Knock, Knock

You secretly may be a reluctant host, but once you've accepted the job, you must not be a miserly one.

"If you are dumb enough to give hospitality to people you don't really like or trust or find attractive, you have to be ready to witness poor manners and bad behavior," says Baldrige. "You never have to throw a big party, but you are responsible for a guest's comfort and happiness. Otherwise, you should have said, 'Sorry, the house is being painted for the next three months.' "

· Beware of relatives. Relatives hold the potential for delivering a double whammy -- not only are they the hardest to say no to, but, unlike friends, they are the ones you don't get to choose in the first place. Little wonder that most horror stories were from readers hosting relatives.

Jane Brown of Burke took the relative-hosting business to its extreme by agreeing to take in her sister's British in-laws. She and her husband soon found they were expected not only to chauffeur the in-laws, but to pay for all incidentals, including out-of-home meals and admission fees to attractions. Worst of all: the harping about American ways, most particularly about lazy Americans and their aversion to walking.

Brown finally took revenge.

After a full day of sightseeing and repeated grousing about how Americans drive everywhere, she made one last stop and walked them through every corner of Arlington Cemetery -- every presidential grave site, the Tomb of the Unknowns, every building on the grounds. She heard no more grousing on the drive home: The Brits fell sound asleep in the back seat.

Baldrige points out another option: setting limits. "You must not make demands or be Gestapo-like, but it's perfectly acceptable to let the rules be known." You can give visitors a key, a public transport schedule, wish them a wonderful day, and say, "By the way, dinner is at 6:30, and the children will be eating with us."

Tips for Guests

· Report rotting sausages. It's been nearly 50 years since James and Grace Boeringer of Silver Spring honeymooned on Lake Erie, in the home of a minister who graciously offered the struggling young couple his home while he traveled abroad.

But every anniversary since the honeymoon, the couple has talked about whether they did the right thing:

On the last night, the couple decided to play a duet on the Steinway grand in the host's living room. They lifted the keyboard lid and found a sausage seeping fat and spices into the ebonies and ivories.

"Not a pale little Jimmy Dean breakfast sausage, but a thick and lumpy German sausage," writes James Boeringer. "A great fat link stretching from middle C to F, 2 1/2 octaves above."

What should they do? Move the sausage, play a few tunes, then replace it? Refrigerate the sausage and leave a note explaining the stains? Call to inquire as to the purpose of a keyboard sausage?