"What is playing on your iPod?" a DJ asked during his interview with Sheryl Crow. Cringe. What if I had to publicly reveal my personal playlists? It's one thing when my children ask, "Can I hear?" because I can quickly download a more appropriate playlist. It would be quite another thing if someone plugged into my tunes as they are, almost like reading my diary.

My iPod gets me through evenings of unwinding and the chores that come with this family-of-five package deal. Plugging into my escape, I pour a glass of red wine—tasty, but not too expensive. If you were a fly on the wall at 9:35 pm, you would know I love to dance to the music in my ears. I probably would have become an erotic dancer if it wasn't for all the nudity, degrading sexualization, and my aversion to twirling on poles without supportive undergarments. I am definitely promiscuous in a monogamous sort of way.

Cleaning out my son's Curious George lunchbox, I am rolling my hips to the Pussycat Dolls:

Later I fold underwear and am pulsing to Justin Timberlake. "Mom, what are you listening to?" Maya mouths while she is up to get a drink of water. I push the pause circle and tell her "I'm getting my groove on. Go back to bed."

When it's time to pick up legos, socks, and unknown plastic parts not in their places and return them to their rightful spots, I am jacking to Prince's Little Red Corvette.

The dance move 'jacking' is less about self stimulation and more about moving the torso forward and backward and if a vibration is starting from my head and rolling to my toes. Admittedly, it's sexually charged, but Prince always has his way with me when he talks dirty.

While I'm not the stereotypical SUV driving soccer mom (I drive a bio-diesel Jetta and my husband drives to indoor soccer), I do have three kids and many people consider me a respectable educator and writer of all things parental. I am those things and I am none of those things. I have a secret 'tat' (but not a tramp stamp), the pelvis of a pole dancer and explicit lyrics helping me work out the challenges of housework. That's the unexpected me.

I find a used pull-up stuffed in the corner of the bathroom and then sniff the sour laundry in the washing machine that was forgotten today. I plug into Gwen Stefani's Hollaback Girl (the explicit version of course) and feel vindicated when she says, "This shit is bananas." And then goes on to stomp and spell it out, "B.a.n.a.n.a.s." I think she wrote that song for me.

There may be some research to back up the solace that "This shit is bananas" brings me. Yehuda Barach, a professor of management at the University of East Anglia says that regular swearing at work can boost team spirit and allow people to express themselves more fully. The work of housework, while there are currently only two employees: my husband and I, really needs all the team spirit it can get. It is not intrinsically motivating for me to work on tasks that will be undone the next morning.

Beyond morale, there are a few advantages to knowing these explicit song lyrics. For example, I was able to filter elementary students' music at a school talent show. I knew the extended version of YEAH by Usher and Company should not be played--even in try-outs and that Ne-Yo's Addicted should not back-up the trio of ten-year-olds in tank tops. At a club downtown, I impressed one of my friends who thinks of me as a two-dimensional mother-teacher by knowing all the lyrics to Promiscuous Girl by Nelly Furtado, Naughty Girl by Beyonce and Beep by the Pussycat Dolls.

"Who is this woman?" he kept yelling over the music.

Where does this need for the inappropriate reside inside me? All I can think is that I did see Flashdance at a very early and impressionable age. At twelve, I watched it until I could recite many of the lines from memory:

Becoming a daytime welder and a nighttime dancer was a dream of mine; Alex lived the glamourous life in her abandoned warehouse with her big dog, saving up her paychecks for a better day. Jennifer Beals (playing Alex) was my mentor to learn to remove my bra with my shirt still on. And still today I have an urge to accidentally rip the neck out of my sweatshirts so I can let my right shoulder hang out (incidentally that's where my tattoo is). Now that is hot. To this day, I quiver when I hear the song, "What a Feeling" by Irene Cara.

Sometimes I feel like Helen a.k.a Mrs. Incredible of The Incredibles movie a.k.a Elastigirl when she says, "Your identity is your most valuable possession. Protect it. And if anything goes wrong. Use your powers."

In high school and even now I battle the labels: 'goody-goody' and 'little Ms. Perfect' with that tone, you know the one, because of how I am in this world and what I accomplish. If I'd been voted something in high school, it would've been "Most Likely to Get Her Homework Done" or something similarly uninspiring. But then, they didn't know about my secret identity. I would've liked to be voted, "Most Likely to Shake Her Sassy Ass." Yes, by day I am the woman responding to her calling through education and her family (I tuck my cape in my tights). But by night, I am the woman passionate about writing the truth and strutting my fine stuff while wiping the counter down. It's Pussycat Doll nasty. Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me? I hum under my breath. And somehow it's all reconcilable. I'm bet I'm even burning fat.