Thank you, Ma'am

When we first arrived in the States we faced the daunting job of choosing providers for the different services we were going to need during our time here. I don't remember ever making these decisions in the UK. My parents opened my first bank account where they banked themselves, I used the mobile phone company my friends used so we could talk for free... and electricity and gas, well I don't think I had any choice at all... (did I?).

I don't think you can choose a good bank without first experiencing a bad bank. I didn't realise free cheques were good until I was charged for a chequebook here. I'd never paid monthly charges just for the privilege of having an account, so was surprised when that seemed to be the norm in New Zealand. The same goes for mobile phone companies. The only time I ever had a call fail in the UK because the network was busy was New Year's Eve 1999. With Sprint it happened every week!

I think good customer service is probably one of a company's most valuable assets. But it's only once you've come up against a problem that you can really test this service to their customers. In the future I'll maybe start making bogus calls to prospective providers just to see how efficient the representatives are. And being 'nice' just isn't good enough. They actually have to know what they're doing! Companies here have the very irritating policy of training their representatives to gush a whole line of appreciation before even saying "Hello". Bank of America is one of the most entertaining: "Thank you for calling Bank of America. How can I provide you with excellent service today?" Half the time I can't even work out if I've got the right number. I can't quite distinguish the 'pharmacy' from the "It's a lovely sunny day here at Healthy Pharmacy in California. My name is Britney, agent number CZ3490. How can I brighten your day?"

But we ended up being pretty lucky here. Most of our choices turned out to be good ones. I say 'most', because one was definitely not a good decision. I should have known Sprint was going to be useless when it took over an hour and a half just to set up an account. We must have signed at least 10 forms, all with 3 or 4 duplicate copies. And they only had one Nokia phone in their range. And they lied to us. We already had phones, we really just wanted SIM cards to put in them, as we'd done in several other countries before. The lovely people at Sprint told us that we couldn't get SIM cards in the States. All the phones here have inbuilt chips, apparently. So we were deceived into a two-year contract with this useless company and ever since the day we signed up we were dreaming of the day we could leave.

Two accounts set up instead of one, payment credited to the wrong account, countless dropped calls, clueless customer service... the stories are numerous and very, very dull. So we left as soon as we could - two whole years of agony. And I have no idea whether or not we've made the right decision. Cingular seem to be slightly more efficient, but we have yet to test them fully.

Sprint just won't stop nagging though. Last week I got another bill from them. No idea what for - I wasn't about to question it too closely as it was only for $1.32. I can't access the account online because our numbers have been transferred to Cingular, so we don't officially exist on the Sprint database. I call them twice to pay over the phone and get put in queues both times (15 and 20 minutes long respectively). Probably not worth wasting half my day for $1.32. Finally I get through today and, rather surprisingly, the representative was quite civil and actually wiped the debt, then thanked me for being a loyal Sprint customer. I explained I'd actually left the company and asked for confirmation I wouldn't receive another bill, even if it were only for $1.32.

"No Ma'am, your account is now clear. And may I take this opportunity to thank you for choosing Sprint - you're one of our valued customers, Ma'am."

Pot shot

In our attempt to experience all things American, my husband and I and a couple of friends found a local shooting range and booked a 'guns for beginners' class last weekend. The range, with its impressive arsenal of guns, knives, pepper sprays and bullets, all varying in size and lethality, is a little too close to gang land and LAX airport for my liking but I was slightly reassured by the forced temporary surrender of visitors' weapons on entry to the establishment. It at least gives the staff a chance to examine your armaments and calculate how quickly and nastily everyone would die if someone decided to turn nasty. But I suppose there can't be many people stupid enough to hold up a shooting range. Well, actually...

Anyway, after signing away almost all our rights, we sat, clammy-handed, in a classroom while our gun-wielding instructor spent an hour rattling through some basics. You know, how not to shoot your friends, why "you don't necessarily NEED to shoot" your neighbour, that sort of thing. Once he was happy we weren't going to shoot him in an amateur panic, he escorted us through to the lanes - ear protection and eyewear in place - for an hour of shooting.

My husband had made the casual mistake of expressing confidence in his own marksmanship. I think some guy at a fairground had once told him that he shot well, long before we met, and he was secretly excited about demonstrating this little-known skill of his, proud to show his new wife how well he could protect her from the evils of the world. And he really wasn't that bad at all - in fact, he's pretty good. But unfortunately he wasn't quite as good as me! It turns out that I am actually a really good shot! I peppered the chest of the target silhouette with my .22, my husband standing by, mouth agape. Battling to save face, he encouraged me to move up to the big boys' guns, poised to kiss it all better when I scared myself and backed away. But no, I was just as hot with a Beretta 9mm! My groupings were so good that our instructor even allowed me to fire a shot from his very own big bad gun (no idea what it was, but it had more recoil than the 9mms). It's not often I'm better at something than my husband, so I quite enjoyed the whole experience!

Needless to say, my husband was not having any of this and he was back down there two days later to scrabble back a little pride. And he did well, proving that a little practice (and the absence of a bragging wife) works wonders. I'm fairly competitive, but I'm really not too fussed about increasing my distance and shrinking my groupings. It feels good knowing that if someone handed me a revolver in the heat of a Jason Bourne style shoot-out I might know which bit to squeeze. But I'm just as happy in the knowledge that next time I fish for my grocery store loyalty card, the guy next to me in the queue might catch a glimpse of my firing range member ID and know I'm not just your common or garden housewife...