A family of five girls. And I was smack dab in the middle. I was surrounded on every side by girliness. Blond nylon hair, disproportionate long legs to the extreme, and designer outfits littered the bedrooms and hallways. Occasionally a half-naked Barbie was found in the kitchen's junk drawer. It was a Tim Burton Mattell nightmare.

Someone had to break free from the perfectly painted blue-eyed madness. That's when I discovered Transformers and G.I. Joe's. I was already familiar with mud, snakes, frogs, and trees. But now I had comrades.

No Barbie was safe. I knew where they hid them, and knowing is half the battle. G.I. Joe and Cobra had many wars. There were mass casualties, including decapitated and butched Barbies. Some came back with limbs having been blown off. War is hell, Barbie.

Yes, there were tears, and much tattling, but humans really have no control over Deceptacons. They're Rogue. They could hit you anywhere, anytime. Even when you're skinny dipping in a swimming pool also referred to as, mom's salad bowl.

Life was hard for Barbie and all of her clones. And now she's laying pantless in my backyard, in the snow. Chunks of ice sticking to her hair, she stares into the sky, "help me, help me."

Not my daughters Barbie, no, it's the dogs. Who knew Barbie's hair was so yummy and chewable?

Do I open the back door, walk three steps and save her?