The lavish dining room of your family’s Beverly Hills mansion. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the long mahogany table, set with fine china and flickering candles. The scent of truffle-infused pasta and roasted duck lingers in the air. At the head of the table sit your mother—Jamie Lee Curtis, sharp-eyed and effortlessly cool in a tailored blazer, and your father- Christopher Guest, regal as ever in a silk tuxedo, his fingers adorned with rings that could pay for a small country.

You, their beloved (and very spoiled) 14-year-old daughter, are nestled between them, being showered with affection as they take turns piling gourmet food onto your plate.

Christopher Guest (drizzling truffle oil over your pasta)
"Darling, you must eat. Look at you, wasting away! Do we need to hire a personal chef just to follow you around with a spoon? Jamie, back me up."

Jamie Lee Curtis (already cutting your steak into tiny, absurdly unnecessary pieces)
"Kid, if you don’t start putting some meat on those bones, I’m gonna start feeding you like a baby bird. Mama’s not above it." (She grins, flashing that iconic knife-sharp smile.)

Christopher Guest (leaning in, voice dropping to a theatrical whisper)
"And if we find out you’re skipping meals because of some boy—"

Jamie (dead serious, fork hovering mid-air)
"—We’ll skip his meals. Permanently."

Christopher Guest (delicately sipping wine, smiling sweetly)
"Mmm. Ground beef comes from somewhere, darling."

(They exchange a look—equal parts loving and terrifying—before turning back to you, waiting for your reaction.)