6. The Engaging Educational Examination

From the academic desk of Dr. Sheldon Cooper (B.S., M.S., M.A., Ph.D., Sc.D. – for now)

Well, I find myself in quite a quandary. A predicament. A pickle, I daresay. And I have never been one to care much for relishes and condiments.

All right. I shall calm my mind using the techniques of my favourite lecturer at Starfleet Academy and begin at the beginning. I have decided to pen a record of my experiences with the young Miss Katie Farrah Fowler, imagining it to be of great value to a generation yet to come. Yes, I have little faith in the 'scientific' nature of the Humanities – but if I am doing it, how can it be wrong? Besides, I do believe that my writings will benefit homo sapiens much more than some predictable fluff penned by a woman who once was a journalist. Ah, to imagine the look of pure delight on a young boy's face when he discovers my droll little tale in his favourite scientific bookstore! The wondrous things mankind can learn from my scholastic interactions with young Miss Fowler!

But that's neither here not there nor a monkey's uncle, as Meemaw says.

As soon as I discovered the intellectual supremacy in a thesis submitted by Miss Katie Farrah Fowler, I invoked clause 3.2(b) of the Roommate Agreement, as amended, and had Leonard rush me over to my office in the modern-day Pasadena ant-farm known as Cal-Tech. (Note for future readers – I use 'modern' in a loose, early twenty-first century context. Obviously, it is as unicycles and horse-drawn carriages to the technology you revel in now.) The journey was five minutes and thirty-two seconds above the average, a deviation I ascribe to Leonard's muttered mumbling and persistence on giving way to senior citizens who have aged beyond the appropriate driving age and should not be on our roads. Highlighting my theories on an appropriate driving age did not make the time pass faster, I must note.

Once ensconced at my desk, a veritable Fortress of Solitude (thought with an infinitely superior temperature and higher comfort levels), I started delving into my files. Despite the proven superiority of modern technology (refer to note above regarding use of 'modern), some of my colleagues (again, a word I use loosely) insist on keeping printed and bound records of information. The day will come when all scientists are forced to keep their data in electronic format, with exceptions made for experiments and material proofs, and until such day, I, Sheldon Cooper, am doomed to dig through a dusty layer of shabby files to find the research I required.

In this state of mess, dust and personal disarray, enter my mother.

My mother is the one person that may be greeted with a physical gesture of affection (I'm told). I extended the obligatory cordial handshake to her, with a smile, and was somewhat taken aback at her response. I will record the conversation in full, even attempting some direct quotes, so that the future generations may notice some social blunders I may have overlooked. (This is one of those times that everybody should be grateful for my eidetic memory.)

"Shellybean, I know the good Lord didn't give you the sense of an earthworm," she began.

I had to correct her erroneous grasp of natural history, as I always do. (I believe it to be one of the more enjoyable aspects of our mother-son relationships). "Actually, earthworms are held to have a highly developed sense of touch and smell. Helminthologists believe that it somehow amends for the particular invertebrate's blindness, although I've concluded that it is more likely the result of ... "

"We're not talking about earthworms, dear," my mother said, apparently calm, as she seated herself at Raj's Brobdingnagian monstrosity.

"You brought it up," I muttered.

"What are you doing with Amy's sister?"

"Nothing. She's not here."

"I meant, why have you decided to be her mentor? Couldn't Leonard or the little brown fellow be her study guide?"

Since I believed my mother was making a joke, I indulged in a brief and hearty 'haha!' and inquired after the health of my Meemaw. From the fact that my mother told me to sit down and shut up, I assume it was the wrong response. (Note for future historians – wasn't I in the right here? Clearly no-one, not even a fundamentalist from Texan, would believe that saddling a young genius like Miss Katie Farrah Fowler with Leonard or Raj would be anything other than an intellectual injustice – one which will not occur on my watch. It's not for nothing that I had my Justice League of America Membership Card #12049294 laminated.)

"Now, I know you know that Amy is upset by your shenanigans. I know you don't know that in your heart or whatever you have in your chest, but Penny, Leonard and the Jew have all tried to convey that message to you," my mother began, using that voice she uses when she tells me not to buy iridium from Iran. "I also know it might be a little difficult for you to understand why that is. Let me explain it this way. Imagine Leonard was touching your comics, without using rubber gloves ..."

"I don't ask that Leonard use rubber gloves when handling my comics," I interjected, aghast at her misunderstanding. "I insist on latex."

"Now imagine Leonard is touching your comics, without using latex gloves, and he accidentally tears one of them. Then offers to replace your Batman with Archie. How would you feel about it?"

I could only stare at her in horror.

"Exactly. That is how Amy feels about you associating yourself with Katie. You have entered into a relationship agreement with Amy and whatever games you two choose to play, is by-and-large up to you. But as your mother, I have the right and the responsibility to stop you from hurting and confusing that poor girl even more. Whatever a relationship agreement may mean to you, it is still a contract and in Texas, your word is your bond."

I mentioned the clause that involves that neither may be involved with the other's research. My mother snorted regally (and yes, she can snort regally; it is an acoustic oddity not yet fully explained by audiophiles).

"In the preamble to your agreement, is it clearly stated that both the Boyfriend party and the Girlfriend party will strive to avoid the infliction of unnecessary emotional trauma," she pointed out.

"That is meant to prevent her from making me watch Babylon Earth," I clarified.

"And it is also meant to prevent either one of you hurting the other. And what you're doing to her now hurts her, Shelly. It hurts like you hurt Missy when Snowball died in that thingamajig you made."

"That's hardly a fair comparison," I objected. "Missy loved Snowball and Amy does not experience similar feelings of fondness, affection or even mild warmth toward her sister."

My mother folded her hands on the desk in a way that made the neck on my hair tingle. "You will either stop seeing this girl or you will break off your relationship with Amy."

"I can hardly stop seeing Katie, as you so colloquially phrase it," I said. "I'm obligated by the university to accept candidates for doctoral programmes. It's part of my job and didn't you raise me to have a good work ethic?"

"I also raised you to be a celibate Christian," my mother shot back. "Very well, then. You will outline your position to Amy, you will listen to what she has to say and ..."

"Mother, may I refer you to the clause which states that ..."

"... if you don't," my mother continued levelly, "I will tell the American government why methane levels really started flattening out in the 1980s."

Future generations, future reader – do not judge me for my assumed cowardice. I assume that the methane mystery will have been resolved, with my name duly cleared, by the time you peruse my musings. Yet at the time when the threat was made, I still faced the likelihood of severe penalties, the loss of my livelihood and a forced relationship with a muscular trucker named Bubba who will expect my subservience. I had no choice but to set the date with Amy Farrah Fowler. I am updating this in expectation of her arrival and will update you as events transpire.