Anyway, before I even dreamed I would ever have the means to buy an apartment, Nina Garcia was complaining about the renovation of her new place. She was talking about how much it cost to redo the bathroom. I thought she said $17,000 and was aghast.

“No,” she said, “Seventy thousand dollars.”

I nearly fainted.

When I first moved to the city, I spent the first five years dumbstruck by questions about how much I’d paid for things. It’s something you would never ask in Washington. You’d be considered a heathen, raised by wolves in a trailer park. And now I ask it! How much is this apartment?

Recently I was going down the hallway to my elevator. Standing there were two women. One was a Realtor, and the other was a client. I talked about my apartment and what it was like when I’d moved in and what I’d done to it. I was this closeto asking, “How much is the apartment you’re considering?” But I restrained myself. (Also, I remembered I could just go look it up on the real estate agent’s Web site.)

Compulsively dropping the names of fabulous people you know is another New York social sport. As part of another charity auction, I was lunching with Liz Smith and the winning bidder. Liz brought with her a friend, the former head of an ad agency. The two of them did nothing but name-drop. That stuff rolls off me, but I felt bad for the winning woman and her daughter, who could never compete. They may have enjoyed the show, but I was worried they felt left out.

Now that I at last have a roomy apartment of my very own, I should really think about having guests more often. This is the first time I’ve ever had a bed bigger than a single. I’ve actually moved on up to a double bed, and I feel very decadent about it. And yet, I confess to you that I am such a hermit, it’s hard for me to open my house up to other people. I consider my home a retreat and enjoy my monastic life. I’m a bit OCD about my environment. In New York you’re up against people all day long, and when you get home you really need to recharge.

When I do have guests, it usually goes fine, but I have to remember to do a thorough home orientation when the houseguest arrives. I imagine that Martha Stewart would say that if your house were set up properly, your guest wouldn’t need an orientation. You need to look at your house through a stranger’s eyes.

My niece, Wallace, was staying with me recently and deprogrammed my TV by trying to watch cable. Mysteriously, you have to be on “Component 1” rather than “TV.” If only she’d asked. Anyway, I was sorry that she hadn’t gotten a chance to watch her shows and also that the TV had to be reset.

But Wallace is a really good houseguest. I’ve also had some bad ones. A colleague of mine would send her husband and two kids up to their country place during the summer, and since she didn’t want to go home to the suburbs during the summer by herself, for two summers she camped with me every week—Monday through Thursday—for three months.

I was living paycheck to paycheck and buying groceries for two. I would get home earlier than she would and would cook and leave her food. She would get home, collapse into a chair, and say, “Meat loaf again?” She never even bought a bottle of wine.

She was assuming a great deal about my love life. Wouldn’t it be possible that I would want to have a guest over? She was right that I didn’t have anyone in that category, but I could have.

I sat her down and explained that I couldn’t sustain these shenanigans another year. I implied that it was putting some restrictions on my own freedom. She came up with a compromise, whereby she would stay at my place for two nights and someone else’s for two nights. I was too nice back then, and I said okay. But I’m strong enough now that I wouldn’t welcome an open-ended stay anymore. My privacy is too important to me.

I’ve learned to keep my big mouth shut when someone says, “I’m coming to town for the weekend and looking for a place to stay!” or “I’d love to visit New York, but I can’t afford a hotel!” Now I stay quiet or say something along the lines of, “Oh, too bad! Guess you’ll have to stay home and save up!”

My mother’s retirement place has separate guest rooms with baths. When I’m visiting, she always says, “Would you like to stay in one of the guest rooms rather than in my apartment?” I happen to know she’s looking for affirmation that I would rather room with her. So I say, “Of course I’d rather stay with you, Mother,” when in fact the thought of getting up and having coffee alone in the morning before the day of family time starts is pretty enticing.

I know a lot of people go through this same thing with their families, where every question is loaded. The appropriate answer to every question is: “What do you mean by that?” Everything has a subtext.

To be a good houseguest, you should be as independent as possible. You should buy groceries or take your hosts out for dinner. Pick up after yourself. Pretend to have a good time even if you’re not. Say, “I’d like to make a dinner reservation tonight. What’s your favorite restaurant?” Try not to break anything. Be quiet.

I read something interesting in Martha Stewart Living:If you have a guest room, sleep in it to see what worldly needs your guest may have that aren’t accommodated. But there are limits to how far I go. I don’t have a television in my own bedroom, so I won’t put one in the guest room. Besides, everyone can watch TV on the computer now. There’s no need for guests from Denmark to use your landline to make a $60 phone call. They can Skype.

The only place I was ever a regular guest was in Hong Kong, with Suzy Moser and Chris Berrisford. Suzy and I were doing some work together for Parsons, so it was actually more convenient for her to have me close by. The house was a huge penthouse with wings, so we almost never crossed paths. I would go twice a year for two nights. I always brought Suzy and Chris a gift and took them out for dinner. I believe we all looked forward to the visits. But it’s something else if the hosts don’t have a mansion and the guests don’t limit stays to two days.

I can hear people saying, “But what if I’m on a budget?”

Then don’t go!

I was talking about this book with my family and mentioned to my niece that she should show the book to her friend, who has done some pretty appalling things, in my opinion. My niece grew hysterical, literally, with the thought that her friend might be in the book.

Finally, I said, “If you think sheis essential to this book, then this book is in trouble. Besides, why do you feel the need to defend her? How do you defend the fact that you filled the apartment with furniture from your family, and when you were away, she took half the living room furniture for her bedroom? Or that she borrowed your car and then crashed it? This is inappropriate behavior. Sorry, Wallace, she is now in the book!”

But I have the same hyperniceness Wallace has. When I lived in a studio in D.C., I would give my guests the foldout couch I usually slept on and I would sleep on the floor in the sleeping bag I kept in the closet. I didn’t want my guest to be uncomfortable. If I’m going to be a host, I’m going to be a good host. And my new mantra is: If I can’t handle it, I will just say so.

A friend from out of town e-mailed me recently and said he wanted to see my new apartment. I knew he was fishing for a place to stay, and after the initial flush of panic passed, I realized that I would actually like to see him and that I should invite him to stay. After all, I can’t continue the rest of my life in fear of houseguests. I have to get myself unstuck.

Maybe the moral is that if you’re the traveler and you don’t have the financial resources to take care of yourself and to honor the host, then don’t make the trip. But if you’re the potential host, you should be honest about what you can and can’t do, and then be as hospitable as possible—and no more.