The house was perfect. Except for one thing: It didn't have issues.
My wife, Jessica, was ecstatic. "I found the perfect house," she enthused long-distance. "Three bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths. A wood fireplace. A screened-in side porch. A deck out back. I love this house."

"Sounds perfect," I said.

"It's also got a finished basement, a useable attic, and a detached garage," she added, her voice bubbling over with enthusiasm. "Oh, and it's got a good fenced-in yard with a giant holly tree."

"How's the neighborhood?"

"Incredible," she said. "We're within walking distance of a Metro and tons of restaurants and a good supermarket."

"Wow," I said. "How much is it?"

"That's the amazing part," she replied, and she was right. It actually fell somewhere near our budget.

Now I was ecstatic.

"I'll fly up this weekend and take a look," I said.

I couldn't wait to see it. When I arrived, we went directly to the house. We opened the front door. It had hardwood floors and an archway to the dining room. We walked from room to room.

"Well?" she said as we completed our walk-through.

"It's good," I started.

"You don't like it," she said.

"No, no, I do," I replied in the way that married couples do to stave off a full-blown argument.

"I was afraid I'd oversold it," she said. "I did, didn't I?"

"No, it's good. It really is. I just, I don't know."

"What?"

"Well, the living room is kind of small and the up-stairs bedrooms seem kind of small, too. Plus, the basement carpet is ratty. And that kitchen. I mean, yellow Formica countertops and chocolate brown cabinets? What is this, 1962?"