How I will be remembered in 2384

Three Star Trek-ish men in white lab coats are watching while a DNA - enhanced robot digs a hole in what used to be my garden.

They cheer when the robot finally stumbles upon my time capsule.

The robot climbs out of the 16 feet hole I dug on a cool summer evening, and gives the capsule to one of the men. The man now holding the capsule, handles it as if it were an ancient dinosaur bone. He sits on the side of the hole, letting his legs dangle freely. While the other men command their paper thin Mac books to fly from their suitcases and land in their laps, the man opens the time capsule.

With carefulness I've only seen when handling my deceased grandma's china, they go through my stuff. Jotting down value, purpose, dates and several characteristics of the 21st century.

Though pleased with themselves they found this capsule, in horror they take out two black things with holes in them. They exchange looks, nod and one of the men with the levitating Mac books, says "Not thou, Nadine" as he writes in his Excel 2400 document: "2008: the year fashion sense died."

The men wrap their investigation up. Thrilled about finding their treasure and disappointed about their ancestor's choice in fashion. Knowing better than to try if the Godiva Key Lime Chocolate Truffles are still eatable, one of the men puts one in his mouth anyway. Choking on the deceased chocolate and with disgust, he tosses Monkey's new black Crocs back in the hole.

They laugh and then they set up camp, using my nursing bras as a multi-person tent.

Monkey in his new black Crocs digging a hole for our time capsule in 85 F plus heat. OK, that's a lie. That is not our garden (I wish, our garden is stamp-size). This is actually a local playground.