkey clinging to a falling vine. We stood by silently, motionless, afraid to even look at each other, frozen in place, because we'd so very quickly discerned that there was so very much at stake. “I’m going to the grocery store to get my own damned cereal and none of you assholes better touch it.”

I started to squeal, probably even wet my pants a bit in the sheer excitement of the moment, so my brother had to speak for both of us. “Can we go too?”

“I don’t give a shit,” our father said, “but you better be loaded up in the car before I back out of the driveway.” And we were.

By the time we’d reached the store, my brother, sitting in the front seat, had negotiated the best deal that could be imagined: we each got to pick out our own box of cereal--we didn't even have to share--it just couldn't possibly get any better than that.

Our father, having stormed across the parking lot and into the store while we were still trying to figure out if our good fortune were really, seriously true, reached the cereal aisle first, picked out his Rice Krispies, and wandered off. So I stood there alone with my brother and he, too, quickly decided. And then he looked at me.

“You should get the Cap’n Crunch.”

“But I don’t want it.”

“Yes you do,” he said, forcing the box into my hands. I shoved it back on the shelf.

“Dad said I could get whatever I want and I don’t want that.”

“But you like it.”

“I know, but it isn’t what I want. If you want it so much, you should get it.”

“I’m getting this,” he said and he held up his box of cereal.

But I stood my ground. And then some. I searched the shelves for something I knew he wouldn’t want, something I knew he hated, and since he was barely human, I knew that all I had to do was pick something that showed my femininity, my sophistication.

He laughed then said, “Apple Jacks? You’re getting Apple Jacks? Wait ‘til I tell everyone that you eat Apple Jacks!”

“There’s nothing wrong with Apple Jacks,” I said, the quiver in my voice barely betraying my wilting confidence in my choice or my almost uncontrollable urge to beat him to death with a box of cereal.

“I have no doubt that you think there's nothing wrong with Apple Jacks because you’re so…oh nevermind. But they don’t even taste like apples and besides, what’s a jack anyway?”

There was nobody on earth I hated more than him. Ever. And I’d been on the earth for almost eight years then. He always thought he was so smart but this time, oh this time, I had him. I knew that, for once, I'd beat him at his own game.

“Oh yeah?” I pointed at his blue box, the goofy-grinning tiger looking back at me. “Well what about you—if you’re so smart, then just what is a frosted flake then?”

“You’re such an idiot,” he started, but I knew I had him. I knew I had him. “It’s a corn flake, stupid, frosted with sugar.”

He made it easy to hate him. But I still got my Apple Jacks.

And so it was with more than a touch of residual childhood bitterness that, recently, while making my way down the cereal aisle, I found something that could’ve, had they been around when I was a kid, dramatically altered my life to the extent that I’d likely be a totally different person today.

That’s right—I found those new cereal straws.

This discovery didn’t make me happy because it was a slap in the face, so obviously and distinctively unfair to recognize that these kids today have more choices than we did when we were kids. They’ve, in fact, got an entire aisle of choices. And I can assure you that they ain’t picking Grape Nuts or Raisin Bran.

Moreover, they’re not even bothered with the chore of lifting a spoon in an effort to get their recommended daily allowance of artificial fruit flavoring, granulated sugar, and red dye #40. And that's not fair.

Sheesh, kids today have got it made.