Plastic Giraffes

I had a dream last night that she descended down the staircase into a basement where I was being kept, divorced from the festivities that were taking place upstairs. She changed into another she (this is getting to be a trope) and kept descending. While I didn't care, (or tried my best not to) she (con)descended smilingly, mocking all my efforts. She was wearing only a sheath of toilet paper (??) and it outlined her form, dimensionalizing her into a Barbie. Suddenly, I was very angry, and I started beating her. She transformed into a plastic princess kit before my eyes, and I was in a closet, quiet and hidden, beating the plastic, willing it out of shape, hoping my violence would wipe the painted smile off Cinderella's face. I wanted to protect my nieces from playing with these evil, emotionless, unbreakable pieces, but nothing would scratch, mar, or bend. My futile motions yielded fruitless tears, and I heard the garage door open without empathy. I repackaged the plastic dolls and put them back on a shelf, knowing that if they were played with, it would probably be okay.