The annual advertising bonanza that is New York Magazine’s Best Doctors weirdness is back. And when I wasn’t marveling at some of the ugliest advertisements I’ve ever seen — the Personal Injury Litigators Conference 2009 took the prize for its unprecedented combination of ugly-sleazy and ugly-looking — I was riveted by the doctors’ confessionals detailing their first limb amputation, heart transplant, etc., as well as by which of my doctors made the (dubious) grade. First the good news: The dermatologist who I hate who topped the list for years has been eliminated, while the incredible Yuman Fong, who performed the revolutionary Whipple procedure on my father, is in. The maternal and fetal medicine inductee who does a very nice job on my ultrasounds — and is likely one of the very few gay gynecologists in existence — is suspected by my fabulous OBGYN, who is never on the list, of milking expectant parents’ fears by ordering up nonessential ultrasounds. He also happens to be on the board of my building, and is reputedly a staunch opponent of every child-friendly measure proposed. But I am reserving my main grievance for the pair of pediatricians whose well-regarded practice I am leaving because every office visit makes me cry or want to throttle someone for the obnoxiousness endured. It just goes to show that the best recommendations come not from peers — who don’t even use a doctor’s services (that’s how New York’s survey is conducted) — but from trusted friends who have actually experienced a doctor’s diagnoses, in addition to her bedside manner and even her office staff. One more thought for next year’s round-up: Wouldn’t it be interesting to know how many of our city’s “best doctors” take insurance?

Yoganomics — now there’s something New York Times parenting columnist Lisa Belkin could have really sunk her teeth into. Alas, all we got were bitemarks by Emily Bazelon in The New York Times Magazine this week. Writing about the perilous fate of urban freelancers during the downturn, Bazelon focuses on a single mom named Lisa Feuer who became a yoga instructor after divorcing her husband and losing her job doing publicity for his record label. While Bazelon glosses over Feuer’s childcare issues and how they prevent her from supplementing her meager income by, say, bartending, one can just imagine how, in the hands of Lisa Belkin, this would have been a heartbreaking story about the perilous fate of middle-class single moms who equally desire an honest living and time with their children, and how being an employee usually prevents that kind of best-of-both-worlds, nice-life scenario. What’s more, women require safer working conditions than men, limiting their choices as well as their compensation — because even the rich people on whom these female independent contractors typically depend are savvy enough to cut private yoga instruction immediately in a recession. As everybody knows, though, there is no safety net for trust-fund-free single moms. But the services they provide — yoga, massage, family photography — are often the things that, however trivial and indulgent they may appear to be, promote health and happiness. Don’t these women deserve the same?

Anna Wintour’s frank preference for the malnourished body type is admirable, at least, for its unflinching honesty. And while even the magazine editors who are most outspoken about body-acceptance might not put their concurrence in the printed word — Cindi Leive of Glamour comes to mind — they most certainly do so in the printed image. So you’d think Anna’s protege, Amy Astley of Teen Vogue, would take the easy route and simply follow in Anna’s smooth-as-glass wake. But noooo. Astley, to her major discredit, instead uses the obesity epidemic, of all things, as pro-ana justification in her editor’s letter this month: “Outrage over the boniest of celebrities and mannequins seems to obfuscate the more urgent and widespread story about Americans and weight: Only about 1 percent of women in this country are anorexic, while obesity looms as perhaps our greatest national health crisis.” Oh, I see. It’s cool to promote Auschwitz arms — and make vulnerable teen girls feel like dog poop — because such a small number actually get full-blown ana. Never mind that a huge number suffers from body-image issues. Nor that 99 percent of the imagery out there celebrates trainer-toned bods that run on less than 1,000 calories per day. Nor the responsibility one carries with a young readership whose socioeconomic standing places it squarely in the jutting-collarbone worship zone. But Astley, who truly wields the kind of the influence that could zap the pernicious skinny scourge among teen girls, cares more about her readers as commodities than anything else. Because if she really believed models “would be even more beautiful with a few additional pounds on their bodies,” then she would never run this skimpy shot of Kate Bosworth in a bikini, except as a lesson in how not to look healthy. Alas, it’s about summer beach bodies.

Do you think The New York Times timed its series on functioning alcoholics to the model-themed Costume Institute Ball on Monday night?

Whoops! I just finished inhaling a monster chocolate-chip cookie from Levain Bakery, and then it hit me — holy guilt! — that I was planning to write about the insane ubiquity of Tracy Anderson. What? You haven’t heard of her? Tsk, tsk. You must not be keeping up with your Conde Nast reading. In the past month, the Malibu Fitness Barbie lookalike has appeared in W, Vogue, Glamour and Cookie, as well as Harper’s Bazaar. She trains Madonna and Gwyneth to look like blonde Conan automatons, and now Anderson and GOOP are opening a gym with initiation fees ranging from $787.50 to $1,500, and monthly dues of $900. At those astronomical prices, especially in These Economic Times, it’s as plain as Anderson’s six-pack that her gym is destined to become the live version of SeekingArrangement.com — that is, Sugar Daddy Central. Because who else but the most desperate among us — i.e., DABAs and their former hedgies — would spend that kind of time and money on a workout, except as an investment in bringing home a human trophy?