Thursday marked 100 days to our wedding. A mere 100!

There is so much to do. Let’s see. I have my dress. We have a band. (My sister’s band.) We have a caterer. (My sister’s caterer.) We have a rabbi. (Joel's rabbi.) We have a venue. We probably have a florist. (Probably my sister’s florist.) So there’s some advantage to getting married second — my sister vetted plenty of vendors. And then there’s the rest . . .

Sandor Welsh

Our photographer sounds like an international man of leisure, but he’s really a former journalist turned wedding pro. He’s one of the few vendors I fought for. He’s prints will be the way we remember our wedding forever. His job is HUGE.

My mom wanted to hire someone local. Someone familiar. “What about XXX who did Aviva’s bat mitzvah?” She would ask. Then follow up with, “But I’ve heard he’s been not so good lately. He did YYY’s wedding and the photos weren’t too hot.” How about the guy who did my bat mitzvah? I looked up their photos — and the website was mostly little red X’s where the photos wouldn’t load. Terrible sign. How can you trust a photographer who can’t run his own website? It’s like hiring an editor who can’t distinguish among peek/peak/pique. It’s a non-starter.

So I asked around. I was at a brunch a while back when I asked a friend if she knew anyone — given that she is a recently married shutterbug — “Sandor Welsh,” she exclaimed as if possessed.

We hurried — mid-brunch — to the computer. His portfolio has a range of joy, sorrow and anticipation. His photographs tell. They are funny and sweet and I can only hope our affair gives him enough to work with.

Choosing him was an emotional choice. A gut choice. Logic was a smaller factor.

Mostly, I can’t wait to see what he comes up with.

The rest

I'’m knocking back tasks one by one (mostly because I can't process more than one at a time). My mom sets them up and I knock ‘em dead.

This week? Invitations Part II: Revenge of the Proofs.

We had picked out the fonts we liked — Joel made it like an eye exam. “Do you like one or two better?” I asked, then scrolled between the two. “One.” “Do you like one or three?” I asked. “Can you scroll to three? Now back to one? [Pause] Three.” “Now three or four?” You get the idea.

We settled on No. 4 and my mom approved. “Number 4 is beautiful!” was pronounced in email, and I glowed like I had done something right. So when I got the proofs I was confused. Our fonts looked beautiful all written up for the inside; but, to borrow my dad’s word, it looked “discordant” on the front cover and thank-you notes. It was subtle, but my gut was grumbling it didn’t look right. The tight, loopy Edwardian font didn’t match our modern lovebirds. I looked at our options again and tried to talk myself into what we had. I realized I liked No. 1’s font better for our names.

It’s so much minutia, this wedding business.

So I called my dad, asked him if he what he thought of the fonts. He said, truthfully, he wasn’t crazy about them. He said his first impression was they were discordant — same as mine — but that of course they were beautiful. So brides, I would caution this: Remember to listen.

Everyone surrounding a bride will say what they think — and then back peddle in case that’s not what you want to hear. I try not to get sequins in my ears. I try to hear what they’re really saying. And in this case my dad was really saying what I suspected.

I took a deep breath and called my mom. She was great about it. It’s scary contradicting someone. But I did it. And apparently it’s super easy to change the font at this stage, so once again (spoiled brat that I am) I am going to get what I want.

Next up

My bridesmaids have their marching orders but I have no idea if they’re marching. Stupid dresses have to be ordered months in advance. And I think prompting them is in order . . .

And the last thing I need is a reminder that we’re inviting 500 people to an event that is only half-planned. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

For questions, comments or guest columns, email me at: agomberg@pressofac.com