I swear I can’t open my LinkedIn or CareerKiller inbox anymore without feeling like I need to take a shower. So, sorry, Lisa. I’d love to move to New York, and yes, the money looks spectacular, but the only things I still have a “deep-rooted passion” for are crème horns and about half the Venom Mob catalog. I could maybe offer you “likes InfoSec better than EDI mapping, but not as much as domestic light beer,” but clearly you’re shopping for a very special strain of obsessive-compulsive here, and in my experience, “passion for InfoSec” really just means saying “No” to everything people ask for and secretly enjoying it.
Blame it on twenty-five years of dealing with hollow claims from your brethren who habitually misrepresent (or possibly misunderstand, on a charitable day) jobs, hedge on rate, and play peekaboo with benefits and duration. “Oh, you wanted healthcare coverage, reasonable parking, and taxes taken out of your paycheck? Wow, unusual demand. I wish you’d mentioned these bizarre demands before I spent all that time and hard work landing you the job.” “About that 12-month contract … funny story, but, oopsie, apparently they misjudged how long the project would take and you’ve done it all in six weeks.”
After a quarter century, I can’t muster genuine enthusiasm for a “day job,” no matter how hard you try to pitch it as a cross between a Caribbean vacation and the final fulfillment of my life’s purpose. I can, however, promise to show up every day (I’ve taken one sick day in the past 25 years) and not plot a coup for my boss’s chair. I tend to get along with people. Radical, I know.
Can recruiters be a bit more “human relationship” savvy and a bit less “used-car-lot on President’s Day”? Why does every posting read like a clearance flyer in the Sunday paper? “We need someone who LIVES AND BREATHES regulatory audits!” “The right candidate is FIRED UP to write technical specs!” “EXCITING OPENING for someone who experiences spontaneous euphoria at the thought of offshore project management!”
Here’s a thought: if you, as brokers of talent, took a few minutes to actually talk to each of your candidates, the “humans” you call “resources,” then you might learn what we’re looking for, what we’re good at, and what job’s we’ll never accept again unless our kid needs a life-saving operation and we need the healthcare. On the rare occasion some of you do deem me worthy of personal contact, you apparently aren’t taking notes, because you inevitably follow up with a “fantastic opportunity” for the exact role I just told you I didn’t want … or, more commonly, the exact role I am currently trying to escape. I’ve even written my hard “stoppers” on my résumé under “Career Goals.” Somehow, your liberal use of “exciting opportunity” is supposed to hypnotize me into forgetting you never even looked at my resume beyond the “search for resumes containing the words Agile and IAAS” button?
And then there’s this week’s greatest hit. Let’s dive. First sin: a subject line startings with the “Fake Re:” — as if we’ve spoken before, or as if I’m accidentally CC’d on a secret insider job thread. Yes, deception in the very first character, before we even get to the email itself really sets the tone for trust. That’ll definitely make me quit my job, sell my house, and move across the country. You got me good there, Lisa. Classic prank.
Second sin: the relocation pitch. New York has, what, ten times the population of Indianapolis? And let’s be honest: you probably blasted that email to a dozen other cities. You seriously need to go thousands of miles and pony up relocation money to fill a position in Manhattan? How uniquely awful is this role that nobody in the entire eastern third of the country — including Washington, D.C., home of the CIA, NSA, and FBI (read: an ecosystem of extremely talented, perpetually underpaid InfoSec pros) — will go near it? Did the job description include “must wrestle a live crocodile for cubicle space” or “bring your own ethics waiver?”
Third sin: the secrecy spiral. I get that you can’t name the company immediately. Fine. But when I ask basic questions — “On-site assessments or remote testing? Hands-on keyboards or writing analysis documents? What’s the split between firefighting and building?” — and you ghost me or make me feel “contrarian” for asking, that’s not a good look. You gave me a great list of qualifications you want, but I asked what the job wants. These are not the same thing. If the role is so magnificent, why won’t you describe the actual work? “Deep-rooted passion” should be the name of a perfume, not a job duty.
My Red Flags (A Non-Exhaustive List)
- Fake “Re:” in the subject line. I’m not your amnesiac pen pal.
- “Carnival Barker Lingo”. Basically, you sound like I’m a dog and you’re trying to wind me up about a trip to the vet. “Who’s a passionate boy about INFOSEC? Who lives for full-stack JavaScript coding? Who wants an exciting ground-floor opportunity? Yeah? Yeah? Go get the resume, boy. Get it! Get it!”
- No company name ever. If it’s actually a stealth startup with a runway, say so. If it’s Indiana DCS or Sally Mae, just wink once to indicate they’re in the room and you think you’re in danger.
- Unbounded relocation hype. “Live your best life in New York!” Cool. Will my best life involve 3 a.m. pager duty on a box named “prod2-old-old-final?” Am I going to have a New York lifestyle on an Indiana budget?
- “We’ll finalize compensation after interviews.” Translation: you’re fishing, and I’m not bait.
- “Send us a copy of your Social Security Card, driver’s license, and a cancelled check so we can have you processed and ready to go if they offer you the job during the interview.” Riiiiiight … and my mother’s maiden name too, I’ll bet? This one gets you ghosted and immediately reported to LinkedIn.
Despite the curmudgeonly tone, I’m not a saboteur. I’ll show up, deliver what I promise, and get along with the team. I don’t want my boss’s job. I don’t need my name on the door. I just want to do work that isn’t ethically dubious, strategically incoherent, or needlessly chaotic. Give me a problem worth solving and enough runway to solve it, and I’ll make us all look smart.
I’m not asking for magic. I’m asking for honesty, clarity, and the audacity to speak like a human. Tell me what hurts. Tell me what you’ve tried. Tell me what you’re afraid to try. Tell me where the bodies are buried in the build pipeline. If you do that, I’ll tell you whether I can help.
