Right On Time, A Day Late
By Sam Orbaum

(April 16,2000) Next week, when Pessah is over that's when
I buy matza. 

I wasn't allowed to go trick-or-treating on Hallowe'en when I 
was a kid, because I was a Jewish kid. What made it worse is 
that my parents bought bags of goodies, and I had to stand at 
the door and hand them out to the neighborhood masqueraders - 
including all the other Jewish kids. So I resented Hallowe'en. 

I also resented Easter, because while "they" were scraping 
their teeth on chocolate eggs, "we" had matza. I was led to 
believe it made us special. 

I thought it stunk. 

Ah, but Christmas! You'd think I hated Christmas, but no: 
from the earliest signs of its approach I plotzed with excited 
anticipation of the toys I would get. That's because Christmas 
heralded Hanukka, which begat Hanukka gelt, with which, 
according to ancient family tradition, the Orbaum kids bought 
toys. 

But the catch was, we had to wait. While the goyim were going 
crazy buying their toys when prices were highest, the Orbaum 
kids sat on their nickels and waited. And we knew exactly for 
how long: when they screamed at us from the TV, "only 88 
shopping days left!" we knew that for us it meant "only 89 
days left to shopping!" 

Because the day after Christmas, there we were, the only kids 
in town running into toy stores to buy. Prices swooned, and 
we swooped, and we made off like bandits. 

I don't know if that proves we're smarter, but it occurred 
to me some years ago that it proves we in Israel are dumber. 
Why, I wondered, can't we apply the same principle here? 

So I did. 

You ever go into a makolet the day after Pessah? The owner 
is depressed. 

He's glaring at a tremendous stock of matza he didn't manage 
to sell, and never in a million years will. The last thing 
he expects is... 

"Good morning," I say. "How much for a large box of matza?" 

You've never seen a happier makolet owner, but being Israeli, 
he can't leave good enough alone. "Whatarya, crazy?! Now you 
want matza?" 

And I get it for half price. 

I'm amazed no one thought of it before. We know very well the 
cycle of holidays, and the corresponding rises and drops in 
prices. But we wait all year until the price is highest, and 
then we buy, instead of waiting one more day when they're 
willing to give it away. 

Imagine how much I save by buying Hanukka candles the day 
after. Imagine how much time I save when, a year later, 
I simply retrieve the year-old box of wax sticks from the 
cupboard while everyone else is queuing up 15 deep at the 
makolet for the very same thing. 

I buy cheese for Shavuot the day before Independence Day, 
and meat for Independence Day the day before Shavuot. 

"Whatarya, crazy?" the grocer says. I think it bothers him 
that I don't obey the rules of nature, as if suddenly one 
morning the sun rose in the south. 

I tried to explain the wisdom of it all. "But don't you see? 
While everybody's climbing all over each other in your 
dairy department, I'm all alone here in your cow parts, 
selecting the very best for the very least. 

And when Yom Ha'atzmaut comes, they'll all be here, and 
I'll be there, all alone." 

"He's crazy," the grocer mumbles to himself reassuringly. 

But he's looking to make a profit, so he knows if he's going 
to keep my patronage, he's going to have to put in an 
emergency order for all the wrong things a day late. Now his 
suppliers think he's crazy. 

You think I go to shul on Yom Kippur? Of course not! 
On Lag Ba'omer I go to shul: you can get a seat for free and, 
well, you can get a seat; there's no one else there. It's the 
best time to go. 

Conversely, the best time to find kindling for a bonfire is 
on Yom Kippur. 

Sometimes, the way to beat the crowds and save grushim is to 
get in there before the event, rather than after. For instance, 
I have found the most opportune time to go to the bank is just 
before a devaluation. 

Nobody's expecting it, so everybody's elsewhere. It's so 
logical. 

I'll bet you buy an umbrella after you've already been soaked 
by the first rain. Don't you think it's a lot smarter to buy 
it in June, when everyone's buying sunglasses? You know 
perfectly well that the rain will start precisely at rainy 
season, and it's useless to hope that it won't. 

(Which brings up another silliness: when do we say the Prayer 
For Rain? Exactly at that time of year when the skies are 
bursting with clouds. And then we say "y'see!" when our 
prayers are answered. I say, let's test the power of prayer 
by asking for rain during the annual drought.) 

Pessah cleaning is best done just before Succot, when cleaning 
ladies are begging for work. The drawback is that you have to 
keep the house kosher-for-Passover for half a year, but the 
advantage is that while every other Jew is cleaning, you're 
the only one out there merrily collecting fronds for the 
succa, which you can put up at your leisure during Purim, 
leaving the search for Purim costumes to Tisha b'Av. 

That's also how I vote. Isn't it silly to decide just before 
an election, when they're all on their best behavior? 
Not me. The day after the elections, that's when I start 
listening to the promises they make, and then I make my 
decision a good four years before the next elections. 

Likewise, I make my own supplications to God the day after 
Yom Kippur, when I'm the only one beseeching, so I know 
He can hear me. 

The best time for a New Year's Eve party is erev Rosh Hashana, 
when the Rabbinate is least expecting it. 

I'LL TELL you when I first got this idea. It was the war. 

(This is an absolutely true story:) It happened a couple of 
days after everyone had thrown away all the plastic sheeting 
from their sealed rooms. A friend of mine happened to have 
a little car trouble: his window wouldn't close. Seeking a 
temporary solution until he could get it properly repaired, 
he popped into the hardware store and bought - you guessed it - 
plastic sheeting. He had to be the only customer for that 
particular product on that day in the entire country. 

Shortly thereafter, he was stopped at a traffic light, and 
some truck driver, seeing his "sealed car," hollered at him. 
"Yalla, uncle! Haven't you heard? The war's over!" 

That truck driver, I guarantee you, does not buy cottage 
cheese the day before Independence Day.