I'm not as funny as I think I am

Apparently in some future life I intend to be a pioneer woman. I've not yet finished hand-stitching the binding on my quilt and already I'm in another crafty grandmotherly class. This time I'm learning to knit socks--something I've not yet attempted in all of my knitting thus far. (Note: Those photos do not represent all of my knitting. They represent only the knitting that I've completed since I bought a digital camera and that I was able to find on my hard drive the day I uploaded that album. I don't know why I feel compelled to clarify this, but obviously being generous with the details is my thing, so it shouldn't really surprise either of us, should it?)

ANYWAY... So I'm taking a sock knitting class. And it's not at all a grandmotherly sock knitting class; it's a pretty hipster-heavy group and it takes place in a very hipster-friendly shop. I wasn't at a Quaker knitting bee; I wasn't in a church basement with a group of mild-mannered lady parishioners. Know your audience, right? And that's why I'm still surprised this joke went so awry.

Instructor: My dad can knit two mittens at the same time, one inside the other. I'm pretty sure he's the only person who can do that.

Me: Your dad knits? Wow. My dad reads the paper and drinks. I suppose we all have our hobbies.

Crickets. Slight nervous laughter.

Seriously, people? Nothing?

Tough crowd.