I’m writing this from the Cleveland Airport. I came early after hearing these horror stories about people spending hours in line at security and Southwest canceling all these flights because the hamster that runs in the wheel to keep the computers turned onpassed away.

I had missed the rush of post-convention travelers. My network brethren had declared that in the interest of keeping me fresh, I should take some time to myself.

After the convention ended, I went to my mom’s house a couple hours away in Dayton. She declared that she would make dinner.

Upon my arrival, I would find that she was also making cookies.

Dozens of cookies.

“Mom,” I clarified. “I’m only going to be here a few hours.”

Loyal Scaiaholics know that I enjoy gently embellishing conversations [more on that later], but this was her actual response:

“I’ve also got pudding.”

I would explain the cookie surplus to several people.

“Bring them to Philly!” one of my network brethren would write in an email.

“Those will barely last you until Fall,” my brother, who lives in California would text. “Tell her she’s welcome to mail some to me.”

“You’re dealing with some important issues during these conventions,” an associate in DFW would write before explaining that the cookies would also be welcome there.

But my mom would declare that the cookies were not to be shipped. I could take some to Philadelphia, but by the time they’d arrive in DFW or Los Angeles, they’d become stale, embarrassing both my mother and the US Postal Service. It would probably become a campaign issue.

During this brief visit, my mom would also lament that her propane tank was almost out of fuel.

Because I’m kind of a big deal, I had a membership in the Centerville Mill Propane Club. In my wallet for the past 15 years, I’ve had a membership card with exactly one stamp in it.

Centerville Mill, which changed its name a few years ago, honored the Propane Club card! And I looked thoughtfully off in the distance.

“Once you’re accepted to the Propane Club, you’re always in the Propane Club,” I thought to myself. “And no one can take that away from you.”

Mark this on your calendars, everybody: In another 45 years, that card will be filled out, and you’ll be invited to the Scaia Family Free Propane Cookout, brought to you by Centerville Ace Hardware. By then, it’ll probably be called Centerville Space Hardware. See what I did there?!

Filled with cookies, I would make my way to the airport with plenty of time to navigate through the post-convention rush. I showed up and saw a shuttle bus parked in front of the rental car area. Inside the bus, I’d find no one waiting to leave.

“Oh, I hope I make it through security in time!” I’d exclaim skyward.

The driver asked if I was here for the convention and where I was from. When I said “Texas,” she said, “Oh, so this heat is nothing to you.”

“Actually, it’s so humid here, it feels hotter,” I replied, leading her to make a noise like, “oh,” that was a strange combination of pride and shame.

We pulled into the terminal, and I headed to security. I walked up and saw … no one. I didn’t even have enough time to get my drivers license out before I got to the TSA agent.

During the check-in process, we had time to chat. He noticed I was headed to Philadelphia.

“Are you a reporter? We’ve had tons of reporters come through here since the end of the convention,” he said as I de-walletted my license and handed it to him.

“Oh, you’re from Texas,” he said, not hiding his disappointment. “I’ve seen a lot of international IDs from reporters this week.”

Listen, Texas independence faction, you need to pick up the pace. You’re making me look like a shut-in in front of the TSA.

Because we had nothing better to do, the discussion with the TSA guy continued, with me asking how things went during the height of the exodus the day before.

“It was nuts. The line curled all he way around the side there,” he explained. “I barely had time to get to know each traveler’s line of work!”

I may have made that last part up.

A few weeks ago, a former co-worker sent a selfie of himself in front of a Skyline Chili location when his precious network sent him to Ohio to cover a Hillary Clinton campaign stop.

I assumed it was some sort of declaration of war, so upon my arrival in Cleveland I was sure to send a picture back to him.

You might think an award winning journalist wouldn’t have time for this many selfies. I’m still better than a lot of reporters.