I don’t begrudge the Hooters waitresses their gravity-defying boobs or cellulite-free thighs.

I do, however, object to they way they mama their male patrons.

Until Tuesday, I hadn’t set foot in a Hooters for …well,  years. But on Tuesday, a craving for wings lured me and my friend Amy into the Land of Cleave.

We were the only women there, which seemed to throw off our waitresses. That’s OK. They startled me too.

The first surprise occurred when one of our waitresses opened our little plastic containers of blue cheese dressing for us. What are we? Three?

And then another waitress offered to debone the wings.

The second offer sent me into a fit of giggling as Amy and I made good use of that term for several off-color jokes.

And then we talked about how it’s no wonder men have such ridiculous expectations of their wives. And why they always act so helpless. (“But you wash the kids’ hair so much better than I do.”) I mean, these waitresses are not only sag-free — they hover over our husbands like a group of helicopter mommies.

Talk about an Oedipal environment. I mean, really. Forty-something-year-old men can’t open their own SALAD DRESSING? Or debone a wing?

The whole experience sent me spiraling back into my kids’ toddler years:

“Oh, let Mama open that for you, sweetie.”

“Do you need Mommy to get the meat off the bone for you, punkin?”

Normal behavior for a woman and child. But for a woman and a grown man? Eeew.

Hooters girls, you aren’t helping us out in the marital department. Childish men aren’t sexy. We already get turned off by their feigned inability to manage the children when we’re out for an girls-night dinner.

Sample phone call home: “Is that the E-man I hear laughing? Why isn’t he in bed? It’s after 9!”

Our waiters don’t plop down at our table and snicker appreciatively at our lame jokes. They don’t cut our meat or pour our ketchup. And if one tried such a thing, we would make fun of him and shoo him away.

So guys, we don’t care if you want to gawk at perky ta-tas. But please — learn to open your own dressing and *snicker* debone your wings.

Because now we know what really goes on at Hooters. And we are mocking you.