Download & Print
October 31, 2025
Trick or Treat
By Mikie Baker
The Bandera Prophet
Even though our Fall hasn’t felt anything close to cool, it is the season of ghosts and goblins. And a witch with a curl right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid. Nice to meet you.
Being born on Halloween has many perks – everyone remembers your birthday, you get to dress up like a witch every year, and it’s not an “Official Give a Gift Holiday,” so you don’t get robbed of some good presents. Of course, in my life, I’ve been “gifted” more ceramic pumpkins than there are shelves for in Hobby Lobby.
Plus, beginning in September, every single store decorates for my birthday. People even decorate their houses, and all the kids come out in costume on Halloween to get sugared up in my honor. I appreciate the extra recognition because it makes me want to cast a Win the Lottery spell on everybody.
I know what you’re thinking. This woman is sure full of herself, now isn’t she? Well, blame it all on Dearly Demented Mom who ruined me in my formative years. When I was 3, she sewed my Halloween costume: a little black dress (think about that) with a black cape and a black felt witch hat with an orange felt pumpkin on it and finished with lovely orange yarn hair.
Then she told me to go up to each house and tell the homeowners that I was a real witch because I was born on Halloween. I dragged home more candy than anybody else. And thus began my addiction to dressing up like a witch and eating way too much sugar.
My birthday parties were a breeze for my parents. I’d put up all the decorations; Mom would make a chocolate cake with orange icing decorated with Thin Mints Cats and Candy Corn (the stuff of Gods.) Daddy would drive downtown to pick up dry ice to put in a black cauldron for the perfect spooky effect. After cake and presents, they’d turn me and all my friends out on the streets to get lots of candy. I kept on wearing my homemade witch outfit well into my teens.
And you might as well know – I have 10 boxes of Halloween Decorations. I know, I know, but Halloween-themed presents just keep on coming.
So, I lived in my perfect Halloween birthday world knowing that somehow, I was special. And then I met My Future Husband, and my happy spooky world hopped on a broom and flew away. On our second date, I asked him when his birthday was (so I could tell him mine and that I was a real witch) and he replied, “I was born on Halloween.” I yelled, “No! That’s my birthday!” He gave me the old side eye and grinned, “Well, I had it before you did.”
When I got over the shock, I started fantasizing about moonlight rides on our brooms.
But even weirder, he told me his best friend was also born on Halloween! I felt like my magic bag of treats had withered away. An only child is not good at sharing.
I called Very Best Friend to discuss the situation. She thought this relationship might hold promise because I had finally met my match. And then she added that her new girlfriend was also born on Halloween. I’m pretty sure I’m going to turn them all into newts so I can be special once again.
As DDM always said, “I can’t decide if you are a trick or a treat.” Well Mom, neither can I.
Being born on Halloween has many perks – everyone remembers your birthday, you get to dress up like a witch every year, and it’s not an “Official Give a Gift Holiday,” so you don’t get robbed of some good presents. Of course, in my life, I’ve been “gifted” more ceramic pumpkins than there are shelves for in Hobby Lobby.
Plus, beginning in September, every single store decorates for my birthday. People even decorate their houses, and all the kids come out in costume on Halloween to get sugared up in my honor. I appreciate the extra recognition because it makes me want to cast a Win the Lottery spell on everybody.
I know what you’re thinking. This woman is sure full of herself, now isn’t she? Well, blame it all on Dearly Demented Mom who ruined me in my formative years. When I was 3, she sewed my Halloween costume: a little black dress (think about that) with a black cape and a black felt witch hat with an orange felt pumpkin on it and finished with lovely orange yarn hair.
Then she told me to go up to each house and tell the homeowners that I was a real witch because I was born on Halloween. I dragged home more candy than anybody else. And thus began my addiction to dressing up like a witch and eating way too much sugar.
My birthday parties were a breeze for my parents. I’d put up all the decorations; Mom would make a chocolate cake with orange icing decorated with Thin Mints Cats and Candy Corn (the stuff of Gods.) Daddy would drive downtown to pick up dry ice to put in a black cauldron for the perfect spooky effect. After cake and presents, they’d turn me and all my friends out on the streets to get lots of candy. I kept on wearing my homemade witch outfit well into my teens.
And you might as well know – I have 10 boxes of Halloween Decorations. I know, I know, but Halloween-themed presents just keep on coming.
So, I lived in my perfect Halloween birthday world knowing that somehow, I was special. And then I met My Future Husband, and my happy spooky world hopped on a broom and flew away. On our second date, I asked him when his birthday was (so I could tell him mine and that I was a real witch) and he replied, “I was born on Halloween.” I yelled, “No! That’s my birthday!” He gave me the old side eye and grinned, “Well, I had it before you did.”
When I got over the shock, I started fantasizing about moonlight rides on our brooms.
But even weirder, he told me his best friend was also born on Halloween! I felt like my magic bag of treats had withered away. An only child is not good at sharing.
I called Very Best Friend to discuss the situation. She thought this relationship might hold promise because I had finally met my match. And then she added that her new girlfriend was also born on Halloween. I’m pretty sure I’m going to turn them all into newts so I can be special once again.
As DDM always said, “I can’t decide if you are a trick or a treat.” Well Mom, neither can I.