Eric Laine     House Mother Hmmrrraaeeghhhuh ... sound the power-tool alarm clocks outside your gasping window, as the bushwhacking noise growls forth another rude-awakening. That inadvertent reminder of an early rise yo' mama so routinely performed still beckons for attention in the new form of your friendly Realtor's pagan work force. Cursing and coughing, the many gripes of your post-home life flash to mind the maternal care and control of the #1 realty task force in Charlottesville. A quick yawn passes and snooze-time brings forth another five-minute Jeopardy! flashback into your lamenting noodle: -- I'll take "Charlottesville realty tycoons" for 500, Alex. -- This agency embodies three ideals of American realty conquest in its title and is on a mission to be all it can be with C'ville's property. -- What is "Management Services Corporation?" -- Correct! Crawling out of bed, you decide it's time for an objective evaluation of your property management before thoughts of landlord lynching come to mind. M for management? Always organized, mobilized maintenance teams, good ad-brochures, and a management force for hundreds of living spaces around the university. S for services? Extra-effort in "caring" for tenants and their living environments, not to mention the "facial" value of the properties -- in short, the firm embrace of a caring, coy, and effeminate side to realty service. C for corporation? Money-making-machine: big-budgets, fat rent checks, and deep deposits. Is there an objective verdict to be reached? Quite plainly -- no -- for the mix is missing one key ingredient pertaining to tenant privacy. Yes, it's no joke, at the sober age of 21 my lifestyle's private corner fails to provide an acceptable place for chaos and dirty socks to roam. The curious nose of my surrogate mom property manager is looming and bound to break peace and recluse. Problem: the unclipped umbilical cord I'm bound to called "lease" that refuses to allow an escape from the embryonic bubble containing "rules and regulations for an orderly and appealing living environment." My utopian wish: to be granted a lunchbox of trust and respect for handlin' my space. Where does a pubescent boy begin to summarize his frustration with maternal overseeing? Easy: with those random room inspections -- the premise for entrance being ma's innocent worry of orderliness, when hence: "what's this, ohmylord, that little ... " Back in Collegeville from outta town during the holiday season, I'm greeted with three inspection receipts, a note announcing prospective tenants' interest, and -- embarrassingly last -- the dirty abode I'd left behind. Yet, let's not forget the love, oh yes, those CVS red-dot special Danish cookies I was buttered up with as a Christmas bonus. Well, if it means rejecting the cookie-love for some sweet independence, cookiemonster says bring it on. A vision of rule-revision hits home and with a few calls, few complaints -- nada -- I'm back to the sucking cord of my Lease's conditions. Why complain? I pay rent and by virtue of capitalism am attempting to buy some privacy. In the end, regardless of analogy, I question these female Realtors' imperative to regularly check the habitual space of their tenants. In regard to the gender-bashing -- exsqueeze me -- the maternal approach seems to be an undeniably unique characteristic of this corporation. But why not let the whining end on a positive note, perhaps even back to those closely trimmed bushes of spring-primping. Order sometimes attains beauty, a quality that makes living environments more peachy. Take the make-over project just completed in the hallways for an instance: newly plastered, scratch' n' sniff, swirly wallpaper, the kind that evokes a more neighborly vibe amongst tenants -- and we mustn't forget the "artiste" they hired to paint emblematic cross-designs at the corridors' knee-level -- all in the name of fighting the sterility we all face five minutes a day. Positivity's not easy when life's cheesy. This is no call for the patriarchal self-survival task force to make a comeback and impose frequent fire drills. But I thought this place was known for Pragmatism -- how 'bout the Saharan heat in the hallways, the initial reason for my winter-gasping windows. I suppose it's all a petty debate of realty politics versus just one insecure dirty male tenant. But by the laws of fairness and order, let's not forget the ever-growing voice of the minority and consider what the heat is doing for 'dem roaches fleeing to my side of the wall -- ahhh -- love and beauty in motion.

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