Dating is hard. I mean, way harder than writing a book. Way harder than getting published. Even harder than walking in five inch stilettos. Mostly, I’m convinced, due to the inordinate amount of frogs out there trying to pass themselves off as Prince Charming. Some of my recent forays into Toadville: a man who, after three weeks of dating, admitted to me he was actually married, a guy who committed a felony (While on a date with me! Hiding from the cops – not my idea of foreplay.), a man who learned English from watching old Seinfeld reruns (If everything in your life relates back to Kramer, you have a problem.), and Hairy. Nope, I didn’t spell that wrong. The man was a walking wookie. But, the one that capped it all off, my favorite amphibious fellow, the man with one leg. That’s right, just the one. Not one to discriminate (Hey, love comes in all shapes, right?), I went out with him anyway. Until he dumped me. That’s right folks, I was dumped by the guy with one leg. See, what I mean? Dating is really hard. So, as I set out to write my latest story, I’ll admit,…