Spiders, Oh My

So I'm walking out of my apartment yesterday, headed for Ikea with Brian when we spy my postman standing in the front yard, holding a large matchbox. He starts rambling nonchalantly, as if it is an everyday occurrence for him to be hanging out against a palm tree versus delivering mail. He's a nice man, and before I left months ago, I offered him my consultation on which metal outgoing mail box to place in our entryway -- but the word spider immediately caused me to twitch and scuffle. Not taking the hint that the mere thought of an eight legged beast causes hives to raise from my white girl skin, he went on and on about the special spiders that evidently live in my tree, and how he collects them -- bringing them home to an arachnid condiminium. "Brian!" I shouted, trying to indicate that I really wanted to get into the car versus analyzing the supposed "hundreds" that reside in the juniper tree outside of my windows. The postman finally got the hint, but before we could pull away he opened the matchbox, revealing a reddish monster that crawled out onto his arm. WTF is with these civil servants?